“A real hot babe,” Festino said. “Blonde, big tits. What you’d expect Trevor to marry.” He looked around, saw the disapproving looks. “Sorry.”
“They didn’t have any kids, thank God,” Letasky said.
“Thank God,” I said. I’d been listening, not talking. I didn’t want to risk letting them know my suspicions.
“Mechanical defect or something?” said Detwiler.
Letasky inhaled. “I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Mrs. Allard’s going to have one hell of a lawsuit against Porsche,” Festino said.
As the guys filed out a few minutes later-everyone had calls to make-Festino lingered behind.
“Say,” he said tentatively. “About Trevor?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I hated the asshole. You know that. I assume you did, too.”
I didn’t answer.
“But-I don’t know-maybe he wasn’t so bad. Gleason, too. Though he was even harder to like.”
I just nodded.
“And, well-I know it’s probably in bad taste, but have you decided who you’re going to assign their accounts to?”
News travels fast in the age of e-mail. Just before lunchtime I got an e-mail from Joan Tureck in Dallas:
I’m so sorry to hear about Trevor Allard and Brett Gleason. I can scarcely believe it. If I were at all superstitious, I’d say Entronics is cursed.
Maybe she had a point.
At lunchtime, I found a pay phone in the employee cafeteria. It’s hardly ever used-not in an office building where everyone has desk phones and cell phones.
I’d decided to call the cops.
What I really wanted to do was to call some anonymous crime tip line. But amazingly enough, the Massachusetts State Police didn’t seem to have one. On their website I found tip lines for terrorism, arson, fugitives from justice, auto theft, charity scams. Even an Oxycontin tip line. But nothing for plain old murder.
So I called the state trooper whose name was on the online press release. Trooper Sean McAfee, the one who was in charge of investigating the collision, was out of the Concord barracks of the state police. Troop A headquarters. Though I doubted he was doing anything but the most pro forma investigation.
I didn’t want this call tracked back to me, though. The police, I assumed, can trace just about any call these days, including cell phones. If they were going to trace the call, at least they’d get no further than a pay phone in the employee cafeteria of the Entronics building in Framingham.
“This is Sergeant McAfee,” said a rough voice, Southie vowels.
No one was anywhere nearby-this was an alcove off the cafeteria by a service door-but I still didn’t dare speak loudly. Yet I wanted to sound confident, sure of myself. “Sergeant McAfee,” I said in my best cold-calling voice, “you’re investigating a collision that took place last night on I-95 in Waltham? The Porsche?”
Suspicious: “Yeah?”
“I have some information about it.”
“Who’s this?”
I was prepared for that. “I’m a friend of the driver’s.”
“Name?”
My name? Name of the driver? “I’m afraid I can’t give my name.”
“What’s your information?”
“I think something might have been done to the Porsche.”
Long pause. “Why do you think that?”
“Because the driver had an enemy.”
“An enemy. You think someone forced him off the road, that it?”
“No.”
“Then you think someone monkeyed around with the car?”
“That’s what I think.”
“Sir, if you have information that might be material to this investigation, you should do yourself and the deceased a favor and come in to talk to me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I’m happy to come out to Framingham,” he said.
He knew where the call was coming from.
“I can’t meet with you.”
The cop began to sound exasperated. He raised his voice. “Sir, without more information, like a name of this ‘enemy’ you’re talking about, I don’t have enough to work with. The crime scene techs did a whole investigation of the scene last night, the forensic mapping, the whole nine yards. And there’s no tire marks, no skid marks or yaw marks, nothing that tells us anything except the driver drove straight into the guardrail. Far as we’re concerned, it’s a single-car fatal, driver error. Now, if you got something that’ll change our minds, you should give us what you got. Otherwise, forget it.”
I wasn’t expecting the cop to get belligerent on me. I wondered whether he was trying to shame me into cooperating, or whether he really just didn’t give a shit.
“I just think,” I said very quietly, “that you should have your guys look very closely at the car. I’ll bet you find evidence of sabotage.”
“Look closely at the car?” the cop shot back. “Sir, the car was totaled, and then it caught fire. There’s not a hell of a lot left of the car, okay? I doubt anyone’s going to find anything.”
“His name’s Kurt Semko,” I said quickly, and I hung up the phone.
As I walked out of the alcove and back to the cafeteria, I saw Kurt, sitting with a couple of guys from Security. They were talking loudly, and laughing, but Kurt was watching me.
48
The intercom buzzed, and Franny said, “It’s Mr. Hardy.”
“Jason,” came the big mellifluous voice, “please forgive this short notice, but I need you to fly out to L.A. tomorrow. I’ve set up a meeting, and I want you there.”
He paused. I groaned inwardly, said, “Gotcha.”
“With Nakamura-san,” he added.
“Nakamura-san? Hideo Nakamura?” Did I misunderstand him? Hideo Nakamura was the chairman of the board of the Entronics Corporation. He was like the great Oz. No one had ever seen him. Just Gordy, once.
“You got it. The great man himself. He’s flying in from New York, en route to Tokyo. I persuaded him to make a quick stopover in Santa Clara, receive a personal briefing from my best-and-brightest. See for himself how you’ve turned around sales.”
“Just-me?”
“You and two of the other top VPs. I want to knock his socks off.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Can do.”
“I had to do a good deal of arm-twisting to get him to make a stop. He comes to the U.S. once or twice a year, if that, you know.”
“Wow.”
“I think he’ll be impressed with you. I know he’ll be impressed with what you’ve done.”
“Should I prepare an agenda?”
“Of course. Nakamura-san loves PowerPoint. Do a brief PowerPoint presentation. Five or six bullet points, no more. Very macro. The ten-thousand-foot view. Performance of your division, key achievements, key struggles. He always likes his employees to acknowledge their struggles.”
“Gotcha.”
“Arrive by ten-thirty at the boardroom here at Santa Clara. I’ll go over your PowerPoint first. Nakamura-san and his entourage will arrive at precisely eleven o’clock, and will leave at precisely twelve o’clock. One hour. Chop chop.”
“Gotcha.”
“Leave plenty of time for delays. It is imperative that you be on time. Imperative. Nakamura-san is extraordinarily punctual.”
“Gotcha. It’s too late to make an evening flight, but I’m sure there are plenty of early-morning ones.”
“Remember to bring your business cards. Your meishi, as they call it. Present it to him with both hands, holding it at the corners. When he gives you yours, accept it with both hands and study it carefully. And whatever you do, don’t put it in your pocket.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know the rituals. I’ll be there.”
“On time,” Hardy said.
“Early,” I said.
“And afterward, if you have time, come out for a sail with me on the Samurai.”
“The Samurai?”