The Fives Run North-South (8 page)

8

“S
o let me get this straight,” said Curtis Viniteri.

We were sitting in my office. Curtis arrived just over an hour after I called him, modeling the efficiency I’d noted when we’d used him for the worker’s comp case. I hadn’t met him then, but had heard about his activities through Perry. As I watched him assemble the pieces of our conversation in his head, I studied him from the other side of my desk. As invisible a guy as you’d ever meet, which I’m sure made him effective in his line of work. Wearing an untucked blue polo shirt over bland jeans, sporting enough facial hair to hide his jawline, but not enough to be considered bearded. Brown eyes. Thin black and gray hair. Maybe five foot ten. No jewelry, not even a watch. Little wasted movement except for an occasional bounce in his left leg, as if he had to periodically expel some stored energy. His facial movements were void of expression, and his voice was monotone.

Vanilla man.

“Go ahead,” I prompted.

“The initial incident was caused by him pulling out in front of you. Your reaction was simply laying on the horn. How long?”

“Pardon me?”

“How long did you lay on the horn? Was it an extended sounding or simply a
one
-
second
beep?”

“Closer to the
one
-
second
variety.”

“Odd. You didn’t flip him off, flash lights or anything?”

“Nope.”

Slight shake of his leg and nod. “Interesting. Seems he overreacted just a tad.”

“My thoughts, too.”

“And to take it as far as vandalizing your home. Following you to work to vandalize your car, and then
break
-
and
-
enter
your house…seems…excessive.”

I nodded. “You probably think there’s something I’m not telling you,” I said. Same reason I’d avoided involving the police.

“In my experience, stuff like this usually ends up being based on a current or past relationship.”

“I know. It’s beyond me, too. And frankly, I can’t say with any certainty that the driver of the red SUV is actually behind these other incidents. It just feels that way and explains the timing.” I sat back and crossed my arms. It was obvious to me that I’d vocalized what he was thinking. His narrow smile confirmed it.

“Are you ready for the tough questions?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stuff like is it possible your wife’s having an affair?”

“What’s that have to do with this?” I asked.

“It’s a tough question. But I need to run through the stuff
that
—
based
on my
experience
—
is
typically behind these types of activities. Look, random acts of crap happen all the time, but they’re far outnumbered by
in
-
family
spats and friendships gone wrong. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but let’s cross off the easy stuff so I can best attack your primary theory.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s not having an affair. Next question?”

“Have you fired anyone lately?”

“Define ‘lately.’”

“In the last year.”

“I’m sure we have. Me, personally, no.”

“Can I get a list of those who have been fired from the company?” Viniteri asked.

“Of course.”

“Are you having an affair?”

“No.”

“Have you ever?”

“Does it matter?”

“If she had a husband, it really does.” Slight knee bounce.

“Then we’ll go with ‘no.’” I said.

He nodded.

“Did you keep the beer can?” he asked.

“From last night?”

“That’s the one.”

“I tossed it in the trash.”

“When you go home, carefully remove it from the trash. Pick it up wearing gloves, touching only the top and bottom edge. Put it in a baggie and bring it to me.”

“Prints?”

“Yes.”

“Are you done with the questions?” I asked, looking at my watch.

“Nope. But for now, yes.” He stood up. “Assuming you’re hiring me, I’m going to monitor you for a couple days. Your home, this office, or just follow you around. If this guy is stalking you, I should be able to catch it. Then I can go to work on figuring out who he is, and see where it goes from there. If we don’t trip over him in the next few days, let’s meet again and think on plan B.”

I stayed seated. Staring him down, I said: “You still have your doubts about this, don’t you?”

“I’ve found I do a better job when I remain open to possibilities.”

“I can live with that.”

He started to leave then stopped. Turning to me, he asked: “How are things going here? I mean, would you describe it as more or less stressful than usual?”

“Okay, Columbo,” I said, laughing slightly. “Perhaps higher stress than usual.”

He nodded. “Thought so,” he said before turning down the hallway toward the exit.

I liked him. My instincts felt aligned. And even though nothing had really been accomplished, I felt that the whole annoying mess was essentially over with. My ability to compartmentalize had always served me well, but this was more than
that
—
I
felt the relief of finality.

Now on to the matter of Kyle Thomas.

I had a conference call with Chester set up to begin in five minutes. Enough time to grab a cold bottle of water from the break room and to check the written messages that had stacked up during my meeting with Viniteri. There were five waiting for me. Most were nothing of importance, but my vision tunneled on the bottom one. It was from Chester. It said simply: Can’t make our call. Must reschedule.

I walked over to my executive assistant’s desk and flashed the note in her face.

“I assume you took this note, Joanne?”

“Yes, Mr. Mann.”

“Did Chester call from a mobile phone or land line? Could you tell?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a mobile.”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Sure,” she said. Joanne’s a
top
-
shelf
assistant. I hoped that she’d stay longer than a few years. It was a joke in the office how frequently I turned over assistants. All for different, fairly legitimate reasons, though the running joke was that I was difficult to work for. Most knew that wasn’t true.

“Can I make a call on your cell phone? You can turn in your bill this month as a
trade
-
off
.”

Her eyes widened. “Sure. You calling Russia or something?”

“No. Just someone who probably wouldn’t pick up if he recognized the number.”

She nodded, glad to be part of a small conspiracy. Fairly common trait among good assistants.

I took her phone into my office, shut the door, and dialed.

After four rings, I was sure my call was heading for voice mail. Then, with a certain hesitancy in his greeting, I heard Chester.

“Hello?”

I pictured him just prior to answering, looking at the strange phone number on his readout, big eyebrows crunched in a failed effort to recognize it.

“Hey, Chester, what’s up?”

Silence. I could almost hear the eyebrows wriggling.

“Adam?”

“That’s me. Sounds like you have a minute to talk, hey?”

“Um….uh…well, not really, I’m…I’m…”

“Don’t herniate yourself trying to come up with something. Have a seat, let’s talk. It won’t take but a moment. You’re not driving are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“How’s your son?” he asked, his voice steadying surprisingly quickly.

“He’ll be fine. It’ll take a few months, but he’ll have full use of the hand again. Thanks for asking.” I sat down, stretching out my legs in an effort to relax. “Look,” I said. “We never got to finish our conversation. And we need to.”

“I know,” he said. “But this isn’t a good time.”

“Okay. When?”

“Soon. You’re putting me in a tough position. Beating me up for eating dinner with Kyle. We’re friends, always have been. I want it to stay that way, I truly do.”

“Seems that’s up to you right now,” I said. “And as a friend, it’s time for you to remember where you keep your balls and tell me: Is Kyle’s effort to explore a change of leadership gaining traction? And if so, are you part of it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, Chester. I think it really is that fucking simple.”

“I have to go.” The slight waver was seeping back into his voice. Chester didn’t like foul language.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You want to go, but you certainly don’t have to go. And if you think you can duck out on me, you’re way off base. You owe me a hell of a lot more than you’re showing. At the very least you owe me a simple explanation.”

Silence.

“Chester!”

“I’m here.”

“I’m waiting.”

Silence.

“Still waiting,” I said. In my head, I saw the perspiration soaking through Chester’s shirt, drops forming on his forehead, sliding into those bushy brows.

“Kyle has West Jefferson.”

Shit.

West Jefferson. A venture capital firm that we’d danced with last year in an exploratory exercise to expand into Europe.

“And?” I prodded.

“Looks good. But comes with certain conditions,” Chester said.

Conditions.

Or maybe just one: change of CEO.

This was farther along than I’d expected, and likely involved more than Kyle. I was in danger of losing my company.

I was the last to leave the office building that night. As always, the day ended with my head still crammed with details, conversations, and the remnants of the last ten hours spinning like a blender inside my skull. I barely took note of my surroundings as I made mental charts and started assembling my
to
-
do
list for the next morning. I often resent the end of the day, I’m so eager to continue with the business at hand. Eventually I’m able to shut down and take a breath to make whatever I can out of my evening at home. Whether it’s from a glass of wine, an interesting story on TV, or some other sharp distraction, I eventually shift out of work mode. It happened quickly that night, as I strolled out in darkness of the parking lot. The silence of the area surrounding the building soaked into my head, quickly dampening the voices that had been circulating. Like waking up from a dream, I was alert and aware. I was rudely reminded of pesky recent events. I had to wonder if another small surprise could be waiting for me in the dark, silent, and empty parking area. Then I remembered Curtis Viniteri. Could he be in range, watching? Honestly, I don’t know if that made me feel more or less comfortable. I really didn’t have
time
—
or
mental
energy
—
to
deal with anything other than my company right now. My resentment toward that bothersom red SUV guy was intensifying.

Man, it’d be good to maybe take out my frustrations on that asshole.

I approached my car and saw no sign of disturbance.

After stopping by a burger joint for a
take
-
home
, I pulled up to the house and again saw no sign of anything
off
-
kilter
. I had a strange thought: What if nothing else happened in the chain of events with the red SUV guy? Or if it really had been a series of coincidences having nothing to do with that driver? While on the surface, that seemed a preferred outcome, I was hit by how embarrassed I’d be. The perception of overreaction…not a personality trait I wanted affixed to me, even if only by a private investigator I’d probably never meet again. So I realized that some part of me was hoping for another incident, simply to preserve my image as an intelligent, stable, and reasonable person.

Damn. How odd.