The phone in the conference room rang; in a throaty voice Judy Markham announced Wesley Miller calling from Philadelphia.
Kate glanced at her watch: three-thirty. “Yes sir,” she said cordially. “Working a little late, aren’t you?”
“In these hectic economic times we’re all working a little harder,” Wesley Miller rumbled. “I know you can’t discuss the case, but I’ve just come from an extended meeting with Jonathon Wagner and the executive board about Fergus Parker’s successor. Jonathon’s asked me to give you a call and see whether you’d at least answer this question. Is Fred Grayson a suspect?”
“Yes sir, he’s a suspect.”
“Ah, is he just a suspect generally, along with a number of people? Or is he—as I understand it, your normal procedure is that everyone is under suspicion. Isn’t that so?”
Kate decided to parry the question while she considered how she would answer. “Would Mr. Grayson by chance be your choice to succeed Fergus Parker?”
“A manager in Kansas City with a fine record was our first choice. But it’s near impossible to find people willing to transfer into your expensive city.” Wesley Miller’s voice was aggrieved. “Can’t say as I blame Bill for turning down the job in these uncertain economic times. He and his wife have a seventy-thousand dollar house in Kansas City they couldn’t begin to duplicate in L.A. So we’ve decided to promote from within. Maybe it’s better under these tragic circumstances, give the employees more of a sense of continuity—”
“Isn’t Kansas City where Harley Burton came from?” She was searching back through her notes, to her conversation with Fred Grayson.
“Believe it is.”
“I understand he’s had an outstanding record—”
“Until recently. Can’t promote a man who’s just been demoted.” Wesley Miller’s voice had quickened with impatience and annoyance. “And Fred Grayson’s our choice. He’s senior manager in service, has a record that shows consistency, if not spectacular—”
This isn’t police business, Kate thought, shifting the receiver to the other ear as Wesley Miller droned on. Why the hell should she care whom they chose?
But faces drifted through her mind—Harley Burton, Duane Fletcher, Gretchen Phillips—admirable people who had had a Fergus Parker, and now would have a Fred Grayson. And Ellen O’Neil would still be here, would go on working here after this case was closed—if it ever was…
“It’s none of my business at all whom you choose, Mr. Miller. And I know you’re not interested in other opinions—”
“That’s absolutely correct.”
Kate kept her voice carefully courteous. “I must say that the choice rather surprises me in view of what I’ve seen of Mr. Grayson’s judgment—”
“Meaning what.” Wesley Miller’s tone was edgy, hostile.
She chose her first point cautiously. “There’s been a public accusation that Mr. Grayson pads his expense account.”
Wesley Miller’s sigh came clearly over the long distance hum. “Listen, I know I’m talking to a police officer. But I think you know, I think it’s public knowledge—well, it’s naive to think some expense account padding doesn’t go on in every business.”
“Yes sir, but two hundred dollars a week seems excessive by any standard.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred a week. According to Fergus Parker’s secretary.”
“Oh. Her. Well—”
Kate continued, “And Mr. Grayson’s racial prejudice is rather evident.”
Wesley Miller spoke slowly, in a tone that seemed bored. “Lots of us feel like we don’t want to ah, work with people who get shoved down our throats whether they can do the job or not. With all these damn laws and—”
“Mr. Miller, we don’t disagree on that. We talked about it this morning, remember? I feel that way and so do the police officers I work with. I can well understand anyone’s feelings on that score.” Kate picked up a piece of company stationery from the file folder she had been examining. “What I’m saying is, as an officer of a company with a strongly worded statement on its official stationery promising full commitment to equal opportunity, Mr. Grayson’s prejudice is blatant and has become public—”
Wesley Miller interrupted with quiet command, “Blatant in what way?”
He had chosen the first and less important adjective to question; Kate was certain he was now taking notes. She flipped her notebook open to the back page. “Understand, sir, these are not my personal judgments of Mr. Grayson. After eleven years in police work I’m quite accustomed to hearing considerable racial hatred. In my presence Mr. Grayson referred to Mr. Freeman as a nigger, a spook, a coon, a jungle bunny, a spade.”
There was lengthy silence. Then Wesley Miller rumbled, “I don’t care what a man’s personal opinions are so long as he keeps them out of his business life. So long as he’s got the damn sense to keep private the things that should be private.”
Such wonderful tolerance, Kate thought as she again shifted the receiver.
“Other than to yourself,” Wesley Miller said slowly, as if deliberating over his words, “how have these…opinions…of Fred’s become public?”
“He called Mr. Freeman ‘black boy’ before myself, three managers, and one other non-management employee—and would have made another racial slur except that I intervened. It was an ugly and dangerous situation. And I suggest to you that if there is another incident between Mr. Freeman and Mr. Grayson, or if the company ever wishes to take any kind of disciplinary action against Mr. Freeman, this occurrence has made things doubly difficult.”
Wesley Miller’s breathing was audible, slow and heavy. “Excuse my language, but people find ways to fuck up today I never even heard of when I went into this business.” He sighed, an exasperated expulsion of breath. “I’ll suggest to Jonathon that we make Grayson acting manager until we can fully discuss this…development.”
“May I make a suggestion, Mr. Miller?” The image of Ellen O’Neil again floated through her mind. She smiled and added, “Purely as an objective outsider.”
“Go ahead, can’t hurt.” Wesley Miller sounded mournful, tired.
“Perhaps you could arrange to come out here for a few days, do your own on-site observing. Mr. Freeman’s fired Billie Sullivan, but—”
“Who’s Billie Sullivan?”
“Fergus Parker’s secretary.”
“Oh. Yes. Her.”
“She has nothing to gain or lose now, and I suggest you talk with her. Especially about the reasons surrounding Harley Burton’s demotion.”
“Fergus’s reasons for that weren’t very convincing… I liked what I saw of Harley Burton. But it was Fergus’s bailiwick and he was adamant…” Wesley Miller trailed off.
Taking more notes, Kate guessed. “Mr. Miller, I’ll be as candid as I can under the circumstances. Whom we arrest, or when we make an arrest—that’s still problematic, we’re processing facts. In some cases we know empirically who committed a crime but we can never develop sufficient evidence to prosecute. But the strongest suspects in this case at this moment are all six members of the management staff—the six people who worked directly for or with Fergus Parker.”
There was a soft whistle. “That a fact?”
“Yes sir, that’s a fact. My point is, Fergus Parker gave a strong enough reason for homicide—for murder, sir—to all six people who worked with him. I think that should tell you something about Fergus Parker, and about this office.”
There was a silence. Kate waited, but the silence continued.
“Mr. Miller, it would be good right now psychologically for you to come out here. In these hectic economic times,” she said, placing slight emphasis on the phrase, “it seems like a good move for a company’s top management to look into things.”
After a moment Wesley Miller answered in his resonant voice, “That seems not a half-bad idea. I expect we would probably meet, Detective Delafield.”
Kate smiled. “I expect we probably would.”
“We’re always on the lookout, you know, for smart capable wo—people who show confidence and good judgment, handle themselves well, these are rare commodities, you know. We can always find places in our organization for…people like you.”
Caught off-guard, Kate was pleased. “I thank you for the high compliment, Mr. Miller. But my field is law enforcement.”
“And I think you should stay in law enforcement. We’re a big organization, Detective Delafield. With various needs for that kind of expertise. I don’t know how well they’re treating you where you are, but you could listen and see if we might not be able to treat you a little better. Never hurts to talk, I always say. Never hurts to listen.”
“No sir, indeed it doesn’t.” Kate sat back in her chair, smiling, looking out over the hazy sun-splashed city. “It’s nice out here right now. Santa Ana winds off the desert are expected for the next few days. You bring your swim trunks when you come.”