Ethan had left me a message and he sounded apologetic when I returned his call. “You got me thinking. You know Bart Corliss, the guy who started the software company but committed suicide?”
Timely, since I had been talking to his company’s lawyer of record ten minutes ago. “A board member at the Devor mentioned him to me.”
“Right. Margoletti’s firm handled his start-up, so how come he fired Margoletti weeks before the IPO was announced, and then killed himself?”
“You’re saying Vince Margoletti had something to do with his death?”
“I’m not saying anything other than Margoletti and Corliss intersected, broke up dramatically, and now Corliss is dead.”
“Tell me about his company.”
“Corliss built a beautiful product, one that filled a specific and expanding niche in tech. For the past several years, there were rumors Loros was about to go public, but they always pulled back from the projected IPO dates when the time got close.”
“Any rumors about the back off?”
“Officially, they decided to wait out sluggishness in the economy, or to deal with some internal product issues first. Always a reason, but backing off three times makes you wonder. Then Corliss held a press conference to say they were definitely doing it on a certain date and the market got excited. I placed an order for damn near as many shares as my broker could get his hands on.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Went off as promised, I got a decent piece of the action, the price ran up, I sold half and held onto the rest. Made a little money. Corliss and the rest of the founding team, and the board members, made a pile.”
“Margoletti did too.” Loros’s lawyer had confirmed that for me.
“I heard he didn’t agree with the rest of the board about going public. He and Corliss butted heads on it. The rest of the board sided with Corliss.”
“Why?”
“You got me. Probably a combination of control and money. The fewer shares that exist, the greater percentage you have, right?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Neither does the timing of Corliss’ death. Why, when he’s made a fortune on the new stock, would Corliss kill himself?”
Ethan agreed it didn’t compute.
“This is going to sound like a crazy question, but do you know if Bart Corliss liked modern painting? Did you ever hear about him buying art?”
“Sorry, Dani, I didn’t really know the guy, only bumped into him a few times. Seemed quiet, nerdy, not sociable. That’s about it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m trying to connect some dots that refuse to make sense.” I realized I trusted Ethan for the same reason he trusted me, and that was because Suzy trusted us both.
I sat for a few minutes after ending the call, willing my imagination to clue me in as to why someone would kill anyone who knew about the IPO and the gift. Vincent Margoletti was at the heart of it, whatever it was, he wanted me to stop looking at the missing artwork. Did that mean he had hired someone to scare me off? I must be getting close to the heart of the secret.
Dickie had left a couple of messages while I was on the phone, and the house phone had rung too. I didn’t want to get distracted from the task at hand, so I let them go for now. My heart rate was elevated as I punched in the numbers from Margoletti’s business card, but I could have saved myself the stress. A bland assistant’s voice told me firmly that Mr. Margoletti was not available and that she did not know when I might reach him. I could only leave my name and cell phone number and ask him to call at his earliest convenience.
I turned back to my notes. As I sorted through the material, I noticed something I hadn’t seen when I first scanned everything from Saylor’s office. Without context, it hadn’t caught my attention, but now I wondered. It was a photocopy of a computer-generated note on plain paper that was mixed in with some IRS charitable instructions.
Margoletti—It’s been delivered to the warehouse in San Francisco. The papers will be sent directly to you as you instructed. At the top of the paper, a handwritten note: This is what I mentioned. He has no idea what it means. Maybe you’ll have better luck.
The handwritten note wasn’t signed. The paper had fold creases as if it had been inside a business envelope, but there was no date, no address, nothing to help me understand it. I was ready to bet the “it” was a piece of art. No business letterhead, so it wasn’t a communication from an auction house or a gallery. Maybe this was simply the tail end of a much longer conversation. Maybe.
I looked at my watch. I needed to catch Quentin for a minute if only to update him on events. I picked up the room phone to ask for a cab when there was a series of rapid knocks on my door in some kind of rhythm. A frowning face peered at me through the peephole. I opened the door warily.
“There you are,” Dickie said. “I was getting worried. You didn’t answer your room phone or your cell. You shouldn’t scare me like that.”
“How’s the reunion going?” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
“Oh, you know. A lot of bragging about how well they’re doing, and a lot of complaining about taxes and college tuitions for the kids.”
“I can never figure out why you come to these things if you don’t enjoy them.”
He gave me an apologetic look. “They’re the closest I have to brothers. I know that sounds dumb, but an only child sent off to boarding school has to take what he can get.”
In my family, closeness wasn’t hard to find. My memory is of standing at the door of the room I shared with my kid sister and yelling to my mother at the top of my lungs that I wanted privacy and would she please tell my sister to go somewhere else for a while so I could listen to my music. I realize Dickie’s childhood wasn’t perfect, even with a father who loved him dearly. His mother loves him too, I guess, in her way, which is more about preserving his status and his money against people who would sully one and take the other, specifically me with my obvious—to her anyway—goal of “marrying up.”
“Okay, it’s not dumb,” I said, grabbing my bag and ushering him out of the room and toward the elevator. “Even though it’s Saturday, I need to meet with Quentin. Ouch.” I had reached too far for the elevator button and my neck let me know.
“Are you hurt?” Dickie asked, the question I had hoped to avoid.
“No, not really,” I said, relieved that the elevator had been right there and I could beg off talking to him further while we descended in the company of a young guy carrying golf clubs.
“Oh, Ms. O’Rourke,” a voice called as we walked toward the door. It was the bellman, hurrying across the lobby. “I heard about your accident. The hotel manager asked if you needed help with your rental company?”
“Accident?” Dickie looked from one of us to the other.
“No thanks. They’ll send a new car if I need it.”
“What happened to your car?” Dickie was glaring at me as if I had done something wrong, which was grossly unfair. The young bellman nodded unhappily and beat a hasty retreat, something in my face signaling him that maybe he had made a mistake. If I hadn’t been so physically down, if I had had anyone else to turn to, I wouldn’t have caved so quickly. In the moment, however, there were so many questions and so many threads I was chasing, and I had no friends around or even work colleagues to talk things through with, and Dickie was right here, and, well, I gave in.
“We can’t talk here. I need to see Quentin. If you want to help, you could call his assistant and see if he has a few minutes.”
“It’s Saturday, babe. He’s far, far away.”
“He’s there. I already left a message.”
“Okay, I’ll call right now.” He pulled out his phone. “But what’s this about? Your accident?”
“You can go with me to Quentin’s office and I’ll fill you both in.” I didn’t want to discuss it in the lobby of the hotel. “What about the reunion, though?” And Miss Roman Holiday, I added mentally.
“Nothing I can’t miss this afternoon. Golf, mostly. I don’t play, remember?”
I did. It had been one of his attractions for me in the early days. He didn’t say if Isabella played, but I was guessing not or she would have invited him to caddy. “You have a car, right?”
Dickie gave me a thumb and forefinger sign as he spoke into his phone and went to wait for his car to be brought around. The bellman was still subdued as he handed the car keys to Dickie. I thought he might be feeling bad for his lack of discretion until I saw the car Dickie walked to, a brilliant yellow Ferrari, so low slung that I had to hang onto the car’s roof as I bent to get in. Truth was, the bellman was in awe. “This is your rental car?” I said, gritting my teeth as I tried to get comfortable.
“Yeah, well, sort of. I thought I’d try it out so I…” He got busy with the seat belt.
“Don’t tell me you bought it? You didn’t.”
“I kind of did. I mean,” he said, rushing to get the words out before I could comment. “I can take it back. These things are always on approval. They’re not for everybody, you know?”
You can say that again. I didn’t, mostly because the noise a Ferrari makes as it leaps forward, straining the bounds of gravity, begging to go from zero to one hundred miles an hour in six seconds, precludes normal conversation. When we had made a couple of turns and were cruising along in second gear, attracting every eye we passed on the street, Dickie started asking questions. I had to shout if only to get him to stop. “Hold on. I said I’d tell you everything, but I don’t want to run through it twice. Do I have an appointment with Quentin?”
“Yes. We lucked out. He doesn’t have much time, but he said if we could be quick, he’d see us. Is there anything he shouldn’t know?”
I thought for a minute, trying to make sense of Dickie’s question. “Of course not. What do you mean? Are you asking if I’ve done something wrong, like something illegal?”
“Not exactly,” he said in a placating voice that meant, yes, that’s precisely what he meant.
“No. I need to tell him about the accident, and some other things I’m learning. I need some advice.”
“You mean you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in a dangerous situation again? How do you do it, Dani?” His voice rose. “I mean, think about it. How many people outside of war zones find themselves in the predicaments you do?” He pulled the car up to the curb outside the law office and turned off the ignition.
“That’s not fair,” I said into the sudden silence. “I can’t help it if some of the people I meet get into trouble, or turn out not to be nice. The girl who got shot the other day was sweet, but I didn’t even know her two weeks ago. I hardly even met the man who drowned. I only want to make sure I do everything I can to help in the investigation.”
Dickie made a noise I remembered from my years of living with him. Part snort, part gargle, it meant I had said something he thought was open to interpretation and that his interpretation was that I wasn’t being completely logical. Irritated, I turned to open the door.
“How do I get out of this thing?” If there was something as old fashioned and ordinary as a handle on the doorframe, I couldn’t see it. To make my embarrassment complete, when I looked out the window, my nose was about as high off the street as the nose of the little poodle staring at me as he pranced past on the end of a leash. I wanted to explain to the smiling passersby that it was only because of my sore neck that Dickie had to haul me out of the Ferrari’s passenger seat.