The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  “How much did he raise?”

  “Something like fifteen. He put the seed money in himself, then did a first round of twelve, thirteen million that was followed by some more, recently. Foreign guy. Cahill. An Aussie, I think.”

  “Isn’t that a lot?”

  “For a first round, yeah. That’s actually a shitload. People used to do a couple million. But you get somebody with a track record and a seemingly hot concept and the numbers can get silly.”

  “The wife said the company seemed to be in a little bit of trouble.”

  “Most start-ups are,” Bender says. “They’re one catastrophe away from being a start goner.”

  “Even well-capitalized ones?”

  “Well, in the case of Crune the problem was someone had a similar idea and they had to go buy those guys out.”

  “What was the name of that other company?”

  “I forget. Wasn’t a great name. Which is why I forget.”

  “You said McGregor had brought in the right people. What was right about them?”

  “Well, you get one or two Google or Facebook engineers in the mix—or preferably both—you can raise a good chunk of change right from a PowerPoint deck. McGregor had a couple of names. Not big names—but big enough. And then his partner, this guy Don Gattner, is a take-no-prisoners kind of guy. In it to win it, if you know what I mean.”

  Madden doesn’t know what he means.

  “The guy started out as a recruiter,” Bender explains. “As you’ve probably heard, programmers and engineers are in high demand. They’re the lifeblood. The biggies pick off the all-stars, throw all kinds of packages at them. Well, Gattner started out as one of the guys who supplied a lot of the second- and third-tier companies with talent. He was at a headhunting firm. And you know, he worked on commission, and pretty quickly worked his way up the ladder. You know what his secret was?”

  Madden shakes his head.

  “The wife, the girlfriend. A lot of these guys—and most of them were guys—are moving from somewhere else. And they may like where they are or they may have a girlfriend or wife who likes where she is. Well, these nerdy dudes aren’t in the habit of making rash decisions without some serious input from their significant other. So you gotta work on the woman. In the end, she makes the call a lot of the time. And Gattner was particularly ruthless about getting the gals on board. He’d lie, he’d offer them things he knew might not pan out, stuff like that.”

  “And that didn’t come back to haunt him?”

  “Nah. He got where he wanted to get, then bolted for a start-up. He became an operational guy. And look, sometimes things turned out okay for some of these people. And if they didn’t, well, they could always go somewhere else if they were any good.”

  “People still got hurt, though.”

  “People got fucked. But people are always getting fucked. For there to be winners, you gotta have losers. Fact. But if you’re looking to talk to someone inside his company, I’d go to Gattner first. He’d have the dirt. He was really running the thing from an operational standpoint.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Now what do you have for me? Where’s my exclusive?”

  Madden pauses for a moment, pretends to think about it, then takes out a folded up piece of paper from his coat pocket. He hands it to Bender.

  Bender unfolds it and looks at what’s on the paper. It’s a shot of the two Pacific Islanders who Forman said had harassed him. Madden had photocopied the photo.

  “Who are these guys?” Bender asks.

  “They may be involved in the murder,” Madden says. “But we don’t know who they are.”

  Bender lifts an eyebrow.

  “You think these guys killed McGregor?”

  “We’ve had strong indications they were involved somehow.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I can’t say. But I need someone to get their faces out there. I’ve got a digital file on a thumb drive. You can’t say where you got it. If you don’t want it, I’ll send it over to the Chronicle.”

  “And what do you want me to say?”

  “Whatever you want. You always do.”

  Bender smiles. He knows Madden is playing him. He’s not a fool.

  “Who are these guys, really?”

  “We’ll just have to find out now, won’t we?” Madden says.

  Just then Bender sees his dog outside eating something he shouldn’t. He bolts outside and reprimands the dog, telling him to release whatever’s in his mouth. “Drop it, Beezo. Drop it now.”

  After the dog relinquishes the item, Bender picks it up and throws it as far as he can in the direction of his neighbor’s yard.

  Afterwards he comes back inside and goes to the sink and washes his hands. “Dog likes to eat the shit of other animals,” he says. “I named him after Jeff Bezos ’cause he kind of looks like him.”

  Madden tries to remember what Jeff Bezos looks like. He’s not sure he sees the same resemblance.

  “Bezos doesn’t take shit from anyone,” Bender goes on, “and my dog eats the shit of other animals even after the gourmet grub I feed him. You know how much it costs a day to feed that animal? Eighteen bucks. Goddamn dog costs me eighteen bucks a day just to feed. But that’s what selling out buys you, the stupidity to feed your dog gourmet canine delicacies while he prefers to eat shit.”

  Madden looks at him, not quite sure how to respond. But before he can say anything, Bender says, “I’ll take that thumb drive now if you don’t mind.”

  18/ CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE

  CAROLYN LOOKS AT HER WATCH. IT’S JUST AFTER ELEVEN O’CLOCK AND she’s still at the hotel when she’s supposed to be at the police station with Beth. She tells Beth to go to the lobby, where she can keep an eye on her and still be out of earshot while she makes a call.

  “Hey, Hank,” she says cheerfully when Madden answers the phone.

  “I know that tone,” Madden says. “It’s the sound of someone who’s about to disappoint me.”

  “We’re running a little late.”

  “Late as in a few minutes late or late as in not coming?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “Those sedatives my client took last night have left her pretty sluggish this morning. I’m trying to get more coffee into her.”

  “I thought you were going to cooperate.”

  “We have every intention of doing so. We heard you arrested Richie Forman last night. You have a confession yet?”

  Silence on the line.

  “You should get her in here, Carolyn,” he says after a moment. “Apparently the two of them saw each other yesterday. I wouldn’t like to see Forman controlling the narrative. He’s doing a pretty good job of it.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “You’ll get a full report soon enough, Counselor. You still haven’t thanked me yet for sending this one your way.”

  “She asked for me, you didn’t send her.”

  “Oh, but I gave you my full endorsement. And your cell number.”

  Just then Carolyn gets a text from her partner, Steve Clark. “Where are you?” Then a few seconds later he sends another one with a link to a website: “Did you see this?”

  “Well, I’d give you a referral fee,” she says to Madden while reading the messages, “but I know you can’t accept it. That would be unethical.”

  He lets out a little laugh. “Meant to ask, how’s Ted?”

  “Ted’s not happening.”

  “You two couldn’t work things out?”

  “Sadly, negotiations broke down,” she says.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that. Really, I am.”

  She now has the website up on her phone. It’s an article by Tom Bender, the guy she’d spoken to that morning. The headline reads, SILICON NOIR: COPS HUNTING ADDITIONAL SUSPECTS IN MCGREGOR KILLING (Exclusive photo).

  “I am, too,” she murmurs absently, spreading her fingers to zoom in on the image. The picture is of two male Latino or Pacific
Islanders, one a big, squat guy, the other smaller with one of those silly hipster soul patches dangling from his lower lip.

  “You should know something, Carolyn,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Marty Lowenstein’s here.”

  The name rings a bell, but it takes a second for it to sink in.

  “Marty Lowenstein, the lawyer? The DNA guy?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  She realizes it’s a stupid question as soon as she asks it. What she really means is, what’s he doing representing Richie Forman?

  “Forman got him somehow. No one seems to know how.”

  “Marty Lowenstein,” she repeats, glancing over in the direction of Beth, who’s sitting in a chair in the lobby.

  “I really think you need to get down here,” Madden says.

  “Is there press?”

  “Some,” he says.

  “Can you get rid of them?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  She glances at Beth again and this time notices her talking to someone. The guy looks familiar, though it takes her a couple of seconds to realize why. She looks down at her cell phone again, then back in the direction of Beth. Is it possible? Mr. Soul Patch? Here?

  “Carolyn, you still there?” Madden asks.

  “Yeah.” She takes a few steps in the direction of Beth to get a better look, careful not to draw attention to herself. Beth glances back her way once or twice, but overall doesn’t seem fearful or intimidated.

  Carolyn isn’t sure what to do. If this really is one of the guys the cops are looking for and Beth is somehow associated with him, it could be potentially damning. But at the same time, she knows that if this guy really is a suspect then she has to report him. She’s torn for a moment, then says to Madden:

  “Word is you guys are looking for a couple of ethnic-looking dudes.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s up on the Internet,” she says, lowering her voice, trying to remain out of Beth’s view. “This guy Bender’s got a picture up.”

  “Really?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Hank, I know you leaked it. Just get a car here now—to the Rosewood Sand Hill.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think my client is talking to one of the guys in the picture right now.”

  19/ GOING LOW

  SINCE THE HOTEL AND THE STATION HOUSE ARE ON OPPOSITE SIDES of town, Madden’s first impulse is simply to send the nearest patrol car. But just as he’s getting off the phone with Carolyn, he sees Carlyle pulling his Yukon into the parking lot. He rushes out to intercept him before he can come inside.

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing him by the arm and turning him around. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Carlyle couldn’t be happier. He jumps back in the driver’s seat and peels out of the lot. Soon they’re barreling across the El Camino, heading west on Santa Cruz Avenue, lights flashing, dipping in and out of the opposing lane to pass cars.

  Carlyle slows for a tricky intersection and red light where Santa Cruz crosses Alameda de las Pulgas, then accelerates when Madden tells him he’s clear and to “go, go, go.” Carlyle, who doesn’t need any encouragement, slams down the gas pedal and shoots up the remaining bit of Santa Cruz, then makes a sharp right onto Sand Hill.

  Just then the radio crackles and David Consuelo, the patrol officer who’d gone ahead of them to the hotel, says he’s at the location and that the suspect has reportedly left the premises. That’s when Madden spots a Ford Flex as it passes them on the other side of Sand Hill and something clicks in his mind. They were driving a two-tone Ford Flex. Forman had said it last night. At the time, Madden hadn’t given the descriptor a second thought, but the car that just went by had a black top and a silver body. Two-tone.

  “Turn around,” he tells Carlyle. “I think that’s him.”

  Carlyle’s just gone through the intersection with the turnoff to Sharon Heights and won’t hit the next turnaround point for another few hundred yards. But instead of waiting for it, he says, “Hold on,” hits the brakes, and makes a hard left over the raised divider, hitting the curb hard. The SUV lurches forward, then bounces up when the back tires climb the curb. Madden pops up in the air, his chest slamming up against his seat belt, which has locked and gone taut.

  “Jesus,” he says as Carlyle guns the car and they drive away in the opposite direction.

  Up ahead is a major four-way intersection where Sand Hill meets Santa Cruz and Junipero Serra. The light has already turned green and Madden, because they’re at the top of a slight crest in the road, catches a glimpse of the Flex heading down the hill on the other side of the intersection. Just off to the right behind a high chain-link fence is the Stanford golf course.

  “Straight, straight,” he tells Carlyle, who floors it through the intersection. Madden feels his stomach drop as they almost catch air hitting the down slope on the other side.

  Carlyle passes one car, then another, once again weaving into the opposing lane, forcing a couple of cars to swerve out of their way. The traffic is relatively light—it is a Sunday morning after all—but it’s heavier than the traffic they encountered on Santa Cruz Avenue, thanks to shoppers on their way to Stanford Shopping Center.

  Carlyle makes one more pass and suddenly they’re behind the Flex. He grabs his radio handset and announces their location. “We have the possible suspect in sight. Send backup. Alert the Palo Alto police that they’ve crossed onto their turf.”

  “Right behind you guys.” It’s Consuelo’s voice over the radio. “On my way.”

  Carlyle gives the siren a short blast, signaling to the occupants of the Flex to pull over.

  “You sure it’s them?” he asks Madden.

  He isn’t. The vehicle matches the description but it’s hard to tell who’s inside because the back window is tinted. The car in front of the Flex drifts to the shoulder and slows, but instead of pulling over behind it, the Flex cruises past it, slowing slightly but mostly maintaining its speed.

  Madden grabs the mic and hits a button to activate the car’s integrated bullhorn. “You in the Ford Flex, pull your vehicle to the side of the road,” he says. “Pull over now.”

  A moment later, the car starts to drift to the shoulder, gradually slowing.

  “Just got a peek in the side mirror,” Carlyle says. “Ain’t no white boy, I can tell you that. Tongan, you said? We’re in the right color spectrum anyway.”

  The Flex stops on the shoulder just after the turnoff to Stanford Hospital.

  “The good news is that if anybody gets hurt, we’re within yards of world-class medical care,” Madden says.

  “You got your vest on?” Carlyle asks, reading the number off the plate and punching it into his onboard computer. The small computer is perched up on a flexible gooseneck.

  Madden shakes his head. He didn’t put it on before he’d left the station house. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, and realizes he means it.

  “Fuck that,” Carlyle replies, then lets out a low whistle. He swings the screen over in Madden’s direction. “Take a look at this.”

  Madden’s eyes open wide. The vehicle is registered to Mark McGregor. Had the plates been changed?

  “I’ll take point on this,” Carlyle says. “But get out of the car and back me up. I’m not getting a good vibe here. You ready?”

  Carlyle exits the Yukon, draws his gun and takes the safety off. He waits for Madden to get out, then, keeping his weapon down by his hip, cautiously approaches the Flex on the driver’s side. He doesn’t come right up to the driver’s window but stops slightly behind it and says loudly and authoritatively:

  “License and registration.”

  He waits for the window to come down but it never does. The car suddenly lurches forward, the wheels spinning, dust and gravel kicking up in the air. For a second, Madden considers taking a shot at a wheel, but just as he starts to take aim, he finds himself with his han
d in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the flying bits of gravel he feels pelting his glasses.

  He and Carlyle hop back in the Yukon, slamming their doors shut at the same exact instant.

  “Motherfucker,” Carlyle says, shifting into drive and slamming down the gas pedal almost simultaneously. If he was amped up before, now he’s really jacked. “Where’s this asshole think he’s going?”

  Wherever he’s going he’s now opened up a good hundred- to hundred-fifty-yard gap between them. Carlyle gets back on the radio to report what’s happened and which direction the suspect is headed. Within seconds they see flashing lights behind them. It’s Consuelo; he’s caught up.

  Up ahead, they can see the Flex approaching the intersection at the northwest entrance of the Stanford mall where Aboretum Road cuts into Sand Hill. Take the right there and you head toward the Stanford campus. Keep going straight and Sand Hill traces the periphery of the mall and ends up hitting the El Camino Real, one of the main north-south arteries on the Peninsula.

  The suspects continue straight through the intersection without turning onto Aboretum but having to slow down to avoid traffic. Carlyle is gaining. He fully expects the Flex to continue to the El Camino but then it suddenly makes a sharp right into the mall’s parking lot.

  “What’s this dumbfuck doing?” Carlyle says, trying to keep the Flex in sight as they work their way around the periphery of the lot. In an hour or two the place will be filled with cars, but now plenty of spaces are open, especially ones toward the outside of the lot. He follows the route of the Flex.

  As they make the turn, Madden says, “There! He pulled into a handicapped spot. See, over by Williams-Sonoma.”

  Carlyle leans on the gas pedal a little harder.

  “Two of them,” Madden says. “They’re making a run for it. You go after them, I’ll take the car around to the other side.”

  Madden guesses that since the car isn’t registered to these idiots, they’ll just ditch it and somehow disappear into the mall before anybody gets a good look at them. It’s actually not a bad plan, except for the fact that both Madden and Carlyle have a pretty good idea what they look like.