Dot Com Murder

by Emma Lathen

  This floor had been totally cleaned up before they got the call from Carla, the girl in bed. It looked like a studio set; well, as she took a turn in the living room, it was a studio set, that of a young rich nouveau money guy, though in brains, which he had in abundance from all reports.

  She wrote down her thoughts. A studio set. Totally an alpha male place with all utilitarian stuff, no frills or nesting, no personal things, no photographs, and lots of open space that men like. Totally a man’s place. Not a touch of woman anywhere. A great party place which it was and had been last night.

  She went through the door to the back. On the left were several bathrooms, clearly set up for women. All the fixings inside from women’s things to aspirin, Tylenol, and more legal OTC drugs such as Claritin. She noticed the portraits of ladies on the doors--Jane Austen, several female movie stars, and a young girl who looked like she might be Eleanor Roosevelt as a child.

  On the other side were pictures of Socrates, Dickens, Twain, and a few male movie stars. Inside were urinals, she had never seen those before in a private house. Various medicines, cigars, cigarettes, and a large refrigerator with beer and wine. Quite the bathroom; could stay in here for a day or two; well there were some chairs so maybe some did.

  Behind that were several bedrooms, clearly available for anyone who couldn’t make it home or was invited to just stay over. A small kitchen with easy to use things such as a deluxe coffee maker, microwave, dry cereals, fruits, and such things in the refrigerator. The freezer had Birdseye Fresh vegetables for easy heating, a few other frozen meals, juices, and more. A great place to visit or stay she thought. Bountiful but impersonal. She hadn’t seen a personal touch yet.

  She went downstairs and found a living room, office which was spare as well, a well-stocked library with books that had clearly been read, music, movies, and more. Several more bedrooms. His was spare; no photos, trophies, or other personal objects. Looked more like a guy who was a camper, which she knew from his bio he was. Spare, the operable word and description of his space. The room was incredibly neat for most men, but not his kind, the guide type who only took what they could carry. She had known a few of those in her day.

  They seemed simple but never were. No, it was that they tried to act simple and usually succeeded on the surface but never really were. That was it.

  In fact, as she recalled, they were the only men who tried to sell her on being simple, not deep or important or anything but simple. That was the clue of course; they were hiding in the open, and most of them did a good job of it until she got to know them better.

  A thought flashed across her mind from her own experience with these kinds of men. He may have pushed someone’s buttons and pushed them in a way he did not recognize or fear. He may have been a truth teller who told a truth to someone who couldn’t tolerate hearing it. He may have stepped across some boundary, that must be it if not love, money, jealousy, power, or family.

  Well, as her favorite fiction detective Jane Marple had said, who did he remind her of?

  She had had a budding relationship with a self-sufficient guy, yes, she thought, that was it. Self-sufficient; totally sufficient to himself no matter how much he liked or even needed other people.

  They were getting serious and she started to argue with him once, just once, and not talk. He had looked at her long and hard; she wasn’t quite sure why because she had committed other presumed female transgressions before such as talking too much about herself, being late, saying the wrong things to some of his friends, and such breaches of male decorum.

  She felt a cold wind come over her from him. She let it pass. He was polite. He worked himself up to be politer. He struggled and got back to warm. But he didn’t get hot or touch her again that night, not even a goodnight kiss.

  He never called or wrote again. She finally cornered him at an event and asked what happened and he said, “You crossed a line; you started to argue; I don’t deal well with that so I retreated.”

  She tried to explain. And tried some more. He had finally told her, “Joyce, it isn’t you; it is me.” Every woman knows that line. It is the end, the dead-end of all dead-ends with men. She said she appreciated it and staggered off never to repeat that with that kind of man again.

  The second incident happened when she got tight with a guy as they had a rollicking good time. She was feeling possessive in a foursome and asked if she could have something from his plate. He said no, but he would be happy to get her another plate.

  She said, “That’s stupid, just a taste,” and took it. She never heard from him again.

  When she cornered him at a gathering they accidently met at he had said, “You didn’t want a bite, you wanted an easement.”

  She denied it vehemently until they separated at the party they had separately attended. Then she realized he had been right. She was trying to show possession and he didn’t like that. Not the least little bit.

  Both of these men had had apartments like this one but on a smaller scale. It struck her, too, that this larger apartment had to have more stuff so those traits wouldn’t have been too obvious to others. She also remembered that neither of those guys wanted her to come to their place. They preferred hers or to travel somewhere else. Then she realized they had never bed her in their places. She had forced her way in subtlely on a pretext and that was that. When they entertained they took people out and paid for them generously. They hadn’t had her over to dinner though both were more than adequate cooks and did so willingly at her place.

  They also brought the food; just the right amount as if on a camping or canoe trip. Never any leftovers. Yes, that was it.

  She went over to the refrigerator. Yep, he bought by the meal, not food. She looked in the garbage; nothing. Even the recycling area had nothing even though the refrigerator was full of things that would be recycled.

  Yep. She knew her guy.

  The question was who ate off his plate that he couldn’t get rid of? Or who argued with him? That seemed more likely given his wealth. An investor? A patent holder? A partner? Ah, she needed to meet them to test her theory.

  But there was a missing piece. She was describing why he would push someone away not why someone else would do it to him. Ah, but she remembered those 2 guys had had friends just like them. So maybe he did it to a likeminded person. That was her best bet, she concluded.

  She needed to make a list of people who he couldn’t get rid of and he might have pushed too far. Investors? Yep. Patent holder. Not likely, but maybe. Irreplaceable employee? Unlikely given he was a salesman extraordinaire. Partner? Yes. The most likely if he was like the victim.

  Well, he had a partner and they had known each other forever; perhaps it was like one of those 50 year marriages where one person finally can’t stand it anymore and blows the other person’s head off. It happens. She had already witnessed the devastating results of one: one spouse dead, the other in jail for life. The interesting point was the person in jail seemed accepting of their fate as if better than having continued as things were. In short, jail was better than their old life.

  This murder had something of that feeling about it. She would talk to George about all of this now that she had a feel for the situation and personality of the victim.

  Chapter 9

  police plan

  An army moves on its stomach

  Joyce told George her theory. George thought about it for a few minutes before speaking and then said, “Interesting eliminations, Joyce. It has the right kind of feel to it. Makes no sense in a way; but nothing makes more sense. And that often leads to a perpetrator. Solid work.”

  Joyce knew not to use an aw shucks approach with George. As he often said, they shouldn’t be married to her idea but it was the best they had at the moment and that was good enough for now. As he had taught her, this was a good way to start and keep an open mind about what else popped up.

  Joyce then said, “What do you think we should do now? Find and interview him? Find others
first? What?”

  “Best to find out where he is. He’s a planner; he will have a plan. We have to figure that out first, long before we move in on him in any way. We don’t want to tip him off to our interest. The office is just 4 blocks away. Let’s walk over and find out who is there. That will give us a beginning. Your idea is growing on me, Joyce. Well nothing else is so let’s go with it,” as he chuckled. “Stay loose. We aren’t married to it as I have said to you before about a good idea. But it is interesting and that guy, if not the guy, might well take us to another who is the perpetrator.”

  “George, the forensic people said Jack took the poison at about 3 AM. The body was discovered by Carla about 10 AM. She texted her friend, Kit, who was in bed with the partner. Chuck apparently took it in stride as he does everything with a ‘what’s done is done’ attitude according to her. He said he was going to the office to deal with things. We will see.”

  “Joyce, she was forthright with me. What did you think of Carla?”

  “Smart cookie; doing well at the company; well liked, pretty as you would expect if in bed with the big cheese though he was not a handsome man from his photos. His partner is. Stunning in fact but doesn’t seem to preen himself about it; takes it in stride as he seems to do with everything else. These kinds of guys are; I have dealt with 2 personally.”

  George looked at her briefly. Ah, she not only had a professional insight but a personal one as well. In his mind that increased the probability she was right because she was the least prejudiced, side taking person he had ever worked with. Well, ever known in fact. He congratulated himself on not thinking his personal intervention would have helped; it wouldn’t have. That was something he learned from his first boss, “Don’t think you are the cat’s pajamas; don’t overestimate your own importance.”

  When they got to the office, they only got as far as the lobby. With no human there he used the intercom because the door was locked to the inner offices. He asked to the anonymous voice that answered to speak to Chuck or whoever was in charge.

  He noticed the place sounded quiet on the speaker’s end, as well as in the empty lobby. Interesting no one was in the lobby and the speaker’s end was quiet too. He had known founders who had died and lots of grief, or none at all. This was the first time it was this quiet though. He would have to learn more about that. Fast he thought, fast.

  The intercom said the GM would come out to see him and quickly went off the device. When he came out he was older than George expected, older than the 2 partners. He looked like a GE guy. He would ask if given an opening.

  “Hi, I’m George Parsons from Centre Street and this is my associate Joyce Allison,” and he paused. The GM waited. George thought, must be a GE guy because he can hold his counsel.

  “We wanted to speak with Chuck Newberg,” and paused again.

  The GM waited.

  “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “You are being curt.”

  He paused; no response so he had to go on, “You have had a murder and we are the investigators,” at which the GM nodded, “and we would like some information.”

  No response.

  So George continued, “Can we come in and sit down?” The GM sat down in the lobby; he didn’t say no, but he did sit down. They joined him.

  “Were you at the party last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was just a party. Nothing in particular happened, nothing out of the ordinary that I recall.”

  “What time did you arrive and leave?”

  “I arrived about 5 PM and left at about 1 AM.”

  “A long time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Chuck?”

  “On vacation.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?

  “Company policy.”

  “Can you tell me what that is?”

  “Better that you read it.”

  “I would like to hear it from you.”

  “Understood.” And the GM was silent.

  “Well?”

  “Here is a copy of the policy,” as he gave it to George. It read as follows:

  Vacations are for Vacation

  1. Do not call in. Check your email only once every 3 days.

  2. If someone is urgently trying to reach you, let me know by email and I will take care of it.

  3. Enjoy your time; sit on the beach, climb tall mountains, or just crash. Whatever suits your fancy.

  Enjoy, Chuck

  “This is highly unusual,” George said. Silence. So he went on. “When did you learn Chuck would be on vacation now?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Do you know where he is going?”

  “No.”

  “By the way, what is your name and title?”

  “Jim Johnson, CFO.”

  “We need to get hold of him. How do we do that?”

  “Send an email request to me and I’ll forward it to him,” and he gave George a card with a general HR email address at the company.

  “We can’t wait 3 days.” Silence.

  “Can you do anything else?”

  “Put what you want in the email; I will forward it to him.”

  “Well, Jim, you have me licked for now. I am going to leave now and come back when fortified.” Silence.

  George stomped out. Joyce smiled at Jim; shook his hand and said, “Thank you.”

  He nodded; when George had gone out the door he added, “You are welcome,” turned on his heel and left the opposite way, by the intercom and out of the lobby. She noticed he used a key to get back in the office.

  Outside at the elevator George was fuming. She put her finger to her mouth in the whisper mode and they went down silently together.

  Once outside she said, “Let’s have our late lunch. It is 3 PM now.”

  She headed for a pub. George said, “You must have read my mind.”

  “Yes, have a pop; have 2; then we can talk. But drink something first. That was something and we need to reflect upon it.” They did.

  Chapter 10

  mobile force

  Know thy Enemy.

  Joyce wouldn’t let George get started until he chugged down 2 pints of Guinness. He was ready she thought. He loved working with Joyce; she was better than a wife or a girlfriend. She was a great pal; he’d never had a female pal before and really liked it.

  When a colleague said how great looking she was he was surprised, but made no comment. He didn’t see her through that lens at all. She was a great pal.

  “OK, shoot.”

  “First, start eating that burger I ordered for you to get you happier and lay a foundation for your third Guinness. You need some happiness fuel before we start in again. And after that you’ll go home mellow and cogitate all night and really come up with something.”

  He looked uncertain as she went on to say, “everything.com is a mobile force. That’s what we have to understand. They are everywhere and nowhere. No physical facilities other than a few pop up offices as I call them; that means they could close one and move out overnight. In fact they might and what could we do about it? Zero, nada, nothing. OK we could bark a bit. But to who? Why? Got it?”

  “No. That will take a third. And the burger. And some serious naptime. No. I need to stop, drop, and roll, fireman style.” George said in a subdued voice.

  “Yes. God, George; they may actually move; then what do we do?”

  “OK, who else is on the list?”

  “You said VC; they had a VC back in the day that made a bundle off them and still may again somehow, the Sloan. In fact they too are a mobile force, having evacuated the US for Dublin. The Senate tried to stop them and were helpless. What is it George?” as she saw him smiling for the first time today.

  “The Sloan. My old Pal John Putnam Thatcher, Chairman of the Board now, but SVP back when I knew him. He is a legend in the police business. Ever hear of
him?”

  “Yes, but I thought it was legendary...”

  “Yes and no. Yes it is legendary and no he is real too. He has unraveled a few over the years; unlike that tight ass guy we talked to, John opens them up like a can of worms.” He was warming to the task.

  Joyce paused, “I’ll bet he only opens them up to help the Sloan, and get their money, right?”

  “Yes. He is expert at cutting through the emotions etc., and so on, and getting down to the money that is at the root of it, which leads to the emotions etc. He can explain it better than I can. Well, we need to call John. I remember he has a daughter who pulled off the Dublin move and backed doored a murder solution of her own.”

  George went on, “Backdoored. Well, unlike John, her father, she is more liberal shall we say about handing murderers over to the police. She finds out and they rarely survive her finding out, but she only works to get the money unlike her father who is plain curious though will never admit it, and always turned over the murderer. The police like him; he is like a great drug. Once on a case you want him on more; once on a case you start thinking and talking like him. He is a drug,” and George reminisced pleasantly to himself.

  Joyce tried to find a number for them and couldn’t. The best she could do is call Dublin but it was late at night there. At the same time, George went into his dilapidated little phone book and found Thatcher’s home number. He called it.

  The phone rang and was picked up with, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Thatcher, this is Detective George Parsons we worked on a case together. Ah you remember ... well I need to speak with you ... yes it is about the everything.com situation. Day after tomorrow at your place at the Devonshire is fine; no 5 PM is fine; we will wait until then. Yes, we will enjoy a drink or 2 and dinner; thank you for suggesting that incentive. Good night, Sir, and thank you.”

  “Great. When he sees you, he will get Trinkam. He’s the President now but more importantly he is the in-house expert on women. Never married, does a miss on that; but John’s Harvard roommate, Tom Robichaux, gets married routinely but somehow escapes with his hide. Of course he has a lot of hide to escape with, financial hide that is.”