Unlucky 13

Chapter 31

Conklin and I took seats opposite Michael Jansing in his office/Chuck’s Prime museum of ads and artifacts.

Jansing, Chuck’s chief executive officer with the hay-colored hair and narrow blue eyes, glared at us over engraved plexiglass cubes, slabs, and obelisks on his desk, all trophies awarded for fast-food advertising.

I said, “Do you understand me, Mr. Jansing? The FBI is investigating another death by Chuck’s as we speak. Do you want to help your company and cooperate with us, or should we just back off and let the Feds take you in and treat you to enhanced interrogation?”

Jansing got up from behind his desk and went to the doorway.

He said to his assistant, “Caroline, get Louis, would you?”

Jansing returned to his desk.

“My lawyer.”

“That’s fine,” said Conklin. “If that makes you more comfortable.”

“Listen, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. Our head of legal has something to tell you,” Jansing said.

A stooped man came through the doorway. He wore a corporate gray suit and a comb-over with a dark metallic sheen, and he had nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand. I recognized him as one of the players at the executive Ping Pong meeting we’d attended.

He came toward us and introduced himself again.

“Louis Frye,” he said and shook our hands before taking the chair next to Conklin.

Jansing said, “Lou, please tell these officers about the text messages.”

What was this? We hadn’t heard about any texts relating to the belly bombs. If Jansing had withheld information, he’d better have a damned fine reason or he was going to be charged with obstruction.

“This text came from a prepaid boost phone,” Frye said. “I printed it out for you.”

He passed over a plain sheet of copy paper with a smattering of words: “Time to pay up.”

“When did you get this?” I asked.

“After the bridge bombs. It came to me,” said Lansing. “I thought it was spam. It meant nothing to me. We didn’t know that the bridge incident was related to us,” said the lawyer, “until the FBI descended on our Hayes Valley store.”

Frye said, “Then Michael got another text. Identical message, but they followed up the text with a phone call naming the amount. We decided to pay.”

Of course they paid. Chuck’s Prime only cared about keeping the company name off the record and out of the news.

“How much?” Conklin asked.

“Fifty thousand,” said Frye. He was slapping at his pockets, looking for his smokes. He found a worn pack of an unfiltered brand, opened it, closed it, and put it back in his jacket pocket.

He said, “We bundled the bills in a Chuck’s Big Lunch Box and left the box in a garbage can at our Monterey location.”

Conklin said to the head cheese, “You’re telling us you believed that would be the end of it?”

“Yes. Of course. And we agreed, Lou and I,” said Jansing. “Rather than let someone else die, we forked over the money. It seemed like the best course.”

I wanted to shout at the two suits, “You morons.”

Instead I said, “So rather than call the cops, have them monitor the transfer, you trusted a bomber, a murderer, an extortionist, when he said that there would be no more bombs.”

Jansing had gone pale around his eyes and mouth. I didn’t think he was feeling remorse. More like he was realizing how much shit was about to hit the fan.

“We employ thousands of people, all of whom would be negatively impacted if the public—”

“The FBI contacted us two hours ago,” I said, cutting his self-serving spiel off at the knees. “A Chuck’s customer exploded from inside out. Happened in one of your parking lots in LA.”

I passed the name of the FBI guy across the desk to Jansing and said, “I spoke with this gentleman, Special Agent Beskin, and he’s about to call you. I advise you to tell him everything you know. Any questions?”