Savages

14

RingTech’s headquarters were in an upscale office park off Page Mill Road, just south of the Stanford University campus. Low-slung black granite-and-glass building surrounded on three sides by an acre or so of manicured lawn and shade trees. The fourth side was a parking lot complete with a small section whose slots were labeled Visitor.

In the lobby I had to sign in at a security desk, put on a visitor’s badge with my name on it, and then pass through a metal detector, all of which made me wonder. Sign-of-the-times precaution? Paranoia on the part of Brandon Mathias? Or did RingTech manufacture something more sensitive than business software?

The place was a beehive; lobby, elevators, second-floor hallways were all crowded with people on the move. There was a sense of urgency in the air, as if everybody was working under some sort of deadline pressure. Gearing up for the imminent IPO, maybe; when a company goes public with its stock, it has to make sure all its contracts are being met on schedule, its research and development and other divisions operating at maximum efficiency.

The executive offices were at the rear. Big anteroom with a receptionist, who checked my badge before she permitted me to pass into an inner waiting room with nobody human in it except me. There was a couch, a matching chair, a table with a coffeepot on a hot plate and a stack of cups (“Please help yourself to coffee; Mr. Mathias will be with you shortly”). No windows and nothing adorning the walls, which gave it the look and feel of a privileged prisoner’s cell in a minimum security prison.

I tried sitting down, but the couch was uncomfortable. So I paced around instead, listening to silence-ten paces from wall to wall one way, eight paces the other because of the furniture. It was five past four o’clock, and I’d been there ten minutes and reduced to reading the label on a jar of Maxwell House instant coffee when the door opened and somebody came in and got me.

Not the receptionist and not Brandon Mathias. “I’m Anthony Drax,” he said, “Mr. Mathias’s assistant. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m afraid he’s running a bit late this afternoon.”

“No problem.”

“It shouldn’t be too long. He asked me to show you into his office.”

Mathias’s sanctum was big, windowed on two sides with views of lawn and trees, but as spartanly furnished and functional as the waiting cell. Just the type of no-frills office you’d expect a phlegmatic, dedicated, ambitious business exec to have. Drax indicated a chair to one side of a broad gunmetal gray desk, and when I sat in it he said, “I’ll keep you company until Mr. Mathias comes in, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He plunked himself down in a matching chair on the other side. I watched him cross one leg over the other and rest both hands comfortably on his knee. He wasn’t what I’d expected, given Nancy Mathias’s diary entry and Tamara’s phone comment earlier. The Dracula comparison was an overheated exaggeration. Tall and lean, all right, with sharp incisors and piercing eyes, but his swarthy skin didn’t seem particularly leathery and there was nothing sinister about his appearance or his manner. Rising young executive type, suit and tie, shoes polished to a gloss, fingernails manicured, thinning hair neatly barbered and combed. I didn’t much like those eyes-they looked through you, rather than at you, and the irises were a kind of subterranean black-but you can’t judge a man on that basis alone.

Pretty soon he said, “Terrible, what happened to Mrs. Mathias. Just terrible.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I imagine you see a lot of that sort of thing in your business.”

“What sort of thing is that?”

“Fatal home accidents.”

“We see a lot of alleged accident claims, yes.”

“Alleged? I don’t understand.”

“Not all of them turn out to be accidents.”

The black stary eyes narrowed. “You’re not suggesting Mrs. Mathias’s death wasn’t accidental?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said.

“The woman was alone behind locked doors when she fell,” Drax said. “The police were satisfied.”

“The police don’t get paid to be skeptical. I do.”

“Why are you skeptical?”

“I didn’t say I was. I said I get paid to be.”

“Then why are you here? What do you want with Mr. Mathias?”

“The answers to a few questions. Clarification of facts.”

“What questions? What facts?”

“That’s between Mr. Mathias and me.”

“He wasn’t even in the state when his wife died. You must know that. He was at a business meeting in Chicago.”

“So we understand, yes.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“I have no reason to doubt it.”

“Then why are you here to harass him?”

“Ask questions, Mr. Drax. I don’t harass, I investigate.”

“He’s under a terrible strain as it is,” Drax said. “Ring-Tech is expanding, we’re about to go public with our stock, and the death of his wife has made a difficult time even twice as bad. Can’t you understand that?”

I understood that he’d put the IPO first, Nancy Mathias’s death second. I said, “What would you have me do? Rubber-stamp a claim because a man I don’t know is going through a difficult time?”

“Brandon Mathias is not just any man. You don’t seem to realize that.”

“No? Suppose you enlighten me.”

“He’s a major player in the computer software business and one day he’ll be a major player in corporate America.” Drax’s voice had reverence in it, the kind that is usually accorded to kings and popes. Or to Donald Trump by his underlings.

“A VIP,” I said.

“Yes. Exactly. Much too important to be subjected to inconsequentials.”

“You consider his wife’s death inconsequential?”

“I didn’t mean that,” Drax said. “I meant your investigation. It’s unnecessary and intrusive at such a difficult period in his life.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s the opinion of everyone at RingTech.”

“But not necessarily mine or Pacific Rim’s.”

Basilisk stare. Those piercing eyes had a hypnotic quality when emotions ran strong in him. “Are you trying to insinuate that Mr. Mathias had something to do with his wife’s death? So you and your company can void his claim?”

“I don’t insinuate any more than I harass, Mr. Drax.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me.”

“What you think is irrelevant. Your opinions don’t matter.”

“You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you!”

Nobody had ever said “how dare you!” to me before. I didn’t like it much, coming from Drax. I didn’t like him much. I told myself it was time to ease off, but I might have pushed him a little further if Brandon Mathias hadn’t picked that moment to walk in.

Drax had been leaning forward in his chair, glaring at me; as soon as he saw his employer, he stood up straight as an arrow and drew his shoulders back, the way a soldier does in the presence of big brass. I got up, too, more slowly-more reflex than anything else. As soon as I was on my feet, I wished I’d stayed seated.

The thing was, people would generally snap to attention when Mathias showed up. He was the kind of man who owns a room as soon as he enters it, who expects deference and demands obedience. One good look at him and you knew that. It wasn’t a matter of stature-he was an inch or so under six feet, narrow shouldered, small hands and feet, unprepossessing features, with a mop of Ted Kennedy-like brown hair. It was an air of supreme self-confidence, a kind of radiating magnetism. High-level politicians have it. So do what Drax had referred to as major players in corporate America. It can’t be faked or manufactured; those who have it are born with it.

Mathias greeted me with a grave smile, an apology-“I’m sorry to be so late; I was detained in a meeting”-and a firm handshake, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The eyes, a deep blue-green, might have had sadness in them, but he didn’t look like a grieving widower. Or a businessman under a terrible strain. He looked fit in a dark Armani suit, reasonably well rested, at ease, and in charge. Politicians’ charisma, and that was something you could fake. He wore his like a tight-fitting mask. So tight and so seemingly genuine that the iceman underneath was completely hidden.

He dismissed Drax, who left without a word, aiming another glare at me on his way out. Mathias went around behind his desk, sat down when I did. He placed his hands flat on the desktop and leaned forward slightly, letting me have his full attention, waiting for me to open the conversation.

I said, “My condolences on your loss, Mr. Mathias. How are you bearing up?”

“As well as can be expected, thank you.”

“I won’t keep you long. I just have a few questions.”

“Of course.”

“Were you and your wife having any problems prior to her death?”

Fastball, high and tight. He didn’t even twitch. “Problems?”

“Personal difficulties.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Part of my job. Do you mind answering?”

“No, of course not. Nancy and I were devoted to each other. Our four years together were the happiest of my life.”

“So you’d say she was happy, too. Content.”

“Very much so.”

First lie. And not a small one.

I said, “I understand she was something of a recluse.”

“Nancy? Lord, no. She was a very warm, outgoing person.”

“But she didn’t go out often, stopped seeing all her friends.”

“Did her sister tell you that? Celeste Ogden?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Well, you really should take anything that woman says with several grains of salt. Mrs. Ogden disapproved of my marriage to Nancy, disapproved of our lifestyle. She made such an intrusive annoyance of herself that Nancy stopped having anything to do with her.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The woman is also a trespasser and a thief.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh yes. After Nancy’s accident, she illegally entered my home and rummaged through my wife’s belongings and removed a number of private papers.”

“How do you know this?”

“I discovered the items missing the following day. Found out later she talked the housekeeper into giving her a key. Simple addition.”

“Did you confront her?”

“No. She would only have denied it.”

“Notify the police?”

“No. It was more an annoyance than anything else and my time is budgeted to the max as it is. The stolen items weren’t important.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Absolutely. Household bills and the like. Nancy kept nothing of value in her office.”

“I think I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Ogden.”

“Do that,” Mathias said. “But remember those grains of salt. And the fact that she’s a thief.”

“Let’s get back to your wife. What was her mental state in the days prior to her death?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Was she worried about anything? Upset, distracted?”

“Not at all.”

“Was she given to mood swings, bouts of depression?”

“Certainly not.”

“You left for Chicago the day before she died,” I said. “Something might have happened that you’re not aware of.”

“I spoke to her on the phone the afternoon of her accident. She would have told me if any problem had come up. She was in very good spirits, looking forward to my return.”

“Was she expecting a visitor that night?”

“Nancy didn’t have nighttime visitors.”

“Would she have told you if she was?”

“Certainly. We had no secrets from each other.”

Smooth, lying bastard. Looking at him, listening to him, made the palms of my hands itch. “Who else has a key to your house, besides you and the housekeeper?”

“No one else.”

“And your wife always kept the doors locked at night when she was alone?”

“Of course she did,” Mathias said. “What is the purpose of all these questions? Do you have reason to suspect that Nancy’s death was anything other than a tragic accident?”

“No concrete reason.”

“But you do suspect it?”

“I suspect the possibility. That’s the nature of my job, Mr. Mathias.”

“Suicide? That’s preposterous, you know. No one in their right mind would attempt suicide by throwing themselves down a flight of stairs-the actuarial probabilties of that happening must be incalculable. My wife was nothing if not sane.”

“Suicide isn’t the only explanation.”

“Foul play? That’s just as preposterous, for heaven’s sake. The doors and windows were locked; there were no signs of an intruder and nothing missing prior to Celeste Ogden’s visit. Nancy would not have opened the door to a stranger or even to someone she knew late at night, and I’ve already told you that all the keys are accounted for. The Palo Alto police were satisfied. Why aren’t you?”

I said nothing. Maybe a silent stare would tweak him a little.

It didn’t. He said, “Is it an attempt on the part of your company to deny the insurance claim? If it is…”

“Pacific Rim doesn’t operate that way. Neither do I.”

“Not that I care if the claim is denied,” he said. “I already have more money than I will ever be able to spend. I might even withdraw it, to save myself any more anguish, but I won’t if you intend to persist in an investigation that has no basis in fact or logic.”

“The decision is Pacific Rim’s, not mine.”

He pretended not to hear that. He was on a roll now. “I’ve just lost my wife, the only woman I ever loved. Is it too much to ask a little human compassion?”

Anything I said to that would have sounded lame or defensive or both. Mathias knew it as well as I did.

“Yes, I thought as much,” he said. He looked pointedly at the slim platinum-gold watch on his wrist. “I have another meeting in five minutes. If you have any more questions, please be brief.”

The only thing I had left was thinly guised accusation, and all that would buy me and Pacific Rim was trouble. Mathias figured to be the litigious type; push him too hard and he’d lawyer up fast and furious. Besides, you could interrogate him for days and he’d never admit to anything that wasn’t in his own best interest. Like a damn modern politician in that sense, too: never admit wrongdoing, never allow yourself to be held accountable, just stonewall and misdirect and obfuscate.

“Nothing further,” I said. “For now.”

He stood up in one fluid motion, came around the desk to stand next to my chair. It wasn’t to offer to shake hands again; it was to look down on me, literally as well as figuratively. He said, with some of the iceman in his voice, “My secretary will take you out,” and left me sitting there as if I were a large piece of trash awaiting removal to the Dumpster.