The Cinderella Murder

21

Dwight Cook wished he could gut the interior of REACH’s headquarters and start over. The design concept had sounded great when the architect first pitched it. The three-level building had plenty of open space, some of it with forty-foot ceilings, but was also filled with nooks and brightly painted crannies with couches and bistro tables for people to gather in small groups. The idea, according to the architect, was to create the illusion of one large, continuous, “mazelike” space.

Well, the maze effect had worked.

Was it only he who craved monochromatic symmetry?

He blocked out all the horrible visual distractions and thought about the work that was taking place within these ridiculously shaped walls. REACH had been around for nearly twenty years and still managed to hire some of the brightest, most innovative tech workers in the country.

He reached the end of the hall and turned right toward Hathaway’s office. His former professor had been at REACH from the beginning in every possible way. But regardless of their work together, he would always think of Hathaway as his professor, the man responsible for building REACH into an empire.

Hathaway’s door was open, as was the norm in REACH’s “corporate culture.”

Richard Hathaway was well into his fifties by now but still looked essentially the same as when UCLA coeds had dubbed him the school’s “most crush-worthy” teacher. He was of average height with an athletic build. He had thick, wavy brown hair and a year-round tan, and always dressed like he was about to tee off at a golf course. As Dwight approached, he could see that Hathaway was reading a magazine article called “Work Out Smarter, Not Longer.”

Dwight took a seat across from Hathaway, unsure how to raise the subject that brought him there. He decided to ease into it, the way he had noticed people did when they were trying to avoid a topic. “Sometimes when I walk around the building, it reminds me of your lab back at UCLA.”

“Except we were working with computers the size of economy cars. And the furniture wasn’t as nice, either.” Hathaway was always quick with a good line. How many times had he saved the day by “tagging along” to a meeting with a potential investor? Dwight had surpassed Hathaway in programming talent, but without Hathaway, Dwight would have always worked for someone else.

“The walls were straight, though,” Dwight said, making his own attempt at the same kind of humor.

Hathaway smiled, but Dwight could tell that his self-deprecating one-liner had fallen flat.

“What I meant,” Dwight continued, “was that we have all these kids-smart, idealistic, probably a little weird.” Now Hathaway laughed. “They all believe they can change the world with the right piece of code. I remember your lab feeling like that.”

“You sound like a proud parent.”

“Yes, I suppose I am proud.” Dwight tried so hard not to feel his emotions that he had never learned to describe them.

“It’s fine to be proud,” Hathaway said, “but REACH has investors with expectations. It would be nice to be relevant again.”

“We’re more than relevant, Hathaway.” Dwight had called him “Dr. Hathaway” long after they both left UCLA. Despite the professor’s insistence that Dwight refer to him as Richard, Dwight just couldn’t do it. “Hathaway” had been the compromise.

“I mean front-page-of-the-Journal relevant. Our stock price is holding steady, Dwight, but others’ are going up.”

Even as a professor, Hathaway was never the tweed-jacket-and-practical-shoes type. He made it clear to his students that technology could not only help people and change the world, it could also make you rich. The first time an investment banker wrote them a seven-figure check, enabling REACH to set up shop in Palo Alto, Hathaway had gone directly to the car dealer for a new Maserati.

“But you’re not here to relive the old days,” Hathaway said.

Dwight trusted Hathaway. They’d had a special connection from the moment Hathaway had asked Dwight, after freshman midterms, to work in the lab. Dwight had always felt like his own father was trying to either change him or avoid him. But Hathaway had all the same interests as Dwight and never tried to tell him to act like anyone other than himself. When they worked together, combining Dwight’s code-writing skills with Hathaway’s business savvy, it was a perfect match.

So why couldn’t he tell his friend and mentor of twenty years that he was hacking the e-mail accounts of everyone who might be connected to Susan’s murder?

Oh, how desperately he wanted to tell him what he’d learned. He knew, for example, that Frank Parker’s wife, Talia, wrote her sister to say she was “dead set against Frank ever speaking that girl’s name again.” Was Talia opposed to the show because she suspected her husband was involved?

And then there was Madison Meyer’s e-mail to her agent, insisting that once she was in a room alone with Frank Parker again, she was “sure to land a true comeback role.” That one definitely made it sound like Madison had something to hang over Frank’s head.

And yet, Dwight could not bring himself to tell Hathaway what he’d been up to. He knew Hathaway would worry about the corporate implications if Dwight were caught hacking into private accounts. No one would ever trust REACH with information again. Their stock price would plummet. This would have to be one secret he kept from his oldest friend.

But Hathaway was looking at him expectantly. “What’s up, Dwight?”

“I think I actually forgot. That walk down the maze must have made me dizzy.” He was pleased when Hathaway smiled. The line had worked.

“I do that all the time,” Hathaway said. “But, hey, since you’re here: I got a call from a Laurie Moran? A TV special about Susan Dempsey? They said you gave them my name. I thought everyone sort of knew Frank Parker did it but the police could never prove it.”

Dwight wanted to scream, But I might be able to! Instead, he said, “I just want people to know that Susan was more than her headshot. She wasn’t some wannabe actress. She was… truly phenomenal.” Dwight heard his own voice crack like a middle schooler’s. Once he was on camera, would everyone watching know how obsessed he had been with his fellow lab assistant? “And, let’s face it,” he added, “you’d be better on TV than me.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea? They’ll be asking about the work in the lab. You know I don’t like anything that calls attention to how this company got launched.”

It had been nearly twenty years since they started REACH. Sometimes Dwight actually forgot how the idea had originated, but Hathaway never did.

“It won’t be like that,” Dwight insisted. “Shows don’t get ratings by delving into the details of web-search optimization. They just want to hear about Susan.”

“Very well, then. If you’re in, I’m in.”

As Dwight returned to REACH’s colorful labyrinth, he felt completely alone. He couldn’t remember any time when he’d kept information from Hathaway. But he realized the real reason he had not shared his activities with his professor. He didn’t want Hathaway to be disappointed in him.

He had to find out more, though. The reason I want to do the show, he thought, is because once I have physical proximity to the others, I can clone their phones and finally prove who killed Susan. But, no, he couldn’t say any of that.

He had to do this. For Susan.