Because of this, Cal Ops has a policy of trying to have as many “ethnic” employees as possible. Malone’s idea, and a good one, because you never know which neighborhood you might need to send an op to, and a P.I. needs to blend to be effective. So you’d think that we’d have an Armenian on the payroll.
Unfortunately, we didn’t. Not counting Malone and me, we only employ four ops. Besides Stowicz and Jessica Zavala we have Nora Moon (Korean-American) and John Jett (black). Consequently, Malone decided he would tackle Yarjanian all on his lonesome.
There are uniforms that aren’t really uniforms — like the lawyer in a camel cashmere sport jacket, red power tie, navy dress slacks, and black tasseled loafers. For a Texas Ranger, the uniform consists of a spotless white shirt with two Western-style button-down breast pockets, a conservative tie with a perfect Windsor knot, a dark three-button whipcord suit with a single vent, a broad white Stetson sporting a classic stovepipe block, and, of course, boots. Not forgetting the hip-mounted Colt Gold Cup.
The Senator mostly gave up the Stetson, it being a little out of place in L.A. except at the Rose Parade, but otherwise retained his dress habits. He likewise retained the habit of recording his interviews, then immediately transcribing them. You can use contemporaneous notes when giving evidence in court, and Malone is nothing if not methodical. Rule Number One at Cal Ops is, Document everything.
When he got back, I listened to the tape.
MALONE: Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Yarjanian.
Malone had found a publicity photo of the lawyer. I studied it as I listened. In it, Yarjanian stood in his office next to a famous basketball player, smiling broadly, his eyes nonetheless exuding a vulpine coldness. He wore his wavy hair long, almost to his shoulders, and in spite of being dwarfed by the hoop artist, you could tell he was tall. He looked about thirty-eight, forty.
YARJANIAN: Anything to help the family, Mr. Malone. Barry Pincus is a dear friend.A lovely man.
MALONE: I know you can’t divulge anything that might compromise attorney-client privilege, but Mrs. Pincus thought you might be able to help us find her son.
YARJANIAN: Well, I only did a little work for Buddy, all of it a matter of public record. It was important work, sure. But Pleiades has its own house counsel now, so I wouldn’t know about that.
MALONE: Pleiades?
YARJANIAN: The company Buddy put together with Darryl Tarkauskas.
MALONE: Sorry, but this is the first I’ve heard about it. What kind of company?
YARJANIAN: Computer entertainment industry. The future, baby. Within ten years, TV and film will be toast. Listen to me. If you’re smart, you’ll catch the wave. I can set you up with some excellent opportunities—
MALONE: That’s the sort of thing I have to let the investors in the agency handle. I’ll mention it to them. But getting back to Buddy—
Of course, Malone didn’t mention that he and I were the only so-called “investors” in Cal Ops.
YARJANIAN: Right. Anyway, Buddy came to me because he thought he could make a lot of money with an invention of his. He already had the patent, but he needed investors and a connection for content.
MALONE: What kind of invention?
YARJANIAN: Video data compression. You’ve heard of MP3? It’s a way to reduce the size of digital audio files. That’s audio data compression. Instead of having to replace a tape or a CD in your Walkman, you get an iPod the size of a credit card and listen to hours and hours of music in MP3 format. There’s also video data compression, but Buddy invented a new process that was vastly better than any other standard. His idea was to market entire libraries of movies on a little gizmo you could fit in the palm of your hand. He didn’t want the kind of trouble that went with the whole Napster file-sharing debacle, and so he came to me. But I told him without the product — his so-called “vPod” — there wasn’t much I could do. You ever make a pitch to Hollywood?
MALONE: Can’t say as I have.
YARJANIAN: Well, you got to have something to make a buzz with. A fat kid — sorry — with just an idea and no demonstration model isn’t likely to win over too many of the hotshot MBAs who decide where to put the money. He has to have something to show them first. That means he needed a partner in the manufacturing segment. I tell you, I thought about investing myself. Glad I didn’t, now.
MALONE: Why didn’t you?
YARJANIAN: I’m very good at what I do, Custer — can I call you Custer? — but manufacturing, that’s a whole different gig. Finding a factory, suppliers for parts, labor, distribution. Major probs. Buddy needed a venture capitalist. I’m a lawyer. I told him I could help with getting the content, you know, licenses for movies, maybe, but otherwise it was out of my league. But I did say I would make a few calls. That’s how he got together with Darryl. I’m glad Buddy found somebody interested, but I was a little pissed off when they decided to get house counsel, especially after I’d put them together. But I guess I see their point.And Pleiades is a real mess.
MALONE: So who is this Darryl — what did you say his last name was?
YARJANIAN: Tarkauskas. Like I said, he’s a venture capitalist. Used to be big into junk bonds. Now he produces schlock teenage slasher pics for the direct-to-video market.
MALONE: Tell me about Pleiades.
YARJANIAN: You know they didn’t even let me handle the incorporation? That’s gratitude for you. But it’s probably just as well, given their problems.
Pleiades Computer Corporation was in trouble from the beginning. Buddy might have been a genius, but he was a moody kid completely unequipped to enter the cutthroat world of high-tech business. The company began to hemorrhage as deals fell through one after another, including the costly manufacturing plant they had tried to set up in Baja. Yarjanian seemed to relish giving Malone every embarrassing detail.
At the end of the interview, Yarjanian gave Pleiades Computer’s business address on Sunset Boulevard to Malone. And then the parting shot.
YARJANIAN: I wouldn’t worry too much. I’ve heard that Buddy has a habit of disappearing for a few days with one of his nerd compadres when the stress gets too much. Las Vegas, Hawaii, the Grand Canyon, that kind of thing. I bet he turns up.
MALONE: What would it mean for Pleiades if he doesn’t?
YARJANIAN: That’s a good question. Buddy owns the patent outright. He’s only licensing it to Pleiades.
The next day, Buddy did turn up.
Dead.
Two-thirds down the South Rim of the Grand Canyon along a rough trail several miles off the literal beaten path. He was found by a couple of experienced hikers. Cell phone coverage is iffy out there, but they had walkie-talkies and conveyed the news of their grisly discovery to a friend back up on the Rim. She in turn called the authorities.
The body was partially decomposed thanks to the heat and the fact that he’d been there for ten days, but there was no doubt he had died of natural causes. Heat stroke. The second most common cause of death, after falling, in one of the deadliest and most beautiful places on earth. I remembered the posters in his bedroom. It made me sad.