As they were getting ready to leave, Neale stopped him at the men’s-room door, beaming, and ground Webber’s hand into pulp.
“You’re a genius,” he declared, “an absolute genius!”
Neale’s check was delivered by messenger two days later. He should have been elated, but instead it made him suspicious. He regarded cynicism as healthy, a defense mechanism like pain.
He still had Neale’s file. He compared it with Heupel’s. There were some remarkable coincidences. Both had degrees in electronics engineering from the same school in the same year. Both had earned MBAs from that same institution two years later. And both had passed their CPA exams there two years after that. To be sure it was a huge state university, but it was unlikely that they hadn’t attended at least a few classes together. Yet at dinner there’d been no reminiscing, no talk about football or campus parties. They had been like utter strangers, with their only link career similarities and professional interests.
Webber made some phone calls and decided to dig deeper. Neale’s ridiculously outsized fee would take care of the overhead and more for a while, and with most big companies holding back on expenditures because of the talk of a recession he really didn’t have that much else to do.
DataAid had moved twice since Evan Neale’s appointment, each time to quarters substantially more spacious and elegant. The American Dream, Webber thought as he drove up the service road to the impressive new building.
Evan Neale slouched behind a massive rosewood desk when Webber was shown in. He was not smiling. “Didn’t you get your check?”
“Yes, and I appreciate the promptness. I came by because I don’t believe my assignment ends when I trot over to the bank. I feel that I owe my clients more than that, especially if I think I made a mistake.”
“Commendable,” Neale said icily, fidgeting with a pencil. “But what’s the point of this visit?”
“I investigated Mr. Heupel further,” Webber replied. “While he may seem at the outset a model—”
“He is proving to be such.”
“—candidate, there was an important omission.”
“Really?”
“I recently situated a retired FBI agent into a good security job. He was quite grateful and we’ve remained friendly. He was happy to do me a favor. His former colleagues were happy to do him a favor.”
“Your point?” Neale snapped.
“Your Mr. Heupel, as qualified as he might be, had a lengthy employment lapse. It turns out that his last three years were spent in a minimum-security prison in California. His conviction was for grand larceny. Translated, that means — in his case — computer theft; specifically, drawing the sap from credit cards at the bank where he was employed. Being a layman, I don’t know precisely what he did, though it was probably worth his while. At his trial they could only approximate how much he stole.”
“I know,” Neale said evenly. “He admitted that to me. He’s paid for his mistake.”
“I’m not here for a pound of flesh, Mr. Neale, although Mr. Malonson might like a chunk of yours if he were alive.”
Neale flushed crimson and glanced at his watch. “Fascinating, Webber, but there’s no room on my schedule for games today.”
“This is no game,” Webber said. “Jerry Malonson certainly wouldn’t consider it one. I’m speculating that he was helping you steal from your clients and maybe even your clients’ clients. Maybe you argued over the percentages. Maybe not. Maybe he just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar up to your shoulder and, being totally innocent, he was outraged. The possibilities, like the future of the computer business, are virtually endless.”
Neale cracked his knuckles. “Is that a murder accusation?”
“Oh, no. I doubt there’s enough evidence for that. The police would have fingered you by now if there were. You’ve always impressed me as being rather thorough. And you’re not the type to go to pieces and blurt out a confession.”
Neale smiled. “You enjoy playing Perry Mason.”
“More important,” Webber continued, “since we’re talking business, is the matter of Mr. Heupel. Your time is obviously valuable, so we shouldn’t waste it with a denial that you and he are old cronies. In fact, you probably had him in mind for this job when you took over DataAid. But — shall we say? — he had accepted another position.”
Neale’s stare was arctic. “That’s rather speculative, Webber. Why would I go to the expense of hiring Webber and Associates if I knew Heupel and knew he was available? That college we attended is one of the biggest in the country. You can get lost on that campus.”
“To stroke your board of directors,” Webber answered. “To make them believe you’d found your man after an exhaustive search. If you’d pulled him out of a hat a day or so after Malonson’s murder, there would have been a peculiar odor in the air. Your board likes the job you’ve done, so they pretty much leave you alone, but they might have become suspicious about your relationship with Heupel and his break in employment. It could have become untidy.”
Neale stood up, his knuckles massive and white. Webber sucked a breath to the floor of his chest and said, “I imagine you have quite a temper.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“That’s why I met with a couple of your directors before coming here. I showed them your file and Heupel’s. They drew similar conclusions, hazy but incriminating. They spoke of a complete audit. There must be computers that can find indiscretions made by other computers. Of course, if the investigation proved out as expected they would like nothing better than to stand you up against sandbags in a public square, but that would be terrible for business.”
Neale was seated again, motionless.
“I believe the chairman has been notified. It’s possible he will call you to discuss a quiet resignation. The corporate equivalent, I believe, of delivering a pistol to your cell with one round in the chamber.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me too much,” Neale replied. “And I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that you’ve been assigned to replace Mr. Heupel and myself.”
“They did mention that it was refreshingly unusual, in this day and age, for a private contractor to assume the initiative of further work after he has been paid.”
“And Mr. Heupel and myself?”
“The board members, Evan, are from the old school. They believe in chin-up, carry on. God put carpets on earth for dirt to be swept under. Cooperate and you can get on with your career.”
Neale was smiling again, stiffly. “Two years in one place is enough,” he said. “As much as I love the Northwest, I haven’t really been able to adapt to the rain here. Arizona, Texas, or Los Angeles might be a nice change. Walt is flexible. New frontiers and all that. Any number of burgeoning companies need our talent and experience. If your workload permits—”
Webber rose and opened his briefcase. He had, in fact, talked to a colleague in Alaska just this morning. There were several openings in Fairbanks for top-notch computer people. The hardest thing to explain to prospects was that they couldn’t always have everything they wanted. Webber pulled his chair closer and sat down again. “Let’s update your file, Evan, and see what we can do,” he said amiably.
Take One at Bedtime
by Jeffry Scott
The tiny bottle of liquid could kill half of Manhattan...
Stella was either restless or deliberately provocative. Either way she was making Crispin sweat. Her breasts kept moving fractionally so that the satin blouse furrowed, billowed, became suddenly shadowed, or took on polished highlights. He missed her remark and felt foolish.