The Violet Crow (23 page)

Chapter 46

“This ink is red,” scowled Fischer. He had a pained look on his face. The CEO was meeting with Jurevicius and NewGarden's Investor Relations Director, Joli Nathan, to plan for the annual meeting that was now only three weeks away. He had just seen the printer's dummy for the new annual report for the first time.

“It's not really red. It's orange,” Joli insisted, her face turning a definite shade of red due to the stress of the argument, which had been going on for some time now. An experienced professional in her late 30s, she had been at NewGarden for four years and felt a bit proprietary about the annual report. She was willing to acknowledge the CEO's expertise in matters of science, and his authority when it came to business. But he had no formal training in design; that was her specialty and he ought to listen to her, she felt.

“Orange, my ass!” fumed Fischer. “Do you think I don't know the difference between red and orange? Is there anybody who doesn't know? It's not a matter of opinion.”

Joli was starting to hyperventilate. “The graphic designer says it's orange,” she panted.

“You mean that gangly freak with the weird glasses and hair goop?”

Offended, she supplied the name: “That's Ted. Ted Manson. He did our report last year too.”

“The origami Rubik's Cube that nobody could figure out how to put back together?”

“It won all kinds of design awards.”

“The board hated it. And they're going to hate this one too. You never use red ink in a financial report. It has extremely negative connotations: You know, red ink. Losing money. Bad business. In the red. Bleeding red ink. Everybody knows this. I can't believe we're using red on the cover of this report!”

Jurevicius finally entered the conversation. “It's a moot point, Manny. The report is already printed. It'd cost us, how much …?” He looked at Joli and she supplied the missing number: $25,000.

“It'd cost us 25,000 bucks to pull it now,” Jurevicius resumed. “Maybe 30,000. And we'd miss our mailing deadline. That'd put us out of compliance, unless we postpone the meeting, which we simply cannot do.”

Joli looked at Jurevicius with gratitude, though she wondered why he'd waited so long to come to her rescue.

“How did this happen?” Fischer grimaced.

“I approved it, Manny,” Jurevicius replied tersely. “Maybe it's because I'm European; our semiotics are … different than yours. We are not afraid to use red. It is a bold color. It has a wide range of associations besides losing money.”

“Such as?”

“Everything from Bauhaus to Louis Quatorze. The Duke of Wellington's jacket and the fabulous reds of Burgundy …”

“Don't forget Stalin's Red Army and the color of blood,” Fischer interrupted angrily.

“Manny, Manny. That's a cheap shot. Nobody really notices these things. Nobody really cares. They'll look at the financials, not the cover.”

“And those aren't great, either,” Fischer continued. “I wanted to take a lower profile in this report. Yet you've splashed my picture all over the place. My face takes up an entire page.”

“You're the founder, Manny. You're the CEO.”

Fischer turned beet red. “Serge, you know damn well you and your investors are calling the shots and you have been for the last …”

“Manny, do we have to do this in front of Joli?” Jurevicius asked in a coldly formal tone. Joli glanced over to see if he wanted her to leave, but a discreet signal from Jurevicius told her to stay.

“I don't care who hears,” said Fischer. He was screaming now at full volume. “It should be public information. I may be the CEO, but your group's running the show here. You should take accountability for the results. Look at the Letter to Shareholders. Nothing about medical research. Not a damn thing. It's all about Ag. But I've made a commitment …”

—“Ag pays the bills. As you well know.”

“Well when I speak at the meeting I'm talking about medical …”

—“It's irrelevant and it confuses the shareholders …”

“Dammit, I made a commitment!”

“… and upsets our institutional investors.”

“Serge, I promised.”

Jurevicius eyed him coldly. “Things have changed since then. My backers won't permit it. End of story.” He turned to Joli, indicating that all of Fischer's issues had been addressed—and dismissed. “You should know that there may be protesters again. Security will be in place if needed, so you can focus all your attention on the meeting.”

She nodded. His confidence was contagious. Everything would be handled.

Jurevicius regarded the brooding Fischer and smiled broadly. “Cheer up, Manny. You'll be happy to know my backers have authorized French champagne. A special bottling with our logo etched in the glass. And there'll be other surprises, too. It should be a memorable meeting.”

Chapter 47

Alison's parents lived in a restored Victorian on Washington Avenue. Rebecca Wales invited Chief Black and Bruno into a room she called the parlor, which was furnished with overstuffed chairs, Oriental rugs, ornate lamps with poufy shades, and other Victorian-style bric-a-brac.

Her physical resemblance to Alison was striking. Rebecca's jet-black hair had turned white but she wore it in a loose ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She was plump, but her face was unlined and she had a steady, confident gaze.

“I'm so proud of Alison,” she announced, her voice quivering slightly, looking up at the grandfather clock. “She's her own person. Passionate. Determined. She marches to the beat of her own drummer.”

“Er, Mrs. Wales.” The Chief was growing impatient. “Do you know where she might be right now?”

“Heavens no. I'm not that kind of parent. I never intrude. Herbert, my husband, teaches over at the university. His office is right around the corner from her dormitory. But he never, never pries. How she lives her life is her business. We're so proud of her.”

“You know, Mrs. Wales, her boyfriend …”

“Yes of course I know about Icky. The poor boy.”

“Alison could have easily been with him when the fire started. We assume she's alive because of the absence of evidence otherwise … It would be nice to confirm it with positive evidence. We would like to speak with her. Have you spoken with her?”

“No. Not for a week or so. No, I haven't.”

“You're not worried about her?”

“Of course I'm upset by the situation. What kind of mother, what kind of person wouldn't be? But I know Alison's fine. She wouldn't get caught in a fire like that. It's not in her character. You see, she's not into drugs. She always left the room when that kind of thing was happening. She's very committed to her studies and other causes. She loved Icky, but they are very different in many ways. Their relationship didn't stop her from going away to college.”

“So you have no idea where she is right now?”

“I assume she's at school, where she's supposed to be. It's not unusual for her to spend days on end in the library and for me not to be able to get a hold of her in her dorm room.”

“You read my mind. We haven't had any luck tracking her down at school. What about your husband? When is he due home this evening?”

“Perhaps not until late. He's involved in a very demanding project. Interdisciplinary research with tremendous potential …”

The Chief had to interrupt her again. “Please, Mrs. Wales. If you don't mind, it would help us tremendously if you could provide a good, recent photograph of Alison.”

She scurried off and they could hear the sound of her rummaging through drawers. Finally she returned with a framed photograph that she handed to the Chief. “I thought I had something more recent, but you couldn't really see her in any of those. This is a very good photo, however, and it's my favorite. It's from her performance in
The Miracle Worker
in the school play, junior year. Please take good care of it. I'll need it back when you're done with it.”

“We'll take a scan of it and send it back right away,” the Chief promised. “And Mrs. Wales?” He caught her eye to make sure she was paying attention. “Be sure to call us if you hear anything.”

They remained silent until they were back in the police car. Then Chief Black sighed and shook his head. “Denial.”

“What?”

“Denial,” the Chief repeated. “It's one of the stages of grieving.”

“I've heard of that, but I can never remember what they are.”

“Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. We're trained to go through this process every time when dealing with the families of victims.”

“Really? It goes that way every time?”

“Hard to say. Take Mrs. Wales. Far as I can tell, she's in a permanent state of denial. It's not just Icky. Or Alison. She's in denial about everything. The world. People. Reality. Evil. Whatever you want to call it, she's not aware of it. That's why her face is so pure and unlined.”

Bruno thought about it for a while. “You know those stages? I just realized those are just like my bar mitzvah, except backwards.”

The Chief stared at Bruno, wondering if Rebecca Wales' goofiness might be contagious. “When we were sending out the invitations,” Bruno continued, “my parents were fighting about whether or not we should invite my Uncle Dave and his family. Everyone hated them, but my father felt we better invite them anyway. He said he was worried about what his mother would have said, if she had still been alive and found out he didn't invite his own brother to his son's bar mitzvah.

“None of that made any difference to my mother, but he convinced her by saying, ‘We should go ahead and invite them; they probably won't come, they live so far away.' But he was wrong. We invited them and they came, all the way from Schenectady. So that was
acceptance
.”

Bruno was picking up momentum. “Naturally, we were all
depressed
. That's when the
bargaining
started. My mother figured we could put them at a table in the corner, where they wouldn't bother anyone. My father had to relent, since he'd been wrong about them coming in the first place. But when they saw where we'd put them, they made a big stink. Everybody was
angry
. They left early and took all the cold cuts. Even before the rest of the guests had finished eating.

“My parents are still fighting about it to this day. My father says it's my mother's fault. She
denies
it. She says it's all his fault. He
denies
it.”

The Chief shook his head. Maybe everyone was on crank. Maybe the whole town had inhaled it via the fumes from the explosion. “That's amazing,” he commented. “Your family sounds really messed up. Or did you just make all that up? I hope you did.”

“It's mostly true, I guess,” Bruno replied. “I never really thought of us as messed up before, but now that you mention it …” He lapsed into a visible pout and then, suddenly, brightened: “I wonder if Dora's family is like that?”

“What does Dora have to do with anything?”

“Dora Goldstein? Has to be Jewish. Have you asked her?”

“No.”

“You better find out right away. Have you ever dated a Jewish woman before?”

“No. And Dora's been busy. The EPA's threatening to sue her for draining the pond. They're giving her 30 days to restore the habitat, which is no big deal, but then there's the paperwork.”

“No way she's a
shiksa
. I need to explain a few things to you as soon as possible …”

—“No time for that right now,” the Chief said. He handed Bruno the photograph that Rebecca Wales had supplied. “Whoever we're up against is smart, resourceful, and ruthless. We need to focus, and you need to be at the top of your game.”

The Chief put the cruiser in gear, and Bruno began a careful study of the picture. “They've been one step ahead of us the entire time,” the Chief continued. “I think that bomb was meant for Alison. Somehow she escaped. Hopefully she's still OK. We have to find her right away. What do you think? Can you get anything from this picture?”

Bruno frowned. “She has her eyes closed. I guess if you're playing Helen Keller, you might do it with your eyes closed. I can accept that. But for her mother to say it's her favorite picture—that's just ridiculous. Pathetic, really. I need something straightforward where she's looking right into the camera.”

“I was afraid of that.” The Chief turned the Crown Vic up the hill onto Tavistock Lane. “Maybe we'll have better luck at Icky's. Besides, I'm curious to talk to Dr. Murphy.”

Chapter 48

Icky's father could not have been less like his son. Dr. Murphy was dark-haired, tall, and energetic—without the use of drugs. Bald on top, he wore his hair close-cropped and cultivated a moustache, with reading glasses low on his nose and a polka dot bow tie.

He was clearly angry. In fact, Dr. Murphy had been angry ever since Icky had shown a lack of interest and aptitude for sports at the age of eight; a fair amount of his rage was directed toward Chief Black, who had been the coach who cut Icky from his first Little League baseball team. He didn't bother to try to hide his hostility as he answered the front door. “Fantastic. You're here with that charlatan. I can assure you I've been answering questions all morning. I'm in no mood to be pestered with nonsense.”

“Wouldn't dream of bothering you at a time like this if it weren't important,” said Chief Black.

“I need to get back to my patients. At least I can help them. Some of them even listen to me.”

“Icky had a wild streak,” the Chief remarked sympathetically.

“Yes, he did. He got that from me. But he didn't get my sense of direction. Instead he got his mother's preference for living in the moment. A bad combination. But it all would have come right if he hadn't got tangled up with that slut.”