The CEO Came DOA (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  “So you’ve said, but two out of three ain’t bad. Before I return what I’ve got, we need to talk about a few things.”

  He was silent, so I went on.

  “Not only did somebody know the big secret hiding place of this stuff, but knew sophisticated codes to break in and steal them. Hold on a minute.” I dug around in my tote bag for the Milky Way Bar. I was starving. I ripped the wrapping off with my bare teeth and took a big bite. Yum.

  The CFO found voice. “What…what do you mean, ‘before you return what you’ve got’? You are to bring everything back to me immediately.”

  Rameen Patel’s parents emigrated from Bombay to the States shortly before his birth and still ran a small but thriving motel in Barstow. In fact, I think I stayed there once on a drive to Las Vegas, if I remember rightly. Pepto-Bismol pink with tons of hanging purple bougainvillea.

  Even though their son was born in California, much of his thinking seemed to mimic the culture stuck fast to his parents, even in their new land. So he continued to sputter with superior male indignation while I chewed. With a mouthful of caramel I finally answered.

  “Rameen, you’re not thinking straight, pal. If somebody took them away from you once, they can do it again. So it’s better if I protect them until we find out a few things, like who did this and why.”

  He was silent for a time. “Very well. I see the wisdom of that.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s move on. In your office, you said that Collier killing himself was your fault. What did you mean by that?” I could feel his hesitation. “Come on. I need an answer. How is all of this your fault? What’s going on with you?”

  I could feel him bristle. “Some questions I will answer, but I am ethically bound to be silent on others.”

  Remembering our previous conversation in his office and how loosey-goosey the setup seemed to be, I would have laughed out loud over his statement, but had a mouthful of chocolate.

  “You can skirt anything that smacks of business ethics, Rameen. Start by sharing a little back history of Read-Out. Flesh it out for me.” I swallowed, took another bite of candy, and chewed while I listened to him pick and choose his words.

  “David Collier and Craig Eastham were partners from the beginning. David had the ideas and medical skill set, and Craig the technical expertise. They were both geniuses with a proven track record. It was to be a straight fifty-fifty, just the two of them. No interference from investors or a board. Hiring me was necessary, as neither one of them was a numbers man, but I was ultimately answerable to him, not just because of his initial investment. If you’d ever met David, you would know he wanted to do things his way. No compromises.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “But it was expensive, all the research and testing they were doing. The lab work alone cost a fortune. Almost a year ago, there was a setback. One of the labs had a fire; several people were hurt. I’m sure you read about it.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but jumped right in again.

  “It wound up being negligence on our part and we were sued for millions. Even David saw he would take a big hit to cover the losses. Craig was unwilling to put any more money into the company and wanted to restructure. I convinced David to let us bring in investors and a board, at a total of forty-nine percent. The two of them would still have the controlling interest with fifty-one percent. That’s what I told him.”

  The phone went silent. I was about to ask if he was still there, figuring we had become one of those dropped calls that happen when you least expect it, but he finally went on.

  “But that’s not how it was. David was a brilliant man, but not as far as corporate understanding goes. As I say, he was not a numbers man. Essentially, I sold him out. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did. I wanted to save the company.”

  “Does Craig Eastham know about this?”

  “I couldn’t have done it without his help. I won’t go into all the details, but David didn’t think I would betray him, for reasons I don’t care to go into. And he trusted Craig. We used that trust against him.” He paused then added. “We had to.”

  “Exactly how did you do this?”

  “We talked him into signing papers without reading them thoroughly. Before David knew it, he’d turned over five percent more, which gave controlling shares to the board. They started telling him what to do, always with their eye on the bottom line. They even talked about replacing him; bringing in another CEO. Frankly, we were all in favor of it. A couple of months ago he said Craig and I killed his dream. I thought he and I were even now, but maybe not.”

  “What does that mean; you thought he and you were even?”

  “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  “So what was with all this Las Vegas big bash stuff? Twenty venture capitalist from across the globe, and yada yada?”

  “David came up with the idea a month or two ago. We thought it meant he came around, that he saw what we were trying to accomplish, and was going to work with us.”

  “And that’s around the time the emails and faxes to competitors with highly confidential materials started.”

  “Yes.” I heard a sob escape from Patel. “And I’m sure that’s why he hung himself. I drove him to it.”

  I chewed this over, as well as the rest of my candy bar, chugging over the Dumbarton going about thirty-five miles an hour. Apparently, the truck had been built for yellowness, not for speed.

  “So you knew the whole time Collier was the saboteur.”

  Patel cleared his throat and coughed before speaking.

  “I wasn’t sure, not really. And I didn’t want to color your thinking, so I never said anything. I’d hoped I was wrong; that he had come around to a more businesslike approach, paying attention to profit margins. That he wanted what was best for all of us.”

  “Who else suspected the saboteur was Collier? Eastham?”

  “We never discussed it. But it was out of our hands, anyway. The board wanted to find out who was trying to destroy us financially for the past few months, so forced us to bring you in. It may all be moot at this point, now that’s he’s gone. Maybe I can keep the IPO alive…”

  He stopped speaking for a split second then words spilled out, quick and staccato.

  “Oh, God. This is bad. This is so bad. If it gets out I tricked him into signing documents and drove him to suicide, I could lose everything. In defense of myself, if David had continued on the way he was going, the next step was to declare bankruptcy. I believed in what we were doing; the betterment of mankind. Truly I did. But I’ve got a family to protect. My girls, how can they face their friends, with a father in jail?” He broke down on the other end of the line.

  “That’s a big leap, isn’t it? You didn’t push the ladder out from under him, did you? Or did you?”

  He didn’t answer but continued to sob. Just at that moment, I saw the flash of a red motorcycle coming up beside me. I was at the halfway point of the Bridge.

  “Ah…Rameen…we need to continue this conversation later. I’ve got to deal with something.”

  I disconnected just as the motorcycle pulled in front of me and slowed down, forcing me to do the same. Blonde hair flapping from beneath his helmet, he glanced over his shoulder and back at me with a malevolent smile. So much for easy peezy.

  What created Silicon Valley was a culture of openness,

  and there is no future to Silicon Valley without it.

  Sarah Lacy

  Chapter Seven

  I would have tried to move into the left lane and pass him, but just then the blue motorcycle showed up to my left and stayed there. He signaled for me to pull over, exactly to where I don’t know. I was already in the far right lane with nothing but a small walkway separating me from the waters of the San Francisco Bay.

  I hit Frank’s number on my speed dial, but the call went directly into voice mail. I left a message, anyway. “Hey, Frank. Godfathers are supposed to be at their goddaughters�
� beck and call 24/7. Where are you? I’ve got a situation here and I might need some help. Call me back.” I threw the phone on the passenger’s seat.

  Boxed in by the two motorcycles, I was reduced to thirty miles an hour, with other vehicles on the bridge whizzing by the small caravan. The motorcycle at my side rode so close he could have reached out and touched the truck door.

  In turn, I could have rolled down the window and spit on him. But the Alvarez women don’t do that sort of thing, at least not most of the time. And I was a bit dry; all that chocolate.

  Once we crossed the bridge the blue motorcycle swung into my lane several times, nearly sideswiping me. Not that a cycle is any match for a truck, even a small one, but I didn’t feel like running over the rider. It had already been a bad day.

  The motorcycle in front slowed down to a crawl. As soon as there was a patch of land at the base of the bridge, they forced me onto it. The three of us came to a stop. The two guys removed their helmets, dismounted, used the kickstand to keep the bikes upright, and started toward the truck.

  Meanwhile, I opened the truck door and got out slowly. I was hopping mad, more at myself than these two, and needed to control it. I should have taken care of them back in Fremont when I had the element of surprise on my side. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I slammed the door shut and took a stance not unlike the one Wendy Lewis had given me earlier. My demeanor threw the kid who rode the blue bike. He backed up and went to the other side of his machine and just watched. The man who’d been on the red bike withdrew a switchblade from his jeans and flicked it open, still wearing that idiotic but nasty grin on his face.

  Blue Bike stared at him, an expression of astonishment at his friend’s actions covering his face. I was with him.

  Somebody’s been seeing too many old movies at Palo Alto’s Stanford Theater, I thought. This was straight out of The Asphalt Jungle. I heard my cell phone ring back at the truck. I thought about turning around and retrieving it, but Red Bike kept coming at me. Cars and trucks raced by apparently oblivious to the drama unfolding on the side of the road.

  I pointed a finger at Red. “Don’t do it. Get back on your bike and get out of here. I’m returning the merchandise to where it belongs. You need to stay out of it now before things get out of hand.”

  “We’re taking back our truck and merchandise, bitch. And you’re coming with us.” Then he actually snarled. I remembered Daniel Day Lewis doing that in the Gangs of New York. It worked better on him. Red Bike waved the long, slender knife back and forth in the air, blade gleaming in the sun. I appreciated the gesture - so Hollywood - but Blue Bike nearly fainted.

  “Jerome, nobody told us anybody would get hurt. I’m not doing this. Let’s not do this.”

  I took a step forward. “Listen to your friend, Jerome. He’s making sense.”

  But Jerome aka Red Bike wasn’t paying attention. He was trying to stare me down. “Listen, bitch, I know who you are. I saw you stealing the truck from the bathroom window when I was taking a whiz. Does Patel’s new assistant feel like getting sliced up for the job? You better do what I say.” The evil smile returned, as he gyrated around brandishing the switchblade.

  “Jesus Christ! I didn’t sign up for this.” Jerome’s friend jumped on his blue motorcycle, and kicked at the starter. “I’m outta here.” The motor revved to life and he took off, wheels spitting up wet leaves and dirt from the night’s rain.

  “Ronnie! Ronnie! Come back here!”

  Jerome’s shouting accomplished nothing, but it did distract him for a moment. I took a run at him, and kicked my right leg upward. Hitting the switchblade with my sole of my shoe, I knocked the knife out of his hand. It spun like a top and landed on the ground behind him. Then I centered myself and rammed good old Jerome in the stomach with my left foot for good measure. He’d pissed me off. ‘Sliced up’, indeed. With the wind knocked out of him, he doubled over and dropped to his knees.

  “Here, let me help you up.” I looked around me, went to his side, and grabbed him under his left armpit in a seemingly helpful gesture. Even if people didn’t stop their cars, they might call 911 if they saw enough of this scene.

  I half pulled and he half struggled to his feet, gasping for air. I dragged him to the other side of the truck, the side away from traffic and shielded from view. I leaned him against the truck door, but he slid down to the running board. Apparently, he wasn’t in the kind of shape brandishing switchblades demanded.

  Hovering over him, I pushed back on his forehead with my hand for a good look at his face, currently hidden by stringy, long hair. I was at a high-energy level, so the back of his head smacked against the metal door.

  “Ow! That hurt.” His voice carried an accusatory tone, as he reached behind him and rubbed the back of his head.

  “Well, I’d say I’m sorry, but you did threaten to slice me up like bologna. So let’s talk. Why don’t you tell me who you’re working for? It’s a nice way to start the conversation.”

  He didn’t say anything, but shook his head. I heard my phone ring again, but I was a little busy.

  “Shaking your head is no answer, Jerome, and I need one. I didn’t take care of you back at the house and that was a mistake. I’m going to deal with you now, even if I have to call the police to come and arrest you for grand theft. You’re looking at felony charges. I could throw in threat of bodily harm with a dangerous weapon, too. Might be a long time in prison. So, I will rephrase the previous question. For whom are you working?”

  The little speech of mine had the desired effect. The look in his eyes became more of a scared kid out of his elements rather than a member of a New York City street gang.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who it was. It was just a voice, a voice on my phone.” He rubbed his stomach where my punch had landed.

  “Excuse me? You did all this for a voice on the phone?”

  “Somebody called day before yesterday and left a message to call him if Ronnie and I wanted to make ten thousand dollars. Sweet. I called him back and he told us where to go, what to do, everything.”

  “And what was that, exactly?”

  “We were to take the truck from Fremont and drive it to Sunnyvale at six-thirty this morning to pick up a load left in the garage. When we got there, the garage was open, so we used the forklift from the truck to put the chips and tester into the truck. When we got back to Fremont, half the cash was left inside the house, just like he said. We were waiting for his next call with the rest of the money when you showed up. But I never met him. He was just a voice.”

  “So the voice was a man’s?”

  “I think so.”

  “Was it or wasn’t it?”

  “It was disguised. I think it was a man’s voice, but I can’t be…” He broke off. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Well, do it over there in the brush. Meanwhile, hand over your phone. I want to hear this message.”

  “It’s gone.” Now he began to whine. “He told me to erase it, so I did.”

  He covered his mouth with his hand and stood. He pushed passed me and toward some scraggy brushes where he retched. I followed and took the opportunity to reach into his back pocket and retrieved his phone as he was bending over. I don’t even think he knew I took it. I turned, went back to the truck, and leaned against the front fender.

  After he was finished upchucking, he wheeled around, looked at me, and took off running, crossing to the other side of the truck and toward his bike. I took a few steps toward him, but when I saw he didn’t pick up his switchblade, I stopped.

  Good old Jerome threw himself on his motorcycle, not even bothering to put on his helmet, which crashed to the ground. Amid revving motor sounds and grinding gears, he took off, mud and leaves flying everywhere. I strode to where his cast off helmet lay, picked it up by its strap, and then went back to the truck.

  After tossing the helmet behind the passenger seat, I once again went into my trusty tote and pulled out a baggie. I recove
red the switchblade for fingerprints, got back in the truck, and heard my phone ring again. It was Frank. I answered with a grim smile.

  “Situation under control, Frank, but thanks, anyway.”

  “I was in court. Had to turn my phone off. What’s going on, Lee? You sure you’re all right?”

  “Absolutely. Just thought I had some engine trouble.”

  “Since when do you call me for engine trouble? Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

  I laughed. “Fire extinguished, and things are okay now. I swear. Talk to you later.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Oh, by the way, Frank. I found out how D. H. Collier could have gotten to Read-Out without a car. It seems he had a small pied–à–terre about two blocks away, no one knew about. He liked to stay there and walk back and forth to work. Want the address?”

  “Now what do you think?”

  I laughed and gave it to him. After hanging up, I mulled over the Dumbarton Bridge fiasco. It could have been a lot worse if those two kids had known what they were doing. Then I felt a ‘niggle-niggle’ in the pit of my stomach. I only get that when something is off. But what? I couldn’t put my finger on it. Those damn baby blue jockey shorts. It all went back to them.

  I placed another phone call before starting the engine. Richard answered right away, as if waiting for my call.

  “Richard, are you at D. I.?”

  “Got here about ten minutes ago. Why?”

  “Have you seen Jake?”

  “Yeah, I saw Jake when I came in,” said my brother.

  Jacob ‘Jake’ Gold originally came from across the pond as the Brits say, was one of the more mature D. I. operators at age fifty-nine, and more or less from the old school. His father wanted him to be a rabbi, but Jake was a man who liked more action. He always carried – unlike me, who usually left her gun in the safe at home or in the trunk of the car – and had no problem knocking some teeth loose when called upon – his phrase, not mine.

  The reason why he’d lasted so long at D. I. with these old-fashioned and somewhat barbaric ideals was nobody, and that’s nobody, wore a suit better than him. With Savile Row on speed dial, Jake was a clotheshorse from an era where clothes made the man and the man knew it. Any time Lila had an axe to grind; Jake would saunter in wearing one of his dapperest suits, complete with the latest tie from Harley Street. They’d chat, he’d strut, and he would get away with whatever. I soooo envied Jake.