Nemesis (23 page)

“You speak to him personally?”

“For about thirty seconds. I hard-lined his gatekeeper until she put me through.”

“He seem cooperative?”

“Wouldn't know it from the way he talked. Snotty cool. Tell you one thing I didn't need more than the thirty seconds to figure out.”

“What's that?”

“The man's an asshole.”

*   *   *

I had trouble sleeping again that night. Too tensed up. I would have liked to make love to Kerry, for the closeness as much as the stress release, but she didn't seem to want to be held and I was not about to try to convince her. She was still fragile, still healing. Until she was whole again, the initiative would have to remain hers.

So I lay there wired in the dark, holding her hand, thoughts running around inside my head, knowing without thinking about it that the reason I couldn't sleep was that I was afraid to, because I knew what my subconscious would have waiting for me.

And that was just what happened when I finally dropped off—Vincent Canaday's head exploding again on the flickering screen of nightmare.

 

24

I've learned to take Tamara's impulsive judgments with a grain of salt, but her assessment of Chad Weatherford's character proved to be right on. He was an asshole, all right. One of these young corporate executives so devoted to the enrichment of self and self-image that they develop what you might call a minor diety complex. They view everyone who comes within their sphere as inferiors and pawns to be used for professional gain and personal gratification. They care little or nothing about anyone who is of no benefit to them; fail to do their bidding or cross them in any way and they'll heap wrath on you and sweep you aside without a second thought. If TechPerfect ever grew into a corporate giant and Weatherford remained at the helm, the minor diety thing would no doubt evolve into a full-fledged God complex.

When and if the Weatherfords of the world grant small favors to strangers, it's either for their advantage or because it puffs up their ego by making them feel magnanimous. The latter was the only reason, if in fact he was innocent of any complicity in Verity Daniels's murder, that he'd agreed to talk to me. He didn't give a damn that a woman and neighbor was dead by violence or that an innocent man's liberty and reputation were in jeopardy. He had more vital things on his mind. Yes, he did. The perpetuation and prosperity of Chad Weatherford and his aggressive little kingdom was uppermost, but there were others, too, almost as important in his view.

Such as his daily exercise regimen.

He made that clear to me as soon as I was shown into his walnut-paneled, apartment-sized office at TechPerfect's corporate headquarters. Among a lot of expensive furnishings was one of those stair-climbing exercise machines, and he was hooked up to it and energetically striding away on it. Dressed in sweats and tennis shoes, a towel draped around his neck, sweat beading his lean, sharp-jawed face. He saw no reason to stop or even slow down for the likes of me, no reason to offer a cordial greeting, to shake my hand, to invite me to have a seat. Just kept right on pumping away while he enlightened me.

“Give you ten minutes max,” he said without preamble. “Tight schedule this morning, just managed to squeeze you in. Too busy to get enough exercise these days, have to grab a few minutes here whenever I can. Keep in shape.”

He was already in shape, as far as I could tell. The sweats he wore were tight-fitting and showed off the muscles working in his legs and shoulders. Not exactly a pretty boy, but with the kind of dark-haired, dark-complexioned, virile good looks that had a magnetic attraction for women. He'd never want for female worshippers and acolytes to fill his bed and feed his self-esteem.

I said, civilly enough, “You know why I'm here, Mr. Weatherford.”

“Naturally. Daniels woman. Don't see how I can help you. Already told the police all I know about her.”

“Tell me, if you don't mind.”

He didn't answer immediately because he was checking dials on the machine—pedometer, pulse rate, whatever. Smiling to himself while he did it: the minor diety was having a good day.

“Nothing to tell, really. Met her in the elevator at my building.” His building, as if he owned all of Bayfront Towers. “Nice looking. Nice body. Talked her up, invited her to dinner. No dice. You know how it is—win some, lose some.”

“And that's the only contact you had with her.”

“No reason to have any more. Saw her a couple of times after that, didn't talk to her.”

“Where did you see her?”

“Building. Garage, lobby.”

“Nowhere else?”

“No.”

“Was she with anybody any of those times?”

“No.”

“So as far as you know, she wasn't dating anyone who lives in Bayfront Towers.”

“Far as I know. None of my business.”

“How did she act that day in the elevator?”

“Evening, not day. Just after I got home.”

“All right, then, evening.”

Weatherford made another check of the stair-stepper dials, increased his speed on the pedals to a kind of spurting run. “Almost done. Couple more minutes, then just enough time to grab a quick shower before lunch.”

He'd begun to rub on me like sandpaper on a raw nerve. “You haven't answered my question, Mr. Weatherford.”

“What question is that?”

“How Verity Daniels acted in the elevator.”

“What do you mean, acted?”

“Her demeanor. Aloof, friendly, flirtatious?”

“None of the above. Frosty. Not really my type anyway.”

His type, I thought, would be the instantly adoring and easily seduced. I said, “Exactly what did you talk about?”

“Who remembers? I looked her over, she had a nice body like I said, I suggested dinner, she said no thanks. End of story.”

“Did she give you the impression she wasn't available to anyone or just not to you?”

He didn't like that; it put a hitch in his energetic workout. “What kind of question is that?”

“A reasonable one. Don't take it personally. Did she seem available?”

“Wouldn't have asked her out if I didn't think so. No sense wasting my time otherwise. Maybe she was a bottom feeder. Who knows?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Say what?”

“Bottom feeder. Meaning what?”

“Nouveau riche, wasn't she? Secretary or something before she inherited money?”

“Oh, I get it. You think she might have turned you down because she was uncomfortable with men of your class.”

The subtle sarcasm was wasted on Weatherford. He said, “Right. Uncomfortable, overwhelmed. Preferred men who wear uniforms and carry clipboards.”

“Uniforms and clipboards?”

He glanced at his watch again, nodded his head vigorously, and quit exercising. Blew out his breath and then began toweling the sweat off his face. “Time's up,” he said.

“Not just yet,” I said. “Not until you tell me what you meant by a preference for uniforms and clipboards.”

“Maybe you didn't hear me. I said time's up.”

“Maybe you didn't hear
me
. Uniforms and clipboards.”

He was looking at me now, really looking at me for the first time. “I don't care for your attitude.”

I managed to avoid making the obvious response. “Uniforms and clipboards, Mr. Weatherford.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake. She was all over Frank one day when I drove in.”

“Frank?”

“Garage security man, evening shift. Rubbing her tits on his arm, laughing about something.”

Frank Krikowski. “You told me before you hadn't seen Verity Daniels with anyone at Bayfront Towers.”

“Not with any resident,” Weatherford said. “Frank just works there. He's just a security guard.”

*   *   *

Security guard.

Verity Daniels and Frank Krikowski.

Sure, it made sense. Somebody close by … somebody at Bayfront Towers, but not one of the residents. She'd been a small-salaried employee most of her life, and except for Vincent Canaday, her past associations had been with working-class men: Scott Ostrander, Jason Avery. Canaday was the only professional man she'd been involved with, and the nature of her on-again, off-again affair with him might well have soured her on his type. An illicit affair with a macho security guard in her own building would have been right up her alley.

She talks a good fight, keeps saying over and over in a giggly little voice that she's on her guard.
Runyon's comment during our three-way conference call with Tamara—that was the memory fragment I'd been trying to recall, and that might have tipped me sooner if I had. Why would Daniels have kept saying over and over that she was on her guard, when she had no real reason to be? And why would she giggle when she was saying it? Answer: the phrase had another, literal meaning, a sly taunting of Runyon with a sexual reference to her new lover and accomplice. “On her guard” had meant just that, being on top of her security guard in bed.

Krikowski lived in San Francisco and had for the past fifteen years. Tamara pulled up his address—27th Street on the southern edge of the Mission, near S.F. General—and some background data on him in less than ten minutes. Clean record: he'd worked in law enforcement down the Peninsula for four years, spent the last nine as a private security guard for the corporation that owned Bayfront Towers and several similar buildings; had been employed at Bayfront since it opened. Married ten years, two children. Debts like most of us these days, but not swimming in them; mostly he managed to pay his bills on time.

No red flags in any of that, but I'd had more than enough experience not to put too much stock in surfaces. Some people used marriage and respectability to camouflage all sorts of illegal and immoral activities—people like Vincent Canaday. Others were exactly what they seemed to be until something—or someone like Verity Daniels—pushed them over onto the dark side.

*   *   *

The woman who opened the door of the flat on 27th Street was a tired-looking brunette wearing sweatshirt, jeans, and long dangly earrings that didn't go with her outfit or her plump features. Frank Krikowski's wife. Yes, her husband was home, he didn't leave for work until three-thirty. What did I want to see him about? I started to tell her it was a private matter when an infant began a loud squalling somewhere inside.

“My God,” she said, “there he goes again. That kid never lets me have a minute's peace.” She backed up into the room behind her, shouted, “Frank! Somebody to see you,” and vanished leaving the door open.

I heard him say, “Who is it?” and her answer, “I don't know, I never saw him before,” and a couple of seconds later Krikowski appeared. He wore his uniform pants, an unbuttoned shirt hanging loose above them.

One look at me and his mouth pinched in at the corners; he had a good memory for faces. “You never give up, do you? Now what do you want?”

“Few minutes of your time.”

“You already had that at Bayfront. I can't tell you any more now than I could then.”

“Step outside, Mr. Krikowski, so we can talk in private.”

“Listen, I don't appreciate being bothered at home like this.” Inside, his wife's ministrations to the infant were having no effect; the squalling had escalated into a series of wailing shrieks. “I can't hear myself think when Frankie goes off like that. I always wanted a son, what I got was a screamer.”

I didn't say anything.

He looked at me, winced as the shrieking climbed another couple of decibels. “Christ! All right,” he said, and came out onto the narrow porch and shut the door behind him. “Well?”

“Verity Daniels. How well did you know her?”

“What do you mean, how well? She was a resident, I said hello to her when she drove in or out, that's all.”

“That's not what I've been told.”

He was frowning now, but in a bemused way. “Told what?”

“That you had something going with her.”

“That I … Jesus! Ms. Daniels and me? Who told you that?”

“Another resident saw you together in the garage one afternoon. Said you were all over each other.”

“That's a damn lie!”

“She was holding on to your arm, rubbing herself against you. Sounds pretty intimate to me.”

“Who the hell … oh, yeah, now I get it. Mr. Weatherford. Big shot, smart guy. He's the one, isn't he?”

“You deny it happened?”

“No, it happened, but it wasn't my fault. Weatherford drove in, he saw it, he made a smart remark to me the next day about how she was a nice piece but I ought to be more careful about groping the residents in public. I told him it was her did the groping, but he just laughed, said don't worry, he wouldn't report me.”

“You're saying Verity Daniels came on to you?”

“That's right. Made it real plain we could have some fun, and gave me a little sample that time. I'm no Brad Pitt but she wasn't the first. Some of these rich women, and not just the single ones, they're always on the make. I won't say I never been tempted, but I don't screw around on my wife, and even if I did, I'd have to be six kinds of nuts to do it where I work.”

“So you turned her down.”

“Flat, same as the others before her. Polite as I know how, so she wouldn't try to get me in trouble. Said I was flattered, she was a nice lady—a lie, she always seemed a little weird to me—but I loved my wife and believed in my marriage vows.”

“And what did she say?”

“Got a little hot at first, called me a couple of names. I just stood there and took it. Then she calmed down and said she bet George wouldn't say no, like she was trying to make me jealous. I didn't bite on that, either. And that was the end of it. She pretty much ignored me after that, God's honest truth.”