Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  I went into a lobby heavy on beige and teal, and told the young man at the security desk I had an appointment with Verhoeven. Barely glancing up at me, he told me to have a seat.

  I retreated to a vinyl couch, idly picking up a Wall Street Journal on the end table. The name Super Prime leaped out at me from below the fold.

  The machine parts it shipped on Friday had begun to rust before arrival. A chemical analysis revealed that water had been “mistakenly or maliciously” added to its primer, causing accelerated oxidation. The analysis also revealed a fifty-five percent decrease in the expensive antioxidant that was Super Prime’s hallmark.

  The security person looked up in alarm at my exclamation.

  Jocelyn Kinsley had feared Super Prime’s spraying would be disrupted. That would have cost the company the price of a delay. Instead, its primer had been contaminated, leading to exposure of its cost-cutting shoddiness.

  It was ten minutes before the man at the security desk got a call instructing him to allow me in. That gave me plenty of time to admire the elegance of the sabotage. Super Prime had fired quality-control workers over minutes of tardiness and “inappropriate” jewelry. Now those excuses would be seen as the sham they were. And what the company saved by cheapening its product it would lose in future business.

  I wondered if the contamination had happened while Sandy and I kept vigil. Why hadn’t we seen anyone run out of the plant?

  I also had time to consider the RICO problems plaguing Steve Sayres. Did the two things share common authorship?

  Finally, security accompanied me upstairs to Perry Verhoeven’s office. He tapped twice at the door. He had to tap twice more before we heard, “Come in.”

  I entered alone, crossing to Perry and extending my hand. His office looked just like the lobby: teal and beige industrial carpet, plain wood, cloth furniture. He obviously didn’t need to express himself through his decor.

  Behind him, a glass wall overlooked a warehouse-sized space below. Slow conveyor belts moved flat green and gray objects, each stopping under a series of robot arms that etched tiny pathways and embedded semiconductors to guide robots used in other kinds of factories. These were the brains of machines to replace thousands of skilled workers. Machines to build machines to build more machines. It was a vision out of an Asimov novel. A robotic tomorrow, for better or worse.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Perry.”

  His broad face, squared by imposing jowls and gray hair thicker on the sides than on top, looked rigidly composed. But a flush of cheek and a hostile squint suggested a stronger emotion.

  “I only have a moment,” he said. His tone was arctic.

  For the first time, I realized there might be more to this than Sayres’ slanders. For the first time I wondered if Perry disliked me. Independent of what he might have heard, disliked me personally.

  “Then let me get to the point.” I sat down. I hadn’t prepared a rap. I’d thought it important to get a sense of Perry’s mood first. I was glad. “Reviewing our last meeting, I’ve become concerned that some sort of misunderstanding led you to feel animosity toward me, that something undercut your confidence in me despite what I think was excellent work. Am I right?”

  He sat slowly, eyes steadily on me while his face remained rigidly impassive. “I don’t feel it’s necessary to explain further.”

  “I’ve been under the impression that Steve Sayres influenced you. I’d like to know if that’s the reason.” Seeing anger flood his face with color, I hurried on. “Also, as your former counsel, I feel obligated to continue serving your interests. You probably know two of Steve’s clients have are being investigated for RICO violations.” It was a tacky damn approach. I just couldn’t think of another. “You expressed concern that I’d be spending too much time with other cases. Now Steve’s going to have his hands full with these RICO allegations. I thought that might be important to you.”

  Perry’s face continued to redden. “The qualifications and workload of my present lawyer are none of your damn business.”

  “In the interest of a smooth transition, and because I worked with you long enough to feel loyalty—”

  He smacked his hand onto his desktop. “Loyalty? That’s a laugh! I’m surprised you don’t choke on the word.”

  His sudden vehemence knocked my point right out of my head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get out of here.” He stood. “You don’t work for me anymore, and you never will again, and that has nothing to do with Steven Sayres, and it never did.”

  I remained in my chair, stunned. “Perry—”

  “I said get out.” He picked up the handset of a sleek black phone. “Or I’ll have security haul you out. You’re here under false pretenses. You said you’d learned something. You lying—” He crimped his lips, shaking his head.

  “I just wanted to tell you about the RICO …” I stared up at him. For a moment he’d looked scared as well as angry. What had he thought I’d learned? “And I wanted to tell you one other thing.”

  I was stalling, yes; also fishing. What in the world had I done to make him doubt my loyalty?

  Perry replaced the receiver. “Go on.”

  I continued staring, saying nothing. Nothing, in fact, was occurring to me. I’d have to leave if that didn’t change immediately.

  “What?” he demanded. His hand clenched into a fist.

  I rose hastily. Perry’s anger seemed huge even in partial suppression.

  “What? What do you have to say to me? Say it. Go ahead and say it.” He was practically bellowing.

  There was no way our lawyer-client relationship could be salvaged. That much was finally clear. And a sudden instinct told me to leave. Right now.

  I decided to heed it. Whatever more I might learn scarcely mattered. The Verhoeven file was definitely closed.

  A twinge of regret slowed me. Why did Perry feel this way? Would he tell me if I waited? If I goaded him?

  I backed slowly toward the door.

  “You’re trying to break my balls here today, is that it?” He stepped around his desk. “A trick you learned working for criminals?”

  Information be damned. I didn’t want to be here anymore.

  I dashed out, clattering back downstairs and through the lobby. Only when I reached my car did I pause to let my heartbeats slow, to take the deep breaths I needed.

  I got stuck in traffic on way back into the city. I sat sweltering in the claustrophobic heat of stalled bridge traffic, with plenty of time to worry. What in the world had Perry meant? What did he think I’d done to him?

  Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with Steve Sayres. I finally believed it. In a way, that was the hardest thing to accept.

  26

  “Loyalty.” I stared at Sandy. “I have no idea what he meant.”

  Sandy looked troubled. “What in the hell? What in the hell is making you so unpopular?”

  I leaned back in my office chair. I’d been unpopular for a long time, but always because of some case.

  “The only thing Perry could possibly be angry about is my other case, the Rommel case.” Which, in fact, had been his stated reason for leaving. “He told me that’s why he was dumping me, but I didn’t believe him because it made no sense. I mean, so what? So I had another case. For him to think it was disloyal …” I shook my head. “There’s got to be some kind of personal hot button.”

  I supposed I was beyond assuming men were sensible just because they ran corporations.

  Sandy was flopped in the chair opposite my desk, sitting on his spine, long legs crossed at the ankle. His skin looked almost ashen in the gray light of a fading afternoon.

  “Then there’s this.” He tapped the Wall Street Journal on his knee. “I wish I knew how they pulled it off, how they contaminated the primer.

  “Maybe it was someone still em
ployed at Super Prime, some kind of solidarity thing.”

  “That would explain why we didn’t see anyone run out. But the maybe-not-so-false alarm’s got to figure into it.”

  “It could have been someone who worked in another part of the plant, someone unfamiliar with security in the spraying area. Giving himself cover to sneak in, and—”

  “And we just happened to be parked out back? No. More likely the alarm went off for our benefit.” He sat straighter, the newspaper sliding off his lap. “I’d guess the primer was ruined earlier, that the alarm was set off to get us caught. If you’d been two minutes slower driving off, the cops would have pulled you over for questioning.”

  “What would that have accomplished?”

  “Mess with us, make us look stupid, hopefully get us out of their hair.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to relieve a headache. “Maryanne More knew we were in town. I was breathing wine fumes at her half an hour before.”

  “I don’t know, Sandy. The times I’ve met More, she hasn’t seemed like a vigilante. She’s seemed like, well, like a lawyer.”

  “Speaking of which …” He checked his watch. “I wish I didn’t have to get back to work. It surely is dull, sifting through bank documents trying to disprove RICO claims. But Sayres is frantic.” A slight grin. “Do you good to see it.”

  “How long do you think it’s going to take?”

  “Rest of the week, at least. I’ll be in D.C. tomorrow, at Graystone Federal’s corporate office. Back on Thursday.” His expression changed. “Why? You’re not thinking of going up north?”

  “I have to.” I spoke quickly, hoping to forestall his objections. “I think Brad will go back to Hillsdale, hide out where he knows the countryside, maybe try to clear himself.” I hurried on. “And Jay Bartoli should have a lot more information about the plane and the mall and all that by now. Maybe if I work with Jay, I can help Brad. Whoever did all this has to have left some traces.”

  He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Don’t go, Laura. I can’t abandon Sayres right now.”

  “I can’t sit down here while they’re building a case against Brad. I’ve got to go try to do something for him.”

  Sandy stared across the desk at me.

  He knew I was right. I had to go where my case required me to be. And he had to stay where his work was. But I could see he found it difficult.

  I did, too. Danger aside, I didn’t want to leave Sandy.

  “Cathy Piatti.” Sandy’s voice strained with concession. “That’s the place to start—assuming the sheriff stops being so territorial.” He sat back with a sigh. “Say Piatti did phone Rommel. Where’s she been? And don’t say the Yukon. Even if she told him that, there’s no reason to think it’s true. You’ve still got those addresses?”

  I knew the ones he meant. I nodded. I’d stopped by the houses of her coworkers and friends weeks ago when DNA tests revealed it was her blood in Brad’s bucket.

  “Just don’t go alone. I’ll ask around, get you the name of somebody up there. Either a private or a security guy. Okay?”

  I hesitated, unsure of the necessity. “Call me with the name.” I’d see how I felt when I got there. “I’ll try to get the story on this new bucket. And generally, I’ll see what I can get out of Bartoli.”

  “You’ll watch your back?”

  “Nobody’s tried to hurt me up there. You should be glad I’m leaving San Francisco.”

  “I just wish I wasn’t so tied to Sayre’s apron strings right now. I wish I was going with you.”

  I had a brief flash of paranoia: maybe someone had discredited Steve Sayres just to keep Sandy occupied, just to keep him from traveling with me. “I can’t expect you to drop everything to be with me, Sandy.”

  “Can’t you? We could change that.”

  He squinted at his watch again. He was late.

  This wasn’t the moment to say yes.

  27

  I was annoyed with Jay Bartoli, to put it mildly. He was supposed to be part of this meeting, the human neutral zone between me and Connie Gold. I’d spent ten long minutes in her office waiting for him. Gold and I were beginning to snipe at each other, our professionalism showing dangerous cracks.

  It was my turn to display ill-temper. “Why don’t you tell me what you know? You’ve been briefed already. What’s the point of waiting for Jay?” I’d said much the same thing two minutes ago, five minutes ago, and when I first walked in.

  She wore an expression of superior disdain as if it were part of her purple wool, black velvet lapel suit. She obviously aimed to present a picture of calm elegance. To me, she looked like a skinny, rat-faced woman in lounge-singer drag.

  She said, “Mr. Bartoli asked to be present. I think we can do him the courtesy.”

  As far as I knew, Jay had no ego stake in briefing me himself. Moreover, we’d get more done today if I was up to speed. But I’d said so more than once already. Gold was just being difficult; withholding information because she could, because she wanted to, because I’d made valid objections to her defendants-as-movie-rights approach to the law.

  “You’re being very stupid about this.” The words popped out my mouth. I’d been biting them back too long. “We could have covered a lot of ground by now. I could have described my meeting with Rommel.”

  “I have the police reports.” She tapped a stack of papers with a witchy fingernail.

  I sat back, sighing elaborately. Once again, I looked around her office. Corny redwood-country art, framed diplomas from schools named after obscure robber-barons, framed photos of her with the stars of her TV movie about Connie the Great, Defender of Raped Women.

  “Why don’t I go see what’s keeping Jay?” I suggested.

  We’d phoned his office five minutes earlier and been told he was away from his desk. We’d assumed he was on his way. But even crawling, a man could have taken an elevator up one floor by now.

  “I’ll walk out with you.” Her tone was clipped, mistrustful, as if I might corner Bartoli in the hall and coax confidences from him.

  What could I say besides, “Fine.”

  We stepped out of her shrine to herself and Hollywood, and into a bustling outer office of overdressed clerical workers in stilt-high heels. A glass wall with round vents like a prison visiting room separated it from a tiny waiting area. We went through a door locked from the outside, passing two sad-looking men slumped in vinyl chairs. When we stepped into the corridor, I let Gold take the lead.

  She walked unnecessarily fast, her shoulders bouncing. I watched her, trying to get some perspective before I boiled into a childish tantrum. From her point of view, she was a get-results professional, a DA with a nearly perfect record. And I was her Steven Sayres, bad-mouthing her, undermining her hard-won reputation. She had reason to be testy, and so did I. But this was supposed to be about Brad Rommel, not me and Connie Gold.

  She stopped at the elevator, punching the button. The door opened immediately. The elevator had been sitting there ready for someone to summon it. That never happened in San Francisco, there was always a wait. I was trying to decide how big a minus that was when I heard a sound behind me.

  Gold was just about to step into the elevator. I was several paces behind, about to be preceded in.

  A sound captured my attention, a small click different in pitch and type from the drone of air conditioning. It was a nondescript noise, not loud, not startling. It obviously didn’t catch Gold’s ear.

  But I suppose I recognized it. I suppose some part of me was hyper-alert, heedful of Sandy’s warning, worried about two close brushes in eight days.

  Unlike Connie Gold, I wheeled around. It took less than a heartbeat for me to see the figure in the dark baggy coat. He was at the end of a corridor, not the hall we’d just come down, but one that elled into it. Both his arms were extended. He was holding something, pointi
ng it at me.

  My veins flooded with fear. I couldn’t see his face, only something blue where I should have seen skin. A ski mask?

  In that instant, I didn’t stop to think, much less calculate odds. I ducked. I folded at the waist and bent my knees. I didn’t care how it looked, what anyone would think. I felt almost impelled, pushed down as if Sandy’s warning had taken on physical mass.

  Immediately, I heard a blast and, uselessly, covered my ears with my forearms. I smelled gun smoke.

  Behind me, a soft thump. Then shouts, footfalls.

  I looked down the hall and saw the dark figure running. I looked behind me and saw Connie Gold sprawled face down, partly inside the elevator. She was reaching for the control panel. Her blood soaked the carpet in a widening circle beneath her.

  I was too shaken to move quickly. I scrabbled to her only seconds before office workers, alarmed by the noise, rushed into the hall.

  Gold was flat on her belly. She wasn’t straining toward the elevator controls anymore. She was lying still. She said nothing, made no sound. She shuddered when I touched her. People behind me were asking if she was all right, what had happened.

  “I don’t know. Shot.”

  I heard someone say they were calling 911. Someone else started down the hall, then stopped when a coworker screamed, “Not that way! That’s where he went.”

  “The sheriff,” I said, looking over my shoulder into the face of a young woman with shiny makeup. “The man’s heading downstairs, he’s got to be. Call the sheriff.”

  It would be too ironic to learn the ski-masked man had run past the sheriff’s office on his way out of the building.

  My hands were still on Gold’s back. I could feel her short, labored breaths. It was like touching a heaving bird. I recoiled, scooting backward into a young woman with overpowering perfume.