"He talked a lot, drank a little and did some gambling, but not much that I recall. He didn't seem to have the passion for it that some of the guests do."
This was at variance with what James had said. Of course, if it was true that no real money was changing hands, maybe that explained Ned's behavior. Perhaps a compulsive gambler wasn't compulsive when there was nothing real at stake. If that was true I couldn't be a compulsive gambler because I liked to play games, regardless of the stakes.
I wanted to ask Stan about the legitimacy of the casino operation, but why should he tell me anything? Instead, I asked, "How long have you worked for James?"
"About two years. I went there right from the Stanford business school."
Another MBA. "Isn't that work a little…beneath your talents?"
"Oh, I only work at the house one night a week. I work at the corporate headquarters the rest of the time. James makes all his management-track people do that. He says it's good to get some real-world experience. That's true, I suppose, if you want to end up running a casino."
I wasn't going to show my ignorance by asking what corporate headquarters he was referring to. I said, "I noticed that all his employees were men. Doesn't James have any women working for him?"
Stan took his eyes off the road and looked at me. Since we were cresting the top of Hyde Street and the pavement had disappeared from in front of us I hoped like hell he'd look back at the road. I felt like Steve McQueen's detective must have in the chase scene from the old movie, Bullitt. He finally turned his eyes back to the road and said, "What are you, a spy for the government equal opportunity people?"
"No."
He chuckled. "James just prefers men to women."
We arrived at my hotel. He pulled up to the front door. "Thanks for the ride," I said. We shook hands and I asked, "Do you have far to go?"
"Back to the Buchanan place. I live there."
As Stan drove away I stood there for a minute and gulped the cool night air. It brought back some sense of reality to me. Everything that had happened since I had entered James Buchanan's home was outside my known world. But I was afraid it would end up being a quickly fading dream.
I would fly home in the morning, talk to my father, commiserate with him briefly about Ned. He would formally thank me for trying to help, say he didn't need my services anymore, probably have a check made for me. Then we would go our separate ways again.
As for Ned, my father would make sure that his wife and children were provided for, financially. He would attend the funeral, perhaps give a eulogy. Then he would set about finding a replacement for Ned. The company stock would drop briefly, but it would recover.
Detective Washington and her partner would file their report. They would attempt to find witnesses to Ned's shooting and fail. The case would go on the books as an unsolved murder. Life would go on. Without Ned.
I walked into the hotel and asked the night clerk how I could get to the airport in the morning. He said he would get me a reservation on a shuttle bus. I also asked for a wakeup call and gave him several dollar bills from my wallet.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked my room with the plastic magnetic card I had been given and went in. I used the toilet, brushed my teeth and threw my clothes in a chair. My travel clock read five minutes of two; I set the alarm for 6:30, not trusting the wakeup call. I wouldn't get my usual eight hours of sleep.
Almost as an afterthought I noticed the message light blinking on the telephone. I pushed the appropriate buttons and listened to messages from my father and Detective Washington. Their messages were old news, but the shock of Ned's death returned. I hung up the phone.
As I collapsed on the bed I wondered whether I would get any sleep at all. I had about two minutes of wondering and then I stopped wondering about anything.
Chapter 7 DEBRIEFING
The southbound traffic on 101 was lighter than the northbound traffic heading into San Francisco and the airport shuttle I was riding in made good time to the airport. The weather became sunnier and warmer as we went farther south.
The newspapers at an airport shop had front-page stories about Ned. I bought one and scanned it as I was waiting at the gate. The story of the shooting didn't say anything I didn't already know. It described Ned as a high-tech pioneer. Dionysus was mentioned but I wasn't. Good.
The window seat beside me on the plane was empty; it was Ned's seat. I moved into it after the plane took off, to get away from the large man in the aisle seat, who really needed a seat and a half, and although I rarely slept on airplanes I dozed most of the way to LA.
After we landed at LAX I raced along the aisles, dodging other passengers like a running back. I rode down the escalators and then strode outside to the noise and fumes of motor vehicles cruising by. A security officer with a reflective shirt appeared from nowhere whenever a driver tried to park and wait for an arriving passenger. In a time of heightened security everybody had to keep moving.
My plan was to catch an airport shuttle home. Suddenly, Arrow appeared in front of me, breathless. I gave her a startled "Hi" and she said, "I was afraid I'd miss you. Richard asked me to pick you up and take you by the office for a debriefing."
Before I could protest she grabbed my bag and led the way across the airport access road, where the cars, limos and a myriad of vans and buses-parking lot shuttles, rental car shuttles, hotel shuttles and airport shuttles-all tried to violate a law of physics by fitting into the same space at the same time. The metered parking lot had been permanently closed so Arrow had parked in the short-term lot, which had a minimum charge of three dollars. Well, at least I didn’t have to pay it. The noise and confusion precluded much talking until we had stowed the suitcase in the trunk of her car and climbed inside.
As she backed out of the parking place Arrow said, "You must have had a horrible night."
"Not as bad as Ned's," I said, wondering how her night had been. She was wearing slacks and a sweater and didn't look as put together as she had yesterday.
"Poor Ned. I can't believe it. I was asleep when Richard called me to ask about your hotel. I hardly slept at all after that."
I felt like a traitor because of the few hours of sleep I'd had. I asked, "How is my father taking it?"
"He's calm on the surface, but inside is a different matter. I believe he's badly shaken. He asked me to go to Elma Mackay's house this morning, to help her in any way I could. He also wants me to do a complete evaluation of her financial situation, partly to find out whether Ned has squandered a lot of money. I'm afraid Elma is one of those women whose financial knowledge is limited to writing checks from what she considers to be an ever-flowing artesian well of funds, but never balancing her checkbook."
Arrow said the last in a disapproving manner and I would have laughed, had it not been for the gravity of the situation.
"And then Richard called me at Elma's house," Arrow continued, "and asked me to pick you up. Since it was almost time for your plane to land I was afraid I'd miss you. Fortunately, the plane was about ten minutes late."
It was not like my father to do things at the last minute. He must be very upset.
The headquarters of Dionysus was in one of the many buildings in one of the many office complexes that dot the landscape in Torrance. The buildings invariably look new because they are well maintained and well landscaped, and have spacious parking lots for their employees.
The flag on top of the Dionysus building was at half-mast. I hadn't been inside for several years, but it still looked the same to me, with its cubicles and computers, except that the computers were more modern and the employees in front of them were more casually dressed. Also, the mood of the people I saw was subdued.