No Accident (12 page)

For a big guy, he can really move
, Ray McLean thought. The man had occupied the center of the dance floor for three songs in a row, dancing with the woman in the red dress. The woman Ray wanted tonight. People gave them as much room as they needed.

Are they together?
Ray watched them and decided they probably were not. She had been here since before the big guy arrived. They just happened to be two of the rare people in the club who could actually dance. They had found each other amid the masses whose dancing style amounted to bouncing inertly up and down or dry humping the drink in their hand.

Ray wouldn’t debase himself like the rest of the men out there. He held court from a booth set back from the dance floor, an expensive booth consisting of a plush, wrap-around bench behind a long table, served by its own waitresses. Women came to him
—they could just tell he was successful. Ray loved being rich and young enough to enjoy it.

The big man on the dance floor was the envy of every other man in the place. He had been dipping and twirling her, staring into her eyes, for ten long minutes now. What man there had the skills to cut in? For that matter, what man had the
cojones
? The dancer was about six-foot-five and looked to weigh a solid two-fifty.

The next song was a slow one. The pair smiled warmly at each other and separated. The man walked to the bar while the woman went the other direction, back to her girlfriends who waited for her at a table. The compliant crowd opened to let her pass. Ray scanned the club until he spotted the big guy. He was easy to find. He stood at the bar, sipping a drink. He seemed to be looking at nothing in particular. He was all alone. Ray got an idea and asked a waitress to fetch the man.

The man was even more physically impressive up close. He was nice looking, with a strong nose and jaw line, and blue eyes almost as light as water. His hair was closely cropped and had prematurely turned silver. Ray knew dye jobs and could tell it wasn’t dyed that way.

He wore a suit and tie, of all things, and politely introduced himself to Ray’s companions. Ray shooed the giddy crew out of the booth so that the man could sit in the middle next to Ray. Then they all piled back in. It was tight, but no one minded.

“People call me ‘Crash,’” the man said when Ray asked his name.

“OK, good to meet you, Crash. Dom Perignon?”

Ray spoke loudly and exaggerated his pronunciation to make himself understood over the pounding music. He indicated a magnum of champagne resting in a silver ice bucket by the table. The man had brought his own drink from the bar—it looked like a gin and tonic—but Ray wanted to be a good host.

Crash shook his head and smiled politely. “I like to stay sharp,” he said. His voice was effortlessly deep. Despite the din his words reached Ray’s ears as clearly as if they had been spoken in an empty theater.

“You were on fire out there,” Ray said, and smiled. People called Ray bold and brilliant rather than handsome. He had a weak chin and bags under his eyes that never went away, but when he smiled he looked happy. Ray and Crash watched the spectacle together for a moment. Then Ray stood up and exhorted the others in the booth.

“Looks like someone unloaded an Atlantic City tour bus out there,” he said, gesturing toward a large, boisterous group that had taken over the center of the dance floor. Several of his companions laughed or howled in agreement. “Why don’t you go out there and restore a little New York flavor?”

Ray’s friends left for the dance floor, leaving Ray and Crash alone. “I’m Ray,” he said, and extended his hand.

“I know,” Crash said.

“Really?”

“Sure, you run Vertigo Capital, don’t you? One of the ‘thirty moguls under thirty-five’?”

Crash was referring to a profile of Ray and other young business figures in a recent issue of a New York style magazine.

“Not anymore, I turned thirty-five last month,” Ray said with a grin. He was still getting used to people recognizing him. “Look, you and your friend down there were great, and I’d love to buy you both a drink. Do you think she’d like to join us?”

Crash smiled as if it were the most whimsical question he’d ever heard. “You mean Alicia?”

“Right, the woman you were dancing with.”

“Oh, sure, I can have her come up here. Do you mind if her friends come, too? She really seems to look out for her friends.”

Ray clasped his hands together i
n his lap. “That’s fine, that’s . . . great.”

“No problem. I just have a favor to ask first.”

“What is it?”

Crash leaned in toward Ray and dropped his voice to a hoarse, penetrating whisper. “Stay away from Liberty Industries.”

Confused, Ray studied the man’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you want to destroy them.”

Crash wrapped his large hand tightly around Ray’s wrist. Ray recoiled and looked at Crash with alarm. Ray looked around for his friends, but they were out bouncing on the dance floor.

“I don’t want to destroy Liberty,” Ray said cautiously. “I want to help them, their shareholders. Their stock’s been underperforming, I want to talk with them, I
—ow!”

Crash twisted Ray’s wrist sharply like he was revving a motorcycle, and Ray flinched at the feeling of a rug burn running under his skin, from his wrist to his shoulder. He flailed his legs under the table, but the table pinned him in and he didn’t get anywhere. Crash’s only reaction was to tighten his grip.

“You’re wrong about Liberty, Ray. They give jobs to thousands of people, they’re stewards of the environment. They do great things. Luke Hubbard is doing great things.”

Ray had met plenty of weirdoes in clubs. This guy definitely made the top five.
Probably on drugs
, Ray thought. Ray decided his best bet was to try to calm him down.

“I can see you’re passionate about the company,” Ray said, “but I have to take the interests of my investors to heart.”

“I’m trying to reason with you, Ray.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t let go of my wrist right now, I’ll scream.”

Crash released Ray’s wrist, and Ray’s body relaxed. But his relief was short-lived. Crash took Ray’s little finger, pinching it hard between his meaty thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. Ray’s finger felt like it was caught under the foot of a sofa. He kept his composure, but was growing concerned.

“I’m happy to have a discussion with you,” Ray said, “but I think you’re trying to intimidate me, and I won’t be intimidated.”

Crash flicked his wrist again, and Ray heard his finger snap out of joint. The pain took a moment to arrive and when it came, it came slowly, steadily rising in intensity like someone turning up the volume of a television. It kept rising, past the point when Ray was sure it could go no higher, until his hearing was dulled with the sensation of blood racing in circles inside his skull.

Crash’s deep voice penetrated the swirl of pain in Ray’s head. “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m correcting your behavior.”

“Who told you to threaten me?” Ray asked, panting. “Was it Hubbard?”

“Luke doesn’t tell me what to do, he doesn’t need to. I know when he’s in danger.”

Ray now had a very bad feeling about this guy. His stock trader’s instincts kicked in.
When you’re in a bad trade, get out of it.

“Fine,” Ray said. “As of now I’m done with Liberty. Just like you said.”

Ray’s surrender didn’t erase the cruelty in Crash’s face. “That’s good, but how do I know you’re not lying?”

“You’ve been very, um, persuasive, Mr. Crash. You have my word.”

“I’ll tell you how I know. I’ve been watching you, Ray. And I’ve watched your trips to the motel with that young woman who works for you.”

Ray came out of his fugue of pain to protest, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. And your wife will know, too, if I find out you’ve lied to me.”

“Look, I know how it looks, but those were business meetings and
—”

Crash tugged Ray’s finger half an inch. Tears flooded his eyes, and he felt like throwing up.

“See? You’re lying to me right now.”

Ray gasped in agony. “You win. Tell Hubbard he wins.”

Crash didn’t react.

“Please let me go,” Ray said. He looked at Crash with brimming eyes. Crash looked into Ray’s eyes, earnestly but not angrily. Finally Crash released his finger.

Ray fled from the booth, bruising his hip on the table edge as he scrambled to escape. His finger throbbed with pain as he ran to a security guard by the dance floor. He pointed frantically with his good hand back toward the booth.

But all that could be seen was the huge bottle of champagne.

“So, Mr. Pitcher, what exactly
is
your point?”

The judge’s stinging words still rang in Brad’s ears as he blinked in the midday sun outside the courthouse. Sheila walked next to him, seething in silence. All Brad wanted to do was run away and hide somewhere. But the granite courthouse steps were too widely spaced to take quickly, so he and Sheila were forced to descend slowly, deliberately, as if they were part of a wedding procession.

The hearing hadn’t gone well. The judge, a stooped, withered old bachelor, had given Luke and his lawyers virtually everything they asked for—Sheila would have to provide extensive information in the discovery process to Luke, and Luke would have to provide a laughably minimal level of disclosure.

Brad got tongue-tied every time he tried to speak. The judge was impatient and blunt, a cantankerous Boston transplant. Alan Matthews, Luke’s lawyer, had responded to every barbed question from the judge with smoothness and calm, almost indifference, as if he had written down his often lengthy extemporaneous answers beforehand. Brad had been unsettled by the judge and by his adversary’s reputation
—Brad stammered, he forgot Matthews’ name, he mixed up the holdings in two of the cases he discussed.

Brad didn’t understand it. He spoke in front of judges all the time
—he probably had twice the actual courtroom experience that Matthews had, even though Matthews was much older. And yet this boardroom backslapper had triumphed. Brad and Sheila were worse off than before, and they both knew it.

Off to the side, Brad spotted Grant Steele, the ambitious federal prosecutor, perched on the courthouse steps. Steele was surrounded by reporters and cameras. Brad couldn’t make out Steele’s words, but could hear his voice
—fluid, rising and falling in a cadence that drew Brad’s attention even from a distance. Steele was just finishing up, and one of the reporters spotted Luke coming down the steps with Matthews.

“Luke,” he called out
—not “Mr. Hubbard,” Brad noticed. Did Hubbard know the reporter, or was he addressed by his first name because he was a celebrity now?

Luke smiled warmly at the reporter, who now had several reporters and cameramen trailing him. Luke’s lawyer lifted his hand to them. “Nothing today, guys,” he said.

Then Brad saw Luke’s lawyer turn toward Brad and flash a smug smile as he stepped into a waiting car with Luke. That big-firm arrogance made Brad so angry. He had to do something. He called out to the reporters.

“Guys, I have an announcement in Luke Hubbard’s case.” A couple of reporters turned and looked at him quizzically. Sheila also looked at him quizzically. He started talking, and the clutch of cameras swung around toward him, their glossy lenses arrayed like the eyes of a giant spider.

“I’m Brad Pitcher. P-I-T-C-H-E-R. Mr. Pitcher. I represent Sheila Hubbard here in the divorce proceedings.”

Brad extended a hand stiffly to his side to indicate Sheila. She looked desperately from side to side, wanting to make an inconspicuous exit but terrified to leave Brad alone with the press.

“As you know, we had a hearing today,” he said. “We think the judge’s decisions were wrong in, um, logic and in law, and we look forward to complete vindication when all the facts are presented to the court.”

Sheila’s eyes looked as wide and round as ping pong balls. She dug her fingers into Brad’s forearm, but he kept going. He’d never given a press conference before, but this felt good, it felt just like speaking in court, and he did that all the time.

“Mr. Hubbard’s attempt to smear the name of Mrs. Hubbard and deprive her of the protections of California law is just par for the course for rich men who are used to getting their way. Well, he won’t get his way this time.”

Just when Brad felt pleased with the gathering rhythm of his speech, he was interrupted by questions.

“Brad, what additional facts will you present?” one of the reporters said.

“Well, first of all, his affairs,” Brad said.

“Petra P,” called out one of the reporters. Another one made a wolf whistle, and many of them laughed. Sheila, her mortification complete, stood with her hands at her side now, her eyes directed somewhere far away.

“Old news
—what else?” another reporter said.

Brad faced a dozen microphones now, and they pushed farther into Brad’s personal space, creeping closer with each moment that he stayed silent. He’d look like a fool in front of the entire city if he didn’t think of something to say.
I’ll be a fool on TV
, Brad thought, and then the words were out of his mouth before he even realized what he was saying.

“That kid of Petra’s
—he’s Luke’s kid.”

Gasps escaped from the group and cameras clicked. Brad shut his mouth and forced it into a smile.

“What’s your evidence?” one of the reporters said.

“The boy looks nothing like Luke,” said another.

“That’s all for today,” Brad said. He smiled desperately, then took Sheila’s arm and led her through the boisterous crowd of journalists and down the steps.

*
* *

Alex’s conversation with his uncle Hugh only whetted his appetite to find out more about the accident. Alex was sure that Hugh was right
—in
most
cases, these janitor’s insurance policies were completely innocent. Corporate tax planning, just like Hugh said. But the coincidence with Beto Capablanca was too tempting to ignore. In fact, Alex was more convinced than ever that the accident with Howard Cummings was actually a crime, because now he knew for sure that Liberty Industries had profited by the deaths of the employees in the van.

First thing: Alex needed to find Beto, and he remembered that Beto was hard to find when he didn’t want to be found. After that, Alex would have to get Beto to talk to him, and that could be even harder, since Alex had helped send Beto to prison years ago. And even if Alex succeeded, then what? Whoever at Liberty was ultimately behind the deaths was probably high up in the organization. Beto was a low-level mechanic and might not have any idea who was really pulling the strings.

Problem was, Alex himself also had no idea who pulled the strings at Liberty Industries. He needed help, from someone with the resources and motivation to take down Liberty Industries. That would definitely
not
be the police, since Detective Lutz had made it clear that he cared more about closing cases than finding the truth. But Alex knew who
could
help. He had caught a few minutes of the local television news, and it showed a young lawyer speaking from the courthouse steps—a funny-looking guy with red hair who was the divorce lawyer for the wife of Liberty’s CEO. The divorce was messy and, to judge from the wife’s facial expression on camera, Luke Hubbard had the upper hand.

The reporter helpfully repeated the name of the wife’s lawyer
—Brad Pitcher. To be that ugly and successful, Brad Pitcher must be smart, Alex reasoned. Pitcher would realize that he and Alex had a shared interest in finding out whether the auto accident was really a crime and whether Luke Hubbard was ultimately behind it. And with Hubbard’s fortune at stake in the divorce, Alex hoped Pitcher would be willing to bankroll an investigation.

Alex found Pitcher’s phone number on the internet and dialed it with excitement. The secretary was skeptical of Alex’s claim that he had important business to discuss, but Alex was persistent, and she eventually patched him through to Brad Pitcher.

But Pitcher wouldn’t even listen to Alex’s theory, let alone meet with him to discuss it.

“Too much to do here,” Pitcher said over the telephone in a garbled voice. It sounded as if he was eating lunch. “If you’ve got information, give me information. I’m not taking business proposals.”
Munch, munch, click.

Alex called back and left his number with Pitcher’s secretary in case Pitcher changed his mind, but Alex wasn’t hopeful.

Alex was disappointed, but he wasn’t discouraged, because he got another idea. He hadn’t forgotten about Zeke Andrews, his back-stabbing former colleague who penned the newspaper article that got Alex fired. Alex hadn’t forgotten, and he hadn’t forgiven. With all the damage Zeke had caused Alex, Zeke owed Alex a favor, and Alex had a favor that Zeke would actually
want
to do. When Zeke answered, Alex started the conversation in an annoyingly sing-song voice. “Zeke, it’s your old friend, Alex Fogarty.”

Zeke’s tone immediately turned wary. “Uh, hi, Alex. Look, I’d love to catch up but my boss is stalking the halls looking for five more reporters to lay off by Friday, and now’s really not a good time, OK?”

“Gosh, trouble at work? Me too. I’ve been fired!” Alex laughed loudly as if charmed by the coincidence. “No problem, though, bud, I’m calling on business.”

“Oh. Alex, if you’re calling about the Rampart story, I don’t think a follow-up will be possible. The editor has lost interest.”

A follow-up?
Alex thought.
How about, “I’m sorry I got you fired, Alex”? What a selfish prick.

“Zeke, Zeke. You forget how well I know you. I don’t expect you to correct your mistakes, or even admit them.” Alex waited a beat, then continued. “I’m calling with the story that’s going to save your job. I’m sure you remember that big accident around Christmas? Eight dead?”

“Of course,” Zeke said. “We talked about it.”

“Well, I didn’t tell you everything. You got a pen?” Alex told Zeke about Jorge Ramirez, the scam artist who had been killed in the accident. Coincidence number one, Alex called it. He summarized the “janitor’s insurance.” Coincidence number two. The third coincidence, that veteran scam artist Rigoberto Capablanca also worked for Liberty, was one that Alex decided to continue keeping to himself. If Beto’s name showed up in the paper, Beto would make himself not just hard to find, but impossible to find.

“Add it up,” Alex said, “and there’s something rotten here, and chances are the rot goes deep into the organization.”

“Intriguing
 . . . What are Liberty’s annual revenues?”

“I have no idea,” Alex said.

“What I mean is, two million’s a lot to you and me, but it’s nothing to a company like that,” Zeke said.

Alex rolled his eyes. He felt like he was talking to Uncle Hugh again. “Look, Zeke, what would you say if you learned that your boss had taken out an insurance policy on your life?”

Zeke laughed. “I’d stop reporting on any stories involving wildfires, wild animals or wild women.”

“And did I mention that Rampart also cancelled their liability policy on the poor sucker at the back of the crash?” Alex said. “Bullshit technicality, but they left his widow high and dry. She’ll probably lose her house.” Alex paused to let the information sink in. “Unless, of course, someone proves that her late husband didn’t cause the crash. Think any of this could rekindle your editor’s interest?”

Zeke said nothing. It sounded like he was sucking on a lozenge. Probably one of those nicotine substitutes, Alex thought.

“It’d be impossible,” Zeke said eventually. “Liberty Industries is a huge advertiser with
The Chronicle
. Without their ad spending, the paper would be in trouble.”

Alex groaned. “
The Chronicle
is already in trouble.”

“Anyway,” Zeke said, “even if my editor signed off, the C-Suite would go apeshit. He and I both would be fired.”

“Zeke, Zeke, you’re thinking too small,” Alex said. “One of these days you’re going to get fired from
The Chronicle
—”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Zeke said.

“—and the sooner, the better. It’s a sinking ship, Zeke. You don’t need to save your crappy job, you need to make a reputation that can get you into another, more solvent paper.”

Zeke chortled. “If there are any.”

That was as close to acquiescence as would ever pass from Zeke’s lips.

“Anyway,” Alex said. “You’re a reporter. So go report.”

Alex offered to fax the life insurance policies to Zeke, and Zeke gave a non-committal response about looking at them. Alex figured there was a fifty percent chance that Zeke would actually follow up on the story, but Alex didn’t know who else to call. He turned the television back on and started flipping channels. He needed to relax for a while before he started looking for Beto.

Alex paused when he turned to a press conference given by a man in a suit. Alex quickly recognized the man as Grant Steele, a federal prosecutor who always seemed to be on television. Steele looked to be in his late thirties, was handsome and not fat, and wore his thick dark hair combed back from his forehead.

“It is . . . the most pernicious betrayal . . . of the public trust,” Steele said.

The television camera showed a close-up of Steele’s face. Even when he used the same clichés that everyone else in the media did, he filled them with drama. Alex couldn’t turn away.

“They’ve placed money over country . . . self over community . . . lies over truth.”

What is it already?
Alex thought.
What’s the crime?

“The defendants will say that
they
are the victims—not you and I, they . . . are the victims . . . of their own poor record keeping. But I say that contracting with the government is a privilege, a sacred trust. I say . . . government contractors should be above suspicion.”