by Mark Coggins
If I had a beard and was inclined to stroke it, I would have started up right about then. Instead, I rubbed the back of my neck and plowed on:
“I assume you checked to see if your program was missing when you returned home from the trade show?”
Bishop smiled ruefully. “I did indeed. All my copies of the program-including the master-were missing. In fact, they had all been erased from the computer disks where they were stored. That is a key point, too, Mr. Riordan. As you may know, it is relatively easy to make copies of computer software. To steal the program, Terri needed only to copy it off the master disk. She did that, but in addition, she methodically searched out and destroyed every last trace of it from my computer files.”
“Leaving you no way to prove that you developed the program originally?”
“Exactly.”
“How can you be so sure that Terri McCulloch is the one who took the program?”
Bishop pursed his lips and shook his head wearily like I was a slow learner. “It’s obvious. No other valuables were taken and there were no signs of a burglary. That means someone with unrestricted access to the house must have taken it. Jodie and Lisa lack any in-depth knowledge of computers, so they are eliminated. The same reasoning applies to my housekeeper. Terri, on the other hand, has a good understanding of computers. I know because I taught her myself. She also had the motive of revenge from her dismissal.”
“Yeah, you were pretty vague on that before. Why did you fire her? Had she developed a chronic headache?”
Bishop didn’t catch on immediately, but when he did he reddened and tugged hard on the end of his beard. “That is a personal matter between Terri and myself. I will not tell you anything further about it. If you should speak with Terri in the course of your investigation-and it seems likely you will-I absolutely forbid you to discuss the topic with her.”
I could tell by the subtle vibrations in the room that this wasn’t a popular topic with Bishop. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound properly chastened. “Assuming Terri McCulloch did steal the software, exactly what do you want done?”
“My first priority is the return of my chess program. My second is to secure its return without involving Terri or myself with the authorities. That is my primary purpose in hiring you. If I wasn’t still concerned with Terri’s welfare, I would have simply phoned the police and reported the chess game missing.”
I didn’t bother to remind him that he no longer had any proof that he’d actually developed the program. “All right. I’ll need addresses for Terri McCulloch and the software firm that exhibited your program at the trade show. Mephisto, you called them?”
“Yes, Mephisto is correct.” Bishop opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a long white envelope that he passed over to me. “You’ll find both addresses inside, plus a photograph of Terri and a check for twenty-five hundred dollars. I hope that amount is enough to get you started.”
I tucked the envelope into my breast pocket. “Yes, that should get me started and keep me going for a good while. One last question. Have you spoken with Ms. McCulloch or the Mephisto people since you discovered the game at the trade show?”
“No, I was too upset about the whole thing to deal with it rationally. I’m leaving the matter in your hands.”
I should have said something like, “I’m sure you won’t regret it,” but neither Bishop nor I was ready to swallow a line like that so late in the conversation. Bishop didn’t offer to see me out. I stood up and shook hands with him over the desk and walked out of the room, down the long hallway to the front door and out onto the porch. I was sort of hoping to find Jodie and Lisa playing volleyball on the front lawn in their bikinis, but evidently they were still occupied by the Monopoly game.
Sighing audibly, I climbed into my car and started down the winding highway towards the Peninsula town of Redwood City. When I passed the point on the road where I had lost my hubcap, I craned my neck out of the car and scanned the underbrush. Nothing doing: I could definitely kiss the crumpets good-bye.
TELLER TALKS TOUGH
BEFORE DRIVING ON TO MEPHISTO SOFTWARE I stopped at a taco joint in Redwood City that advertised authentic Mexican cuisine. I ordered two tacos and watched in silent awe as the Chinese woman behind the counter stirred a gigantic vat of ground beef with a boat oar, then plopped two scoops of the greasy meat into a pair of brittle tortilla shells.
“You like sour cream?” she asked cheerfully.
I nodded dumbly and the woman picked up a caulking gun and squirted ribbons of white paste down the middle of the tacos. She finished by mummifying them in orange wax paper and rang up the sale for $2.89.
I sat down on one of the plastic bench seats they had out front and broke off pieces of taco shell to munch on while I examined the photograph of Terri McCulloch that Bishop had given me. The picture showed an attractive young woman with dark hair sitting at the wheel of a convertible sports car. She was smiling broadly and had her hand held up in a rodeo-queen wave, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Something about her eyes gave her away-there was too much depth in them for you to be fooled into thinking she was just another one of Bishop’s “companions.”
Then again, maybe that was just a lot of sentimental hooey and she was busy riding a seventy-five-dollar john in a San Francisco Tenderloin hotel just at that moment.
After I’d eaten all the pieces of taco shell I cared to salvage, I got back into my car and headed a short ways north on Highway 101 to the offices of Mephisto Software. They were off the Redwood Shores Parkway across from a set of round glass buildings of varying heights that looked like a loser’s dwindling stake of poker chips. The buildings comprised the campus of Oracle Software, the second-largest software corporation in the world, and a company about as far away from losing as you can get in Silicon Valley. Mephisto itself was housed in a modest, prefab building that had been tarted up by the architect with an acid-washed copper roof and some futuristic-looking designs etched into the otherwise stark concrete exterior walls.
Mephisto’s lobby was decorated in brave new colors that didn’t quite match. A number of objets d’art graced the walls, including two mosaics made of leftover computer chips and a tapestry woven from bits of colored wire and coaxial cable. I found a picture of the company’s thirty-two year old founder and president-a Mr. Roland Teller-under a small spotlight near the drinking fountain. The caption beneath the picture explained that Teller had started the company in 1989 with a $10,000 investment, and by selling innovative computer games with brilliant marketing techniques, had parlayed the seed money into the $36 million company that Mephisto Software was today. This was the guy I wanted to talk to.
A male receptionist wearing a crisp blue suit and a telephone headset sat behind a horseshoe-shaped counter near the back of the lobby. I placed one of my business cards in reach and asked to speak with Mr. Teller.
The receptionist gave me a steely look, then picked up the card and stared down his nose at it for a moment. When the info on the card sunk in, he dropped the stiff-neck attitude and said amiably, “Private investigator, huh? We don’t get many of those around here. Still, you don’t stand much chance of getting an audience with his nibs. Not unless you’ve got photos of him with a naked woman at the mountain cabin or something.”
“Nope-I left the lens cap on. Could you give him a try anyway? I’ve a hunch he’ll agree to see me.”
“My pleasure. What may I say is your business?”
“I’d like to discuss charges my client is planning to bring against him for piracy of the new chess game Mephisto is exhibiting.”
The receptionist whistled softly. “Not bad, not bad. Okay, here we go.” He reached down and pressed a button on the telephone console in front of him. “Hello, Ms. Hansen? Yes, this is Chris at reception. I have a private investigator named August Riordan who would like to speak with Mr. Teller. Yes, yes, I know. But Mr. Riordan claims that Mephisto is going to be charged with theft of the chess program we�
�re about to release and wants to talk with Mr. Teller before the charges are actually filed.”There was a pause. “Okay, I’ll hold.”
He pushed down the microphone on the telephone head set. “Hope you don’t mind my little embellishments,” he chirped.
“No, you’re doing great.”
The receptionist listened for a second, then re-adjusted the microphone. “Yes, Mr. Teller, I will ask him.” He looked up. “Mr. Teller would like to know who you are representing.”
“Edwin Bishop,” I said.
“Mr. Teller, he says Edwin Bishop is his client... Yes sir. I will direct him.” The receptionist gave me the thumbs up sign. “You’re in. Put this on and go through the door behind me and down the aisle. The throne room is in the middle of the building on the right. You can’t miss it. He’s got the only private office in the whole place.”
I thanked him, and clipped the plastic visitor’s badge to the outside of my suit pocket. He twisted around to watch me as I walked past the counter to the double glass door he had indicated. “By the way,” he said with a sappy grin, “tell him for me that somebody with a wax pencil keeps drawing a mustache on his picture in the lobby.” I grinned back at him and stepped through the door.
The room I walked into looked more like an overgrown psychology experiment than a place to work. Tall gray metal partitions divided a half acre or so of bare floor space into a maze of tiny work cells. The maze was populated by software developers instead of rats, and computer equipment-monitors, printers, and disk drives-was used as bait in place of cheese. A bleary-eyed female with glasses as thick and square as dominoes and a complexion like a cave-dwelling newt stuck her head over a partition as I walked by. I gave her a sly wink, which she acknowledged by darting back behind the partition with lightning speed. That old Riordan magic with the ladies was still casting its spell.
I continued up the aisle until I came to a carpeted area with a large number of potted plants. Standing beside a baby palm was a heavyset man with dark curly hair, thick features, and powerful arms that didn’t need any help from Wheaties. The pinstriped suit he wore was well made, but wasn’t cut with an eye toward expansion. My guess was that Roland Teller would do at least as good a job in professional wrestling as he did in computer software.
“I expected Bishop would try something,” he said in a low purr, “but I didn’t think he’d go out and hire himself a private eye.”
“Some people get crazy ideas when you steal their property.”
“That’s nice. Hit me right between the eyes with it first thing. Into my office with you. I don’t want the whole floor watching while I screw your head on straight.”
Teller’s office had been decorated by the same group of martians who had done the lobby. The carpet was a bright shade of purple, the walls forest green, and the office furniture a blend of chrome and white enamel. The art collection consisted of several framed enlargements of computer chips and a number of wooden plaques commemorating industry awards Mephisto had received. Teller’s desk was situated under a triangular sky light; the inventory on top included a leather-bound cigar box, a matching chrome pen and pencil set, and a combination telephone and fax machine.
Teller pointed at the visitor’s chair and then dropped into the astronaut’s couch behind the desk. “I don’t know what Bishop’s angle is, Riordan,” he said in a tight voice, “but let’s get one thing clear from the start: we did not steal any software from that little twerp. We agreed to pay him $300,000 plus twenty percent royalties for rights to produce and distribute the game. I have the signed contract in my desk. If he thinks he can weasel out of the deal by raising a stink at the computer trade show or by sending bozos like you around to intimidate me, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Were you at the trade show when Bishop came by your exhibit?”
“No, but I heard about it soon enough. Evidently Bishop started squawking the moment he saw the game and didn’t shut up until they threatened to call in the security guards.”
“If you bought the rights to the software, then why did your man at the trade show tell Bishop that Mephisto had developed the game internally?”
Teller snorted. “That act is getting a little stale, chum. Don’t expect me to believe Bishop sent you down here without giving you any details of our agreement.”
“Humor me and answer the question.”
Teller blew out air through his lips and massaged a meaty bicep. “Bishop agreed to keep his involvement a secret. The contract says that Mephisto will take credit for developing the game, and the guy at the trade show didn’t know any different.”
“You didn’t think it was strange that Bishop was willing to pass up credit for developing the game?”
“Sure, I was a little surprised, but we more than compensated him for keeping his trap shut.” Teller narrowed his eyes at me. “Just what are you driving at?”
I ignored the question. “Did you ever meet Bishop face to face during the negotiations?”
“He doesn’t deal directly. We always worked through his agent.”
I pulled Terri McCulloch’s picture out of my breast pocket and handed it over to Teller. “Is this the woman who claimed to represent Bishop?”
“A real cutie, isn’t she? But what do you mean ‘claimed’ to represent Bishop?”
“You’ve been had, Teller. Terri McCulloch left Bishop’s employ three weeks ago. She had no authority to represent him in any negotiations, then or now. Bishop believes McCulloch stole the chess game at the time of her departure to revenge herself on Bishop for firing her. If you bought the chess game from her, then you purchased stolen property.”
Teller stared at me like I told him my goldfish played the glockenspiel. “So that’s your dodge,” he said abruptly. “Well, it’s not going to work. We have Bishop’s signature on that contract and we’ll damn well make it stick.”
“Don’t go simple on me,” I said, thinking he didn’t have far to go. “That signature is almost certainly a forgery. You’ll be laughed out of court if you try to enter it as evidence. The smart way to handle it is to return the game to Bishop and let us deal with Terri McCulloch.”
“What a horse laugh. You tell Bishop I’ll wring his neck personal if he keeps up with this business. Now get your butt out of my office and take your girlie photo with you.” Teller flung Terri McCulloch’s picture across the desk and stood up with his fists clenched. He looked eager to split the seams of his elegant pinstripe while landing a few hard ones on my jaw.
I figured I could take Teller if it came to that, but it would likely be a Pyrrhic victory. I slipped the photo back into my pocket, got up and walked over to the door. “Just for your information,” I said with my hand on the knob, “someone with a wax pencil has been touching up your picture in the lobby.”
Teller blinked dumbly. “I don’t get it. I told Facilities to clean that up last week.”
When I returned to the lobby I found the receptionist reading a thick volume with the title Great Games in Chess History. Tucked behind his ear was a stubby wax pencil with a blunt point. I glanced over to Teller’s picture and noted the addition of a Hitler mustache and a crudely drawn dueling scar. Gesturing at the pencil, I said:
“You must value free expression in art a great deal more than regular employment.”
“Oh,” he responded in a fluttery voice, “you’ve opened a window onto my soul and perceived my true being.”
I rolled my eyes. “Skip the dramatics: you’re stampeding my lunch. What’s with the chess book?”
“It’s a hobby. As much as I hate this crummy job, being at Mephisto does give me a chance to stay current with chess and chess software. And I have to say this new release is really hot.”
The receptionist’s bright manner was beginning to grate a little, but I decided I’d better take the opportunity to learn something. “That’s what I’ve heard. But if you’re an expert, then maybe you can tell me just what makes this program so swell. Bishop gave m
e a patter about GM’s and grading level 2601’s but it didn’t make much of an impression.”
The receptionist looked at me for a long moment, and then flashed an ingenuous smile. “You live around here?” he asked.
I told him San Francisco.
“Me too. Look, my name is Chris Duckworth,” he said and held out his hand. I shook it. “Why don’t you meet me at a bar this evening and I’ll tell you all you want to know about the game. I really can’t take the time now because they don’t like me gabbing with friends at the desk. Besides, it’s hardly in Mephisto’s best interest for us to talk.”
He was right about Mephisto, but I wasn’t sure there was that much to gain from talking to him. On the other hand, I didn’t have any plans for the evening, so I said, “Okay, I’d appreciate that. Where and when?”
“Let’s say 6:30 at The Stigmata.”
“The Stigmata? What the hell kind of bar is that?”
The receptionist chortled. “The name says it all. It’s south of Market, corner of Ninth and Harrison. See you then.”
I thanked him and went out the lobby door. Something told me The Stigmata wasn’t exactly cut in the mold of a California fern bar.
DOWN EPA WAY
TERRI MCCULLOCH’S CURRENT RESIDENCE WAS QUITE A step down from Bishop’s Woodside mansion. She now lived in a run-down apartment complex on Woodland Avenue in the impoverished little Peninsula community of East Palo Alto. The building was a three-story architectural mutation from the early sixties- liberal use of filmy glass panels giving it the appearance of a dirty fish tank. I parked in the street next to a Chevy Impala teetering on jack stands and walked up a weedy sidewalk to the front door.
The door was propped open by a busted steam iron. After checking the apartment directory, I entered the building and started up the formed concrete staircase in the middle of the lobby to reach Terri McCulloch’s second-floor apartment. I was about halfway up the stairs when a nasally whine from below stopped me in my tracks: