No Accident

by Dan Webb

Brad’s hand found a letter opener. The letter opener idly tapped the top of his desk. The sound was like a faucet with a slow drip, a drip that fooled you into thinking it had stopped.

  Cindy wouldn’t understand . . .

  * * *

  Cindy came into Brad’s office a couple of times during the afternoon and tried to initiate a new round of their usual amusing banter. She wanted to find out what bothered him so much about that letter. But he didn’t respond—not really, anyway—and he didn’t look bothered anymore. He was focused, absorbed, obsessed—printing documents and reading, printing and reading. She had become invisible. After three hours of being ignored, she collected herself and brought him a hot cup of coffee. The coffee got his attention, and he even thanked her for it.

  “What’re you up to?” she said. She tried to sound casual.

  “What I’m best at.” Brad smiled and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Homework.”

  42

  After leaving Les Frees’ office, the loyal thing for Alex to do would have been to call Luke, to report that Les was very defensive about Crash, and so might know where Crash was hiding. Instead, Alex called Sheila.

  “I found the man with the birthmark.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “He’s head of the motor pool at Liberty.”

  She gasped. “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “I’m sure. I’m also sure he’s the one who beat up Del.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “He said enough. I think he also knows where Crash is. It’s all starting to come together.”

  “Have you told Luke?”

  Who’s running this show? Alex asked himself, annoyed at her nosiness. “Not yet. I don’t want to officially ‘find’ Crash until I’ve got the evidence I need from Frees about the accident.”

  “You need your search for Crash as an excuse to snoop around Liberty.”

  “Exactly, and I don’t have a lot of time. Frees suspects my fake identity, and Luke has already asked me for a status report on finding Crash.”

  “Be careful, Alex.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

  Alex’s plan required a skill that Alex didn’t have. Despite all his brother’s faults, Del was the person he trusted the most for the stunt he had in mind. But Del was in no shape to participate, so Alex reluctantly called Zeke.

  “Zeke, I’ve got a scoop for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Sure, Alex thought, Zeke’s always ready to help when there’s something in it for him. “I need your help with a little errand, and then I’ll explain everything.”

  “What’s the errand?”

  “It shouldn’t take more than an hour. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven a.m.”

  “What? Where’s the scoop?”

  “Be ready. And bring your lock pick.” Alex hung up before Zeke could protest—or probe—any further.

  Sheila had social plans that evening and didn’t come home until after Alex was asleep. Alex instead spent the evening with Del, who was now patched up and, except for a few cuts and yellowing bruises, well on the way to recovery. They went to a bar, had a couple of beers and watched a basketball game. Alex paid, even though he couldn’t afford it. Del could afford it even less. Del said he was thinking of leaving L.A. Alex told him that could be a good idea. Or a bad one. Del said he was still thinking it through.

  The next morning, Alex got out of bed without waking Sheila, strapped the holster and pistol beneath his sport coat and drove to Zeke’s house. Zeke was grumpy but ready to go. “This better be good,” he said.

  Alex parked in the Liberty lot. It was all but empty at this hour. Alex led Zeke across the quiet facility until they got to the large garage that housed the motor pool. The garage was closed and dark.

  “How are we going to get in?” Zeke said.

  “I work here,” Alex said. He handed Zeke a pair of leather gloves. “Put these on,” he said.

  “What do I need gloves for?”

  “Cold morning,” Alex said brusquely.

  “No, it isn’t,” Zeke said. “And since when do you work here?”

  Alex ignored him. Alex was also wearing gloves, a thinner wool pair. He pulled a keychain from his pocket and unlocked a side door to the main garage.

  “If you work here, then why are you wearing gloves?” Zeke said, but Alex ignored that, too. He just made sure Zeke put on the gloves.

  Inside, the sound of their footsteps on the concrete floor made a lonely echo off the walls. Alex took Zeke to the staircase that led up to Les Frees’ office.

  “Where are we?” Zeke said.

  Alex put one of his keys up to the lock above the door, but it wouldn’t fit. “He’s installed his own lock,” Alex said. “Did you bring your tools?”

  “Just like you asked,” Zeke said. “Whose office is this, anyway?” Alex didn’t answer. Zeke shrugged and hunched over the lock. He probed it tentatively with a thin, flat needle. Then he looked up and said, “If we get caught, I’ll rat you out.”

  “I know you will,” Alex said. “Quit stalling.”

  “This lock is a little more complicated than The Chronicle’s liquor cabinet,” Zeke said.

  Zeke scratched at the lock for a couple of minutes that passed as slowly as if a dentist were scratching at Alex’s teeth. Then the lock turned, and Zeke stood up straight and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “After you.”

  Inside, Les Frees’ office was just as Alex recalled it, except the broken glass from the picture frame had been swept off the floor.

  “What are we looking for?” Zeke said.

  “This is the office of Les Frees, who planted the bomb in MacArthur Park that almost killed me.”

  “Wait. Slow down. You were there?”

  “Yes, I was there trying to buy some evidence that Luke Hubbard was responsible for the accident over Christmas.” Alex took Zeke over to the wall and showed him what was left of the photograph of Les and Crash at Les’s wedding.

  “Frees is also tight with Crash Bailey,” Alex said. “Crash killed Luke’s mistress. Luke Hubbard asked me to find Crash. When I came here yesterday to speak with Frees, he was very protective of Crash, and he correctly suspects that I’m using an alias here. I just need to pin the bombing on Les before he finds proof of my real identity.”

  Zeke looked stunned. “Talk about a scoop. You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Alex spent several minutes swiftly but methodically searching the papers on and around Les’s desk, a task the gloves made harder. Meanwhile, Zeke shifted nervously from one foot to the other, like someone waiting in line for the bathroom.

  “Hurry up, Alex. This is freaking me out.”

  Alex stopped his search and sighed. “Just what I was afraid of. No obvious paper trail. So much for the easy way.”

  Alex dropped onto a decrepit old couch pushed against one wall of the office. At that, Zeke threw up his hands, and spoke with obvious strain in his voice. “This guy Frees could show up at any minute.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Alex said.

  “Then why the hell are you sitting on his couch?” Zeke asked with a tremor of panic.

  “I’m waiting for him. I want to talk with him.”

  “What makes you think he’ll want to talk with you?”

  Alex casually lifted the lapel of his sport coat so Zeke could see the pistol.

  Zeke emitted a sharp sound between a cough and a squeak. “What the hell is that?”

  “Zeke, this guy tried to kill me. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “You can leave if you want,” Alex said, and he meant it. Zeke had gotten Alex into Les’s office; Alex didn’t need Zeke’s bad mojo making the next phase even harder.

  Zeke looked vacantly at Alex as if trying to work out a crossword puzzle in his head. “What if he calls out for help, Alex? Will you shoot him? You’ll go
to jail.”

  Alex furrowed his brow as he considered this, then he realized that, for once, Zeke was right. He bolted up from the couch. “I’m glad I brought you along,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Before they could leave, they heard the steady, assured footsteps of someone ascending the wooden staircase. The footsteps of a man.

  Alex motioned for Zeke to find a place behind the open door, out of sight of anyone entering the office. Alex himself rose and pivoted feverishly back and forth, searching for a hiding place. The footsteps on the stairway outside kept their own time, indifferent to the bustling inside the office. Alex found nowhere to hide and so dropped back down on the couch. There he put his hand on the handle of his pistol inside his jacket and tried his best to look menacing. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw that Zeke had hunched his shoulders and shut his eyes tight against whatever was to come.

  The man ascending the stairs looked into the open doorway. “Al?” he said.

  Alex felt a wave of relief like a sudden shower of warm water. At the top of the stairs stood a coworker from the security department. “It’s Jerry, right?” Alex said, trying to keep his voice steady. Inside his jacket, Alex moved his hand from the pistol to a handkerchief, which he pretended to wipe his nose with. Zeke retreated farther into the shadows behind the door.

  “So you’ve heard the news,” Jerry said.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Alex said blandly.

  “News travels fast.” As Jerry shook his head, Alex wondered what in the world was going on. “What a shame,” Jerry said. “He’d worked here almost twenty years.”

  So Frees was fired, Alex thought. That was sudden. “What’s the protocol here?” Alex asked. “Same as with any termination?”

  “Right,” Jerry said. “Termination—I never thought of the word that way.”

  “So have IT take the computer, forward his personal effects?”

  “Right. I already called IT. They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Great. I’ve got this one, Jerry. You can head out.”

  “You don’t mind? I knew him pretty well, and I’d rather not go through his things, you know?”

  Jerry turned as if to go, then paused. He looked back at Alex.

  “Did you know Les at all?”

  “Not really.”

  “He was a great guy. I can’t believe he’s really dead.”

  43

  Brad insisted on holding Luke’s deposition in his own office, rather than the comfortable, modern skyscraper where Boswell & Baker did business. Brad was used to suffering for hours at a stretch in the windowless, low-ceilinged chamber that served as his conference room. He knew Luke and Alan Matthews were not.

  Brad had been talking up Luke’s deposition to Cindy, and she asked Brad to contrive a way for her to watch. Could she pretend to be his paralegal? Brad kept putting her off. But once the legal stenographer arrived with her equipment, there wasn’t space for any spectators in the little room anyway. And after Luke greeted Cindy by barking a demand for coffee, she no longer seemed as keen to join the proceedings.

  The judge decreed that Brad could depose Luke for eight hours. After seven and a half hours, Luke and Alan both looked worn. With the two of them, the stenographer and Brad gathered close around a small table, the room had grown warm and uncomfortable, but neither Luke nor Alan would give Brad the satisfaction of loosening their ties. Brad felt stifled, too, but was willing to suffer for the cause.

  “Mr. Hubbard, last December, didn’t you have a motivation to increase Liberty’s earnings?” Brad said. He had spent the last ten minutes effectively asking the same question in different forms, covering the same ground that Grant Steele had questioned Luke about in the secret grand jury transcript.

  “What does any of this have to do with the divorce?” Luke said. “Wake up, Alan.”

  Alan twisted his head lethargically toward Brad. “Objection as to relevance.”

  “Answer the question please, Mr. Hubbard,” Brad said.

  “My attorney has just objected. I’m not going to answer.”

  “Off the record,” Brad said to the stenographer, and she stopped typing. “Fine,” Brad said to Luke and Alan, “in that case, I’ll have the court compel you to answer and we’ll meet back here another day and do this all over again.”

  Alan rose and squirmed between the wall and the table to get to where Brad sat. He motioned for Brad to join him outside, and the two of them stepped out into the hall.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Alan said. “Are you litigating a divorce case or auditioning for district attorney?”

  “It’s all relevant, Alan. It goes to the value of his Liberty stock.”

  “Isn’t that why we have a stock market?”

  “But the market price fluctuates every day. What does Luke think the stock’s worth?” Brad knew his rationale didn’t really make sense, but being a lawyer sometimes meant arguing the point.

  Alan scrutinized Brad’s face, looking for a tell. Finally he shrugged. “You want to waste your last few minutes with Luke going down a rabbit hole, that’s fine with me.”

  Brad swept back into the little conference room with Alan in tow. “Back on the record,” Brad said to the stenographer. Brad asked his next question immediately, even before he was fully seated. “Mr. Hubbard, last December, didn’t you have a motivation to increase Liberty’s earnings to meet analysts’ expectations and keep Liberty’s stock price from plunging?”

  Luke cast a disgusted look toward Alan. “These questions are all silly,” he said. “But since you won’t let it go, the answer is no. I hold my stock in Liberty for the long term, so the periodic rises and falls aren’t important to my personal calculations.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Look, if I worried about short-term fluctuations, I would sell the stock whenever I thought the price was high.”

  “So, if you had been worried in late December about missing the analysts’ earnings estimates and a drop in your stock price, you would have sold stock then?”

  “Exactly.”

  That was how Luke had answered the same question before the grand jury. That was how Brad was hoping Luke would answer now. Brad opened one of several file folders he had laid out on the table in front of him and pulled out a several-page document.

  “Mr. Hubbard, I’m looking at Liberty Industries’ stock trading policy for its executives. Pretty standard policy for a public company, as I understand it, to make sure executives aren’t trading on inside information. According to this, the company prohibits executives like you from selling Liberty stock during the last month of any fiscal quarter. So wouldn’t that policy prevent you from selling stock during December?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess? Are you unfamiliar with your company’s own trading policy?”

  “I’m familiar with it. I just don’t spend much time thinking about it, because—if I have to tell you twenty times, I’ll tell you twenty times—I don’t sell just because the stock price is high. I’ve never sold a share.”

  “Let’s move this along, Mr. Pitcher,” Alan said. “He didn’t sell, and he’s told you why.”

  “Fine,” Brad said to Alan. Turning back to Luke, he said, “You have an expensive lifestyle, don’t you?”

  Luke looked at his watch. The deposition was almost over. “Compared to most people, I’m sure that’s true.”

  “How much did you spend last year?”

  “I’d have to check with my accountant.”

  “Surely you have a rough idea. Was it more than a million dollars?”

  “Certainly,” Luke said.

  “More than two million?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. A lot of that spending is Sheila’s, y’know . . . clothing, jewelry, spa dates, who knows?”

  “And a lot is for your mistress, as well?”

  Alan’s lurched from his seat and coughed out a vehement objection. Brad and Luke stared at each other
coolly, oblivious to Alan.

  “Less for her than for Sheila,” Luke said.

  “And what was your salary last year?” Brad said.

  “One million dollars exactly, just as it’s been for several years.”

  “Not enough to pay for your lifestyle, then, especially after taking out taxes.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Here’s the question,” Brad said. He leaned forward and stared straight into Luke’s eyes. “How do you fund your lifestyle?”

  * * *

  After leaving Les Frees’ office, Alex returned to the security department, which was abuzz with rumors about what had happened to Frees. Depending on who was doing the talking, Frees either had been stealing from the company or had been plotting some sort of home-grown terrorist act or had found dangerous information about Luke Hubbard. Whatever the cause, he had run. They found him with a suitcase full of disguises. Or maybe they didn’t. He was diabetic and died in a motel room in Santa Monica from an adverse insulin reaction—that was the only hard fact. Somebody’s brother who was a doctor said accidental overdoses sometimes happen in unfamiliar environments. In a way, they said, Les had won. Whoever was chasing him wouldn’t have the satisfaction of catching him. Imagine what the poor motel cleaning lady must have thought, someone mused, though in her line of work she may have seen worse. At least he didn’t leave a mess, another said. Les could piss people off, but he was a good guy, everyone agreed. People were meeting up after work to have a few drinks in his memory—no wife, no kids, that left his friends to do the honors.

  Alex listened to all this with wide-eyed attention, but after hearing what his colleagues had to say, he was more curious than before. One thing the rumors didn’t explain was why Les Frees would want to kill himself or, in the alternative, why he would be so careless in administering an insulin injection that he did every day. But more important, why had Frees been in a motel at all?

  Had Frees been running from Alex? That was unlikely, given the way Frees tried to intimidate Alex in his office. Alex listened to his coworkers and asked some questions, but tried not to seem like he cared about the answers too much. After an hour, he knew where he had to go for real answers.