The CEO Came DOA (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 5) Page 2

  “Yes, please do, dear. And try to stay calm.”

  “I’m calm. Why wouldn’t I be calm? I’m calm.”

  “You don’t sound calm.”

  “But I am,” I said through gritted teeth. “Bye, Mom.”

  I went back to the door and stood sentinel at the only way in or out of the conference room.

  Silicon Valley is a mindset, not a location.

  Reid Hoffman

  Chapter Two

  “So what happened?” Detective José Garcia looked at me, his writing pad and pen poised to ensnare my every word. Like his chief of police and a lot of people in this area, he was of Portuguese descent. In most Latin countries, the name José Garcia is akin to being named John Smith. You know there are people out there with the handle, but you rarely meet one. When you do, it’s hard not to say, ‘hey, do you know you’ve got one of the most common names in the world?’

  But I couldn’t say that to this guy, not even as an icebreaker. José Garcia was around my age, one tough cop, and didn’t care much for PIs. Sometimes I liked to give him reason. I scowled before answering his question.

  “Weren’t you paying attention? I must have told you five times,” I said.

  “Tell me again.”

  “You know, I already gave my statement and signed off on it.”

  “Tell. Me. Again.” Garcia leaned in and managed to hiss the three words, even though there wasn’t one ‘s’ in any of them. He also had bad breath, but I told him again.

  “Read-Out hired D. I. to investigate recent attempts to sabotage their IPO. It’s scheduled for next month.” I looked at my watch. “It’s nearly seven o’clock. When can I get some coffee?”

  “Who hired you specifically?” He jumped in with the question as if he might trap me into giving a wrong answer.

  “Our contract was with Rameen Patel. He’s the CFO. He hired us on behalf of himself and the board members. The contract is on file, if you want to see it.”

  “Oh, I’ll want to see it.” His voice held a challenge tinged with contempt.

  “Fine.” I shrugged. “Have your people call my people and we’ll send you a copy.”

  “I’ll want the original.”

  “The original it is.”

  It really was too early in the morning to have a schoolyard brawl with someone, so I was compliant, even agreeable. It threw him, I could tell. In a less combative tone he went on.

  “What were you doing here at five-thirty in the morning?”

  “For the past week I’ve been here under the pretext of being Rameen Patel’s new personal assistant, so let’s not blow my cover unless absolutely necessary. Every day the guard lets me in before anyone else arrives. I have access to the mainframe, personnel passwords, and product codes for all the computers. First thing in the morning is when I go through employees’ computers; when no one is here. Right now I’m dealing with emails for the past nine-months. There are thousands of them.”

  Garcia shook his head. “What a job.”

  He let out a laugh. So did I.

  “You’re not kidding. Boring takes on a new meaning.”

  His demeanor changed instantly. No more cordial, nice guy. Not that he ever was.

  “Well, don’t think you’re going to spice things up by involving yourself in this suicide. I’ve heard about you. I’m the detective here.”

  “Garcia, it’s all yours,” I said, deciding not to take umbrage to the ‘I’m the detective’ crack. “Collier happened to be hanging around in a room I walked into.” I thought for a moment. “I could have phrased that better. Let me just say, I’ve never been introduced to the man. Besides, I’m getting married soon. I’ve got so much going on, I’m happy not to be involved in this.”

  He warmed up somewhat. “That’s right. You’re marrying that CPA guy with the strange first name. Gash or something, right?”

  “Gurn,” said an authoritative voice over my shoulder.

  We both turned to see Chief Frank Thompson coming up from behind, dark skin glowing, a crease in the pants of his uniform you could slice a loaf of bread on. He was handsome in a Denzel-Washington’s-Other-Brother-Only-I’m-Tougher sort of way. He deigned to cast us both a half smile before he spoke again. Frank has this authority thing down, even though he officially has none in Sunnyvale.

  “His name is Gurn Hanson. Good morning, Garcia. Be sure to thank Chief Broas for allowing me to watch from the sidelines. There’s going to be hell to pay back in Palo Alto.”

  He stuck out his hand to shake Detective Garcia’s. Garcia took his hand eagerly with an instant smile.

  “Our pleasure, Chief Thompson.” Garcia’s demeanor switched from aggressive to pleasant. There’s something to be said for the effect of a well-ironed uniform. Garcia slathered it on a little more. “We always cooperate with other townships when we can.”

  Frank nodded. “As do we. You about done here?”

  “Yes sir, just wrapping things up, Chief. I’ll go see what forensics has.” With an almost subservient gesture, he turned and left.

  “He’s one for the books, Frank.”

  Frank watched him stride across the room with a thoughtful gaze. “Take it easy on him, Lee. José just lost his wife in a car accident. He only wants to do a good job.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I was surprised, feeling a surge of remorse for being combative with Garcia, if only in my mind. “I mean about his wife. I assumed he wanted to do a good job.”

  Frank moved away toward a corner of the room. I followed. He wheeled on me, black eyes sparkling with intelligence. Then he glanced back at the room filled with men and women who specialized in death.

  “I’ve worked with most of these people. They’re a good group. Whatever happened, they’ll know in a matter of days if not hours. Did I hear you say you were working undercover?”

  His change in subject didn’t surprise me. I merely nodded. He went on.

  “I thought you were getting married. At least that’s what the invite says. Doesn’t that take a lot of planning, especially for one as grand as your wedding is going to be?”

  I groaned before answering. “Mom’s running the show, Frank. She’s doing everything. My job is to show up Christmas Eve dressed in white.”

  “I thought as much when I heard some of the details.”

  “She feels I cheated her out of a big wedding when I eloped the first time way back when. Then Richard and Vicki went to Vegas and got married one weekend when she wasn’t looking. This time she wants to have the wedding of her dreams.”

  “What about the wedding of your dreams?”

  My godfather looked at me with a half-cocked smile. When it came to my mother, I was known to bark, roll over, and play dead.

  “I’m fine with it. Truly.”

  I’d stuttered on the word ‘truly’. I made an attempt to keep my voice bright and chirpy. I came across like a parakeet on steroids.

  “I’ve got a really pretty dress, white velvet; down to the floor. And a veil that’s about sixty-yards long. The bridesmaids’ gowns are lovely and Christmas-y. Dark green or crimson velvet, they got to pick. Not like the usual carnival sideshow I’ve often had to wear, myself.”

  “So Faith tells me.”

  Faith was his only child, two years my senior, and a practicing pediatrician at Stanford Hospital. She’d been invited, along with much of the female population in Palo Alto under age fifty, to be one of my bridesmaids. I now had ten of them, plus my matron of honor. At the rate Mom was going, there wouldn’t be room for me at the altar when it was my turn to march down the aisle.

  Frank looked at me and I looked at Frank. His tone was even but the words firm.

  “You might want to slow Lila down or your wedding just might show up in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.”

  I didn’t answer, but let out a gurgle. I often roll over and play dead with Frank, too. He and Mom have had a long and uneasy alliance. Before Dad’s death three years previous, Frank had been my father’s best frie
nd. He was also godfather to my kid brother, Richard, as well as me. But Frank and Mom were like oil and water, adding an occasional lit match for good measure.

  Without saying so, Frank and I mutually decided to change the subject. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  “Any suspicions as to why one of the richest men in the world, who seemingly had everything, would kill himself, Lee? You’ve been working here. What is the word around the water cooler?”

  “Water cooler gossip has said very little about him, Frank.” I thought for a moment. “And when you can get somebody to say anything, he’s referred to as either a god or a demigod. It’s almost as if saying anything negative is blasphemy.”

  “Interesting. I didn’t even know he was in town. Last I heard, he was in Switzerland.”

  Before I could answer, there was a commotion in the center of the room and we both turned to watch the coroners’ people lowering the body onto a gurney. After a moment, Frank pushed again.

  “So what do you think, Lee? You got a guess as to why he would do this?”

  I shrugged in a noncommittal way. “Maybe he got bad news from his doctor. Cancer; something like that.”

  “Maybe. They called his doctor for the files a few minutes ago. We’ll know soon.” He scanned my face. “What?”

  “There is something --”

  “I thought so.”

  “But it may have nothing to do with this. I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s go get some coffee.”

  Frank shifted his weight and looked around him, as well. “Okay, why don’t we—“

  He was cut off by a high-pitched screech.

  “Daddy! Dad-eeeeeeeee!’ The voice sounded like it belonged to a distraught teenage girl. It had an effect on everyone within earshot. They froze in place, heads swiveling toward the lamentable cries at the door.

  A rail thin but tall girl, clad in a dull, grey dress and wearing platform sandals over thigh-high socks, tried to force her way inside. Arms and legs flailing like a colt caught under a fence, she tried to push through the two officers who held their ground.

  I recognized D. H. Collier’s fourteen-year old daughter, Skye, from the photo on his desk. She was also the daughter of Sharise, although the performer kept a low profile on it. As far as I knew, the kid had lived with her father since birth.

  “Let me through. Let me see him. Daddy!” The girl screamed as strongly as she fought. For as featherweight as she looked, Skye Collier was giving the two uniformed men a run for their money.

  A woman about my age came up behind the girl and tried to pull her off the officers, speaking in a soothing, contralto voice all the while.

  “Skye, honey, stop. Stop this. You can’t see him now. Come on. Come with me. There’s a good girl.”

  “Katie, they won’t let me see him,” Skye wailed. “It’s not true, is it? Daddy can’t be dead. No.”

  “Shhh, honey. Come on with me. Let’s go home and have a lie down. We’ll talk about this on the way home.”

  “But it isn’t him! It can’t be.”

  “It is, Skye.” The nanny’s voice trembled, but was firm.

  Skye shook her head. “No, he’s still in Switzerland. He can’t be back in Palo Alto and dead. That can’t be true. Say it’s not true.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Katie, pulling the girl close to her in an embrace. “You shouldn’t have asked Marty to drive you here. His job was to pick you up from school and bring you home, not here. How the reporters got hold of --”

  “But I had to see.” Skye’s interruption was loud and high pitched. “I had to…”

  The girl broke off and looked around the room. Met with stares and silence, her fierceness dissipated. Skye leaned against the short but solid woman and sobbed uncontrollably, long brown hair covering most of her face.

  Frank turned to me, speaking in a whisper. “That’s her nanny, Katie Hall. She’s been with her since the kid was born.”

  “How do you know that, Frank?”

  He looked at me sheepishly. “Oh, I hear things.”

  “Tales of the Rich and Famous?” I threw in the wildly popular TV show.

  Before I could say more, the now-compliant girl paused in the doorway and looked in our direction. Her honey-brown eyes caught mine and the intensity in them took my breath away. When she spoke, her voice sounded as old and as knowing as the Sphinx.

  “He didn’t do this. I don’t care what they say. He would never kill himself.” Skye Collier looked squarely at me. “Don’t let them say daddy killed himself. Please.” She burst into sobs again and was led away by her nanny.

  I watched them leave then shuddered. Frank leaned his head toward the walkie-talkie resting on his right shoulder then pressed a button with his fingertip.

  “Yamaguchi, you there?” There was an inaudible reply. “Collier’s daughter and her nanny are leaving now. Make sure the press doesn’t bother them or follow them home. Stay there until you hear from me.”

  There was another inaudible reply, but Frank seemed to understand it. Finished, he turned his attention back to me. I shuddered again.

  “You cold?” He ran a soothing hand over my shoulders.

  “Did you hear that?” My voice was hardly more than a croak. “She was talking to me.”

  “Chalk it up to what’s happened.” He scrutinized my face. “Hey, you need to sit down. Let’s get you that coffee.”

  Frank pushed me out the door and down the main hallway. We entered the large Community Room, more or less the heart of the workers’ life here.

  Three of the four walls were each painted a vibrant color; bright yellow, cobalt blue or lime green. The fourth wall was a stark white in front of which stood the anything-you-want-for-free cafeteria, one of the perks for working at Read-Out.

  A chrome serving bar ran the length of the cafeteria, separating it from the rest of the humongous room. Stacked trays and utensils were on either side of the bar. On the left, self-serving machines were loaded with sandwiches, fruit, snacks, and hot and cold beverages. The other end held an open, stainless steel kitchen.

  A short order cook waited in the kitchen to make bacon, eggs, hotdogs, hamburgers, French fries, or one of three hot meals, complete with vegetables and dessert. No takers at the moment, the cook leaned against a cold and unused wall oven, arms folded over the starched white chest of his uniform.

  Opposite the cafeteria, lattice paneling in a glossy, bright white cordoned off a section of the lime green wall. A ping-pong table, two arcade games, Guitar Hero Arcade and Site 4, Area 51, plus four tables topped off by board games, such as 7 Wonders and Battlestar Galactica waited inside the lattice for weary workers needing a break. The rest of the room’s indoor/outdoor purple carpeting was dotted with shiny Lucite tables and chairs in hot pink and lipstick red.

  There was a strategy behind the edgy colors of the Community Room. The thinking being it’s good for employees to get away from their screens now and then, but they still need to stay sharp and competitive. The room didn’t make me feel competitive, but overstimulated, discombobulated, and anxious to take a nap. Maybe it was an age thing.

  A handful of employees sat scattered throughout the room. Some talked in hushed tones, some stared out at nothing. I knew the stare. I’ve been known to stare out with the best of them, startled and saddened by unexpected death, no matter how many times I’d seen it professionally.

  I went to one of the three Nespresso hotel-sized machines and made myself a double cappuccino. Frank took nothing, but guided me to an empty table in a corner. After we sat down he came to the point.

  “You need to go home, Lee. This has been a shock. Nothing more can be accomplished here, anyway, until we get the reports. I promise to keep you in the loop.”

  I took a long gulp of the life-giving brew before I answered. “Up to a point.”

  Even white teeth flashed a smile, filled with warmth and humor. “As you say, up to a point.”

  We both laughed before I spoke
again. I felt myself begin to relax.

  “Don’t worry about me, Frank. I’m okay. I just needed a pick-me-up. There’s a lot I can do. And you know how the first twenty-four hours are critical.”

  “That’s in a kidnapping, not a suicide.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “What does that mean, ‘maybe, maybe not’?”

  “Nothing. I heard one of your people say they couldn’t find Collier’s car. How did he get here?”

  “We don’t know yet, but he had a fulltime chauffeur that drove him everywhere. That’s the one the nanny mentioned. Marty, an old buddy D. H. Collier gave a job to years ago when he hit it big. They’ll be talking to the chauffeur soon, if they haven’t already.”

  I thought for a moment. “Of course, Collier could have taken a cab, Uber, or been dropped off by a friend.”

  “True enough, Lee, but it’s up to Broas’ men to find that out. Tell me what you didn’t want to say in the conference room.”

  I looked around me. Even though no one was nearby, I leaned in anyway. “D. H. Collier was the one sabotaging the upcoming IPO.”

  Frank stared at me in disbelief. “The CEO and co-founder of the company? Good God, why?”

  “That I don’t know. But there’s some pretty damning evidence.”

  Frank mused. “Maybe someone else found out. Maybe that’s why he committed suicide.”

  “If he did.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl. Let’s get back to him sabotaging his own company. How do you know that?”

  “First off, he’d been neglecting business for almost two months. As the CEO, Collier should have been on top of things, driving Read-Out forward. Instead, he has dozens of unanswered emails on his computer from staff and execs, especially from Eastham, begging him to act on certain matters.”

  “And he didn‘t?“

  “Not that I could see. This is a crucial time, what with the upcoming IPO. Collier spent the last three weeks in Switzerland, incommunicado.”

  “Maybe he took care of business from there. He could have used another email address or phone, not the business one.”