No Accident

by Dan Webb

  “Two hundred and six million dollars.”

  “So you met the consensus estimate by how much?”

  “A little over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Not a lot of money.”

  Luke exhaled sharply through his nostrils and gave the grand jury a wry smile. “I doubt many people would agree with that.”

  Steele stared coldly at Luke. “But not a lot of money in the context of Liberty’s operations, right?”

  Luke paused and fought an urge to look back at the jurors. “Right.”

  “So you barely met the analysts’ fourth quarter consensus estimate, right?”

  “Right,” Luke said. His smile had sagged into a frown.

  “And without the two million dollars in insurance money, you would have failed to meet the estimate, is that correct?”

  Several seconds passed before Luke responded. The court reporter finished typing in Steele’s question, and the room was very quiet.

  “That’s correct,” Luke said.

  “So by the second half of December, Liberty had an incentive to increase its earnings before the end of the month, didn’t it?”

  Luke paused, and took another deep breath. He was feeling butterflies in the pit of his stomach. That didn’t often happen to him. He knew that success or failure today—and maybe his freedom—hinged on how well he responded to this question. But of all that was at stake, the prospect that haunted him most at that moment was that he would have to slink back to Alan and start following his lawyer’s playbook—the defensive, lawyerly playbook. Of course, Alan wouldn’t tell Luke “I told you so.” He wouldn’t have to.

  “Mr. Hubbard?” Steele said.

  “Yes, Mr. Steele,” Luke said. “It’s true that my company had an incentive to increase its earnings in December. But I might as well admit, we also had an incentive to increase earnings in November. October, too. And you should also know, it wasn’t just last year, but every month of every year since the company was founded. That’s what businesses do, Mr. Steele, they try to increase their earnings.”

  Steele looked at Luke with a smug smile and malevolent eyes. “Mr. Hubbard, please confine your response to the scope of the question.” The message was unmistakable—this is my show.

  Steele moved on. “Mr. Hubbard, I am handing to you a statistical analysis of the effect of a failure to meet earnings estimates on the stock price of companies in your industry over the past ten years. Will you read the average that appears at the bottom of the page?”

  “A five percent drop,” Luke said. There was nothing he could do but answer the question and wait to see where Steele was headed with this.

  “Mr. Hubbard, how much stock do you own in Liberty Industries?”

  “Just over two percent of the company’s outstanding stock.”

  “So a five percent drop in Liberty’s stock price would reduce the value of the stock you own by how much?”

  Luke thought for a moment. “About ten million dollars.”

  “How much of your net worth does your stock in Liberty represent?”

  “Oh, most of it.”

  “Ten million dollars. That might not be a lot for company as huge as Liberty Industries, but it’s a lot for you then, is that right?”

  “I won’t argue with that,” Luke said.

  “Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “So in the second half of December, Liberty was on track to miss Wall Street’s consensus earnings estimate. And if that happened, history said that the price of its stock was likely to fall.”

  Steele paused and looked at the grand jury. Then he stared hard at Luke.

  “Is there a question in there?” Luke said.

  Steele pulled on the sides of the podium as if he were about to climb over it. “Mr. Hubbard, didn’t you have an incentive to increase earnings in whatever way you could, to avoid a drop in your stock price? To avoid losing ten million dollars of your personal wealth? Didn’t you have an incentive to kill those employees?”

  “Mr. Steele, when we announced earnings in January, the stock price didn’t drop.”

  “Because you met the earnings estimate. But without the two million dollars from those insurance policies, you would have missed the estimate. Don’t dodge my question. My question is not what happened after Liberty received that insurance money. My question is what did you expect to happen before five of your employees conveniently died in an accident that netted your company a seven-figure payday. Mr. Hubbard, my question is this: did you expect the stock price to drop if you missed the earnings estimate?”

  The court reporter waited with her fingers curled above her keyboard. Luke took a moment to draw all tension from his face. Then he looked placidly at the grand jury, then at Steele.

  “Mr. Steele, if I did expect the stock to drop, and if I cared about that, I still wouldn’t have killed anybody. I would have just sold stock before the dip. But I didn’t sell any stock in December. I’ve never sold a share of Liberty stock.” Luke turned toward the grand jury and spoke directly to them in a soft, open voice. “I’ve had a rich life, and I’m happy, but my wife and I didn’t have any kids. Liberty is the closest thing I have to a child. When my investors and I bought the company in the mid-nineties, it was nearly bankrupt—that was the only way a guy like me could ever have scrounged the funds to buy it. I nursed the company back to health, then grew it to a size and scope that the rest of the business community never dreamed possible. So, no. I didn’t sell any shares of stock in my company. And I certainly didn’t profit personally from this tragic accident.”

  Steele’s face turned red and he tugged at his collar. Then, like a dog who’s just caught the scent of a squirrel, he turned to his papers on the podium and dug through them furiously until he found the sheet he was looking for.

  “Here, here,” he said, waving the sheet of paper. “At least three times in the past five years, Liberty has failed to meet quarterly earnings estimates, and on none of those occasions did you sell shares beforehand.”

  “So . . . that supports my point. I’m a believer in the company long-term. It’s important for management to be aware of periodic fluctuations in our stock price—we need to make sure that investors are understanding our story correctly—but those fluctuations will happen from time to time, and it’s not something we try to manage. We manage the business for long-term growth.”

  Steele dug his fingertips into the sides of the podium. The skin around his knuckles turned white from the pressure.

  “Mr. Hubbard, all I want from you is a simple answer.”

  “All I can give you is an accurate one.”

  Steele pushed himself from the podium in frustration and did a little spin on the sole of his shoe. When he spun back around, his head and arms had slumped like he was an abandoned marionette. The clock on the back wall loudly ticked off several seconds. Steele’s next words were barely audible.

  “You can go, Mr. Hubbard.”

  * * *

  Luke stood in front of the courthouse, trying in vain to find a cab. For some reason, Crash wasn’t waiting here for him and wasn’t answering his cell phone. That was a first.

  “You made an enemy today.”

  The voice in Luke’s ear was low and menacing. He turned around to see the tense face of Grant Steele glowering at him. Luke laughed. “Hey, Grant. You made an enemy when you marched into my building with those G-men and got into my business.”

  “I’m not joking, Hubbard. I don’t joke.”

  “What’s the saying? That a grand jury will indict a ham sandwich? Nice try, though.”

  “Have no doubt, Hubbard. You’ve made this personal between us.”

  “Come on, you came after me and you lost. Take it like a man and move on.”

  “Oh, I’ll move on. This”—Steele gestured to the courthouse behind him—“is not the last stop for me. I’ll sit in the governor’s mansion someday.” Steele lowered his voice again. “And I’ll remember you.”


  Luke stared back at Steele just as grimly. “I believe you—and you can still go to hell.”

  34

  Alex sat with Del in Alex’s living room. The lights were out, as usual, but the winter day was bright enough that they could see comfortably.

  Alex thought about the night before, in Sheila’s apartment after the explosion. Their first time together was electric. With their mutual attraction and the stimulation of Alex’s brush with death, they made love with the frenzy of unleashed animals. The second time was more patient, and Alex was surprised that there was no clumsiness between them. It was like each knew where the other was going next. Their bodies fit together. Such a change from Pamela, who, by the end, seemed to approach sex more as a chore than a delight. Alex wasn’t sure whether Pamela ever enjoyed it.

  Sheila enjoyed it. She’d insisted on seeing him again today.

  The fact that they had chemistry didn’t mean that Alex trusted her. In fact, he didn’t, and that was part of her allure—the danger. Emotional danger in a new relationship was one thing—he’d done that before—but if he was going to hunt down a murderer, he needed to work from a position of complete security. And that position wasn’t in bed with Sheila. His mission wasn’t worth compromising for a hook-up, exhilarating though it was. So the night with Sheila had to be a one-time thing—God, the realization made his bones ache.

  “I’ve got to break it off with her,” Alex said to Del.

  “Why?” Del said. “It’s been a while for you, right? You should go with it.”

  “She lied to me, Del, and I don’t really trust her. And this case matters more to me than a little fling.”

  Del looked at Alex like he’d just rationalized his position by reciting a Rudyard Kipling poem. “Whatever, man. If I only slept with chicks I trusted, I’d be married to my right hand. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re buggin’. Just don’t call her back.”

  “Too late. She’s coming here this afternoon. With Beto dead, I need her help to get into Liberty Industries to find who’s behind all of this.”

  Del groaned. “Again with this stupid case. You should forget about it. Someone tried to kill you, Alex. And that someone did kill other people.”

  Alex recalled seeing a young mother at the diner just after the blast, her face starting to drip with blood from cuts on her scalp, screaming at the still body of her child in her arms. He recalled his own guilty feeling of relief that his ears were ringing too loudly to hear the mother’s screams. “That’s exactly why I can’t quit,” Alex said.

  “That’s nuts.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Um, yeah, I would understand. I’ve had people threatening to break my legs for years. It’s very stressful.”

  * * *

  The first thing Sheila asked when she came in was, “Why are all the lights out?” Her tone was crisp, like before. Businesslike. Thank God.

  “Long story,” Alex said. He introduced her to Del, who was genuinely affable, as he could be when he wanted to. Del excused himself abruptly, saying he had to go visit a friend. He took his skateboard to the door and, before leaving, said to Sheila, “Watch him—I think that bump on his forehead scrambled his brains.”

  After Del closed the door behind him, Sheila said softly, “Your brother looks a little old to be riding a skateboard.”

  “That’s another long story,” Alex said.

  They sat down, and Sheila spread out on the coffee table the items she’d brought—a social security card and a California driver’s license, both with the name Al Franks. The driver’s license had Alex’s photograph on it. Alex stood and inspected them by the window, where the light was good. They both looked real.

  “Why the name Al Franks, by the way?” she said.

  “Same initials as mine, basically the same first name. I figured it would be easier for me to remember.”

  “I think it’s smart,” she said, nodding her head thoughtfully. “How’d you pick the home address?”

  “It’s the address of one of the houses I own. So you really think you can get me a job at Liberty?”

  “I basically have. I called the acting head of H.R., a woman who was my protégé and owes me a lot, and told her you were a friend of a friend. You’ll have an interview, but it’s a formality.”

  “What department?”

  “Security.”

  “That’s ironic.”

  “I thought you’d be happy about it.”

  “No, it’s perfect,” he said. “But won’t they be more suspicious about my ID if they hire me in security?”

  Sheila waved a hand dismissively. “This is corporate America, Alex. Personal recommendations go a long way.”

  Alex was excited now—this plan just might work. The résumé he’d put together for Al Franks was the same as Alex’s real résumé, but with the name changed. A friend at Rampart Insurance had agreed to serve as a reference for “Al Franks” if anyone called about him. “I really want to thank you, Sheila. This is important to me.”

  Sheila stood and went to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Uh-oh, Alex thought. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “It’s important for both of us. Are you still sure you want to do this?”

  In the past twelve hours, the logic of what Alex was about to do had worn a deep groove in his mind: Luke and Crash worked at Liberty; Beto thought they were behind the accident, and so did Alex; the man with a birthmark on his hand most likely worked there too, and he had killed Beto and almost killed Alex; Alex had to get into Liberty to make them pay for their killings and to stop them from killing anyone else.

  “I’m sure,” Alex said.

  Sheila was looking up into his eyes, waiting for a kiss, expecting it. Things were moving so fast. Too fast.

  Alex thought about waiting to break it off with her until after he’d actually gotten the job at Liberty. But they had only spent one night together, and waiting would just make things more complicated. So he’d end it with her, and then she’d either keep helping him or she wouldn’t.

  “Sheila, don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “Last night was great, but I think we should keep things at a professional level—during the investigation.”

  She hugged her arms against her torso, like her body was swallowing itself. She’d gone cold again. When she spoke, her voice carried a barely noticeable tremor. “Don’t blame it on the investigation. If you’re not interested, just say that.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “I mean, I’d understand. With my divorce and everything, I hadn’t been with a man for a while.”

  “I said it’s not that. And me either, by the way.” Was she kidding? Alex thought. If she was rusty last night, look out when she was back in the groove. Alex took a breath and calmed himself. Sometimes being a man was a pain in the ass. “It’s just that this case has gotten a lot more dangerous, and for my own sanity I have to keep things simple.”

  “So I’m driving you crazy already?” she said shyly.

  “That’s not it.”

  She gave an unconvincing try at a smile. “Fine,” she said. “No hard feelings. And I’ll help you where I can in your investigation, which is what I know you really care about, if”—she held up a finger for emphasis—“if you give me the surfing lesson you promised me.”

  Right. He’d forgotten about that, more a remark than a promise, muttered while in bed when she’d asked about his surfing and complained that she’d never been, and he’d said, “I’ll take you out sometime.” He’d been distracted at the time and in his mind’s eye had pictured the summer. But now he realized she was offering both of them a graceful way out.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I brought my bathing suit.”

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out the kind of fussy designer one-piece that Alex had only ever seen in magazines. He laughed. “You’ll freeze your patootie off.”

  “Oh,” she
said, clearly disappointed.

  “Hold on,” Alex said. He went into his garage, looked in a couple of dusty boxes of things he never used, and came back with a rubber bodysuit he’d bought Pamela for Christmas one year and that she’d never tried on. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise to Alex, because Pamela had never shown an interest in surfing. Or swimming. Or the ocean. Alex held the suit up next to Sheila.

  She cocked her head and regarded the suit skeptically. “You think it’ll fit?” she asked.

  “It stretches.”

  “Famous last words,” she said with an ambivalent smirk, then took the suit from Alex and headed to the bathroom.

  * * *

  They took an old longboard Alex had. She was a good student—calm and attentive. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, but she asked the right ones. Alex held the tip of the board for her and pulled her out past the waves, then helped launch the board forward for her when the waves came. After half an hour her rides were ending with her balancing upright on the board for a few seconds before falling slowly like a redwood tree to one side or the other. Alex’s cheers were louder than the waves.

  “Takes a lot of upper body strength,” she said, panting, after one run. “Pushing yourself upright.”

  “You’re doing great,” Alex said.

  “Can I see you ride one?”

  Alex took the board out and took the first passable wave that came. He paddled, sprang upright and rode the wave gently toward the shore, feet together and arms at his sides. He steered the board toward Sheila, pretended like he couldn’t control it, then smoothly curved away from her at the last moment. She laughed and splashed water at him. He hopped off the board into the water.

  “You made it look easy.”

  He knew she was flattering him, but the way she said it, he didn’t mind. Good women were great at that. “I come here almost every morning,” he said.

  “Can we get out now?”

  “It is a little cold.”

  She snorted. “A little.”

  Alex carried the board out of the water for her. Back at his truck, he gave her a towel. She wrapped it around her hair. “It was right around here that we first met,” she said. “You remember that?”