Authors: Mark Dawson
Jarad Efron.
Milton got out of his car, locked the door and followed the man as he exited the parking lot and started towards the office. The campus was out in the hills outside Palo Alto, surrounded by a lush forest bisected by streams, hiking paths and mountain bike trails. The wildness of the landscape had been transplanted here, too, with grasses and wildflowers allowed to grow naturally; purple heather clustered around the paths and coneflowers, evening primroses and asters sprouted from natural rock gardens. Milton quickened his pace so that he caught up with Efron and then overtook him. He gave him a quick sidelong glance: he had white iPhone earbuds pressed into his ears, something upbeat playing; his skin was tanned; his forehead was suspiciously plump and firm; there was good muscle tone on his arms. He was gym fit.
Milton slowed a little and followed into the lobby just behind him.
After he had spoken with Beau yesterday morning he had spent the afternoon doing research. Three hours at the local library. They had free internet and cheap coffee there and he had had plenty of things that he wanted to check.
Jarad Efron was familiar to him from the news and a quick Google search filled in the details: the man was CEO of StrongBox, one of the survivors of the first dotcom bubble that had since staked a claim in the cloud storage market. He was a pioneer. The company owned a couple of massive data farms in South Carolina, acres of deserted farmland rammed full of servers that they rented out to consumers, and, increasingly, to big tech companies who didn’t want to build facilities of their own. They offered space to Netflix and Amazon, among others. The company was listed on the NASDAQ with a price of $54 per share. Another search revealed that Efron had recently divested himself of five per cent of the company, pocketing thirty million bucks. He still owned another 2,000,000 shares.
A paper fortune of $108,000,000.
Efron was born and raised in Serbia, buying his first computer at the age of ten. He taught himself how to program, and, when he was twelve, he sold his first piece of software: a game he created called Battlestation Alpha. At the age of seventeen, he moved to Canada to attend Queen’s College, but he left to study business and physics at the University of Pennsylvania. He graduated with an undergraduate degree in economics and stayed for a second bachelor’s degree in physics. After leaving Penn, he moved to Stanford to pursue a PhD in energy physics. The move was perfectly timed with the first Internet boom, and he dropped out after just two days to become a part of it, launching his first company. He sold that for $100 million and set up StrongBox with the proceeds.
Milton looked around quickly, taking everything in. The lobby was furnished sparsely, minimally, but every piece of furniture––the leather sofas, the coffee table––looked exceedingly expensive. Two security guards in light blue uniforms and well shined shoes, big boys with a stiff posture. They both had holstered .45s hanging from their belts. The staff behind the reception desk looked like models from a high-end catalogue, with glossy, air-brushed skin and preternaturally bright eyes. Milton knew he only had one opportunity at this and, straightening his back and squaring off his shoulders, he followed right alongside Efron as the man beamed a bright smile of greeting to the girls and headed for the elevators. One of the girls looked past him at Milton, a moment of confusion breaking across her immaculate face, but Milton anticipated it and shone out a smile that matched Efron’s for brightness and confidence. Her concern faded and, even if it was with a little uncertainty, she smiled right back at him.
Milton dropped back again and let Efron summon an elevator. There were six doors: one of the middle ones opened with a pleasant chime and he went inside.
Milton stepped forwards sharply and entered the car as the doors were starting to close.
“Which floor?” Efron asked him absently.
Milton looked: ten floors, and Efron had hit the button for the tenth.
“Five, please.”
Efron pressed the button and stood back against the wall, leaving plenty of space between them.
The doors closed quietly and the elevator began to ascend.
Milton waited until they were between the second and third floors and hit the emergency stop.
The elevator shuddered and came to a halt.
“What are you doing?” Efron protested.
“I’ve got a few questions. Answer them honestly.”
“Who are you?”
Efron’s arm came up and made a sudden stab towards the button for the intercom. Milton anticipated it, blocked his hand away with his right and then, in the same circular motion, jackhammered his elbow backwards into Efron’s gut. It was a direct hit, just at the right spot to punch out all the air in his lungs, and he staggered back against the wall of the car with his hands clasped impotently to his sternum, gasping for breath. Milton grabbed the lapels of his jacket, knotted his fists into the fabric and heaved him backwards and up, slamming him into the wall so that his feet were momentarily off the ground. Then he dropped him.
“Hello?” said a voice through the intercom speakers.
Efron landed on his behind, gasping. Milton lowered himself to the same height, barred his forearm across the man’s throat and pressed, gently.
“It’s in your best interests to talk to me.”
“They’ll call … the police.”
“Probably better for you if they didn’t. The police are going to want to talk to you soon anyway, but you’ll do better with a little time to prepare. If they show up now, they’ll ask me what I was doing here. And I’m going to tell them all about the party you had in Pine Shore.”
“What party?”
“I was there, Mr. Efron. I drove Madison Clarke. You remember––the missing girl? I went inside. I saw it all. The people. I recognised some of them. The drugs. I have an eye for detail, Mr. Efron, and I have a very good memory. You want the police to know that? The press? I know a man like you, in your position, you definitely don’t want this in the papers. Bad publicity. It’d be a scandal, wouldn’t it? So we can speak to them if you want––go right ahead. I’ll wait.”
Milton could see him working out the angles, a frown settling over his handsome face. “Fuck,” he cursed angrily, but it was from frustration, backed by resignation; there was no fight there.
“Better sort that out.” Milton indicated the intercom. “You hit the button by mistake. Tell them it’s alright.”
He stood aside.
Efron’s breath was still a little ragged. He pushed the button to speak. “It’s Jarad,” he said. “I pressed the wrong button. Sorry. Can you reset it, please?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said.
The elevator started to rise again.
It reached the fifth floor. The doors opened, no-one got on, the doors closed and the car continued upwards.
“Is your office on the tenth?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go inside and shut the door. Don’t do anything stupid and I’ll be gone in five minutes.”
They reached the tenth floor and the doors opened again. Efron stepped out first and Milton followed. The floor must have been reserved for StrongBox’s executive team. Milton looked around. The big lobby was bright, daylight streaming in through huge floor to ceiling windows. One of the windows was open, leading out to a terrace area. The room was airy and fresh, very clean, the furniture and décor obviously chosen with great care and a generous budget. Efron led the way to a office with a wide picture window that framed the gorgeous landscape beyond: the deep green of the vegetation, the brown flanks of the distant mountains, infinite blue sky, crisp white clouds. There was a leather sofa and Milton indicated that Efron should sit. He did as he was told. Milton shut the office door and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Efron said. “You’re not staying.”
“You better hope so. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll be on my way.”
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me Smith.”
“So what do you want, Mr. Smith?”
“Just to find the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl who went missing after the party.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Playing dumb is just going to mean this takes longer, Mr. Efron. And I’m not the most patient man in the world.”
“What’s her name?”
“Madison Clarke.”
His shrug didn’t quite mask a flicker of disquiet. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“But you own a house in Pine Shore.”
“No, I don’t. The company owns it. We’re expanding. Hiring a lot of new talent. Time to time, we have new executives stay there while they’re looking for places of their own. It’s not mine.”
“There was a party there.”
“Okay. So there was a party there. Your point?”
“Madison is a prostitute. She was hired to be there.”
“You’re fucking crazy. We’re gearing up for an IPO. Do you know how stupid it’d be to invite a hooker onto company property?”
“You weren’t there?”
“I was in Boston.”
“That’s strange.”
“Come on, man. Enough with this shit!”
“No, it’s strange, Mr. Efron, because you hired her.”
“What?”
Milton saw him swallow.
“I didn’t!”
“You’ve never used Fallen Angelz?”
“No.”
“Yes you have. You paid, in advance, with a credit card registered to your company.”
He was starting to panic. “Someone used a StrongBox credit card?” he grasped. “So? Maybe they did. Lots of people have a company card.”
“Including you?”
“Of course. I’m the CEO. But it wasn’t me.”
“I thought you might say that, Mr. Efron, so I did a little extra checking. The things you find out when you speak to the right people, know what I mean? Here’s what I know: I know it’s not the first time you’ve used that agency. I know you’re a valued customer. One of the regulars. I know the girls speak highly of you. A good payer, they said. A nice guy.”
He swallowed again, harder.
It was a bluff. Milton looked at Efron, setting aside the bland mask and letting him see him as he really was: a seasoned, iron-willed operative. “Now,” he said. “Bearing that all in mind: you want to reconsider?”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, yes. I hired her. Alright?”
“Better. Keep going. And you were there.”
“Yes.”
“You saw her.”
“Only briefly. I was hosting.”
“What happened to make her so upset?”
“I didn’t know she was––not until afterwards.”
“You know she hasn’t been seen since the party?”
“Yes––but only because the police said.”
“Have they spoken to you?”
“Not to me, but to a couple of guys who work for me. We said it was their party and that’s how it needs to stay. The IPO is everything, man. I got three hundred people working here. Their jobs depend on getting it right. I get involved in a scandal now, we’ll have to pull it.”
“I don’t care about that, Mr. Efron. I just want to find out what happened to Madison.”
“And I told you: I don’t know.”
“Someone who was there does know.”
“Maybe it was nothing to do with the party at all.”
“Give me a list of the people who were there.”
“You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “No way.”
“Last chance. Don’t make me ask you again.”
“I can’t do that.”
Milton got up and walked straight at Efron. The man scrabbled backwards, into the chair, and held up his hands to ward him away. Milton swatted them aside, hauled him out of the chair and dragged him across the room to the terrace. He struggled, guessing what Milton had in mind, but his right arm was jacked up behind his back with the fingers splayed, almost pointing all the way up. The more he tried to free himself, the harder Milton pushed his palm, flattening it, each added ounce of pressure closer to breaking Efron’s wrist and fingers.
“Last chance.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Your choice.”
Milton shoved him up against the wooden balustrades, the rail up at waist height, then forced him over it until his feet were raised off the floor. He fixed his right hand in the waistband of his trousers, locking his bicep to bear the weight, and used his left to press him down. Efron’s head went almost vertical, looking straight into the ten-story drop.
Milton kept his voice calm. “Who was there?”
“Jesus!”
“Who was there, Jarad?”
“Shit, man, please! I’ll tell you, I’ll fucking tell you!”
MILTON TOOK THE ELEVATOR back down to the ground floor. He had a sheet of A4 paper that Efron had printed for him; he halved it, then quartered it, and slipped it into his inside pocket. He waited patiently as the car descended, the floors ticking off with the same pleasant chime as before. He reached the ground floor and the doors parted. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the two security guards waiting for him.
“It’s alright, boys,” he said. “No need for any trouble. Your boss is fine and I’m leaving.”
They each had their hands resting on the butts of their identical Colt .45s.
“Don’t move,” the nearest one ordered. He was a big boy––bigger than Milton––and stood with the kind of lazy confidence that a guy gets from being young, a little stupid, six-three and two-ten. The other one had a similar stance: quarterback type, jock, used to getting whatever he wanted. That age, Milton thought, they’d probably tried out for the police but been shitcanned because they weren’t bright enough. They didn’t fancy shipping out to the desert in the Army and so private security was their best chance to wear a uniform––they probably thought they looked cute doing it––and wield a little authority.
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Turn around.”
Milton shrugged, made it look like he was resigned to doing as they asked, but as he turned he flung out his right hand in a streaked blur of motion, his fingers held straight with his thumb supporting them beneath. The jab caught the first guard above the larynx, hard and sharp enough to dent his windpipe; he fell backwards, his mouth open in a wide O of surprise, his hands flapping impotently, gasping for breath that wasn’t getting into his lungs as easily as it had done before. The second man went for his holstered .45. Milton hit him high on the cheekbone with his right fist, rocking him back, fired in a left jab, then shoved the guy in the chest to bounce him off the wall, and as he came back toward him he delivered a head butt straight to his nose. He caught the man’s wrist in his hand, yanked his arm around and pivoted so that all of his weight propelled him back into the elevator. He bounced face-first off the wall of the elevator car and landed on his knees. Milton caught the second man by the belt and collar and boosted him into the elevator after him, reaching around the corner and slapping the button for the tenth floor.