Robertson Boulevard's perennial congestion put the valet off the main street. The narrow mouth of the driveway disgorged foreign-make SUVs, each larger than the last. There was a break in cashmere, and Walker eased forward, catching the maitre d's attention.
"Excuse me, I called in earlier? My employer believes she left a purse here the night of June first?"
The maitre d's phony British accent amped up a few watts. "That's a long time ago."
"She's a very busy woman."
"No one's left a purse here."
"Maybe I should tell her to call the manager herself?"
A prissy down-the-nose glance. "June first was a"-his nail tapped a few beats on a tiny square calendar taped to the stand-"Friday. Victor works Friday nights." He whistled over the last waiter Walker had inventoried.
Victor came quickly, putting a jog into his step.
"Please see to this gentleman's questions," the maitre d' said.
Walker drew Victor away from the cluster of people. "Uptight crowd, huh?"
"You're telling me."
"I thought you were gonna pop that asshole about the lime thing."
"You saw that?" He shook his head. "I know, huh. What are you gonna do?"
"Listen, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I just moved out here from Columbus-"
"No shit? I went to school there."
"Fellow Buckeye? All right. Anyways, I been trying to make my way in journalism, freelance, but it can be tough. You know how that is."
"Hell, yeah. I'm a musician myself."
"So I'm writing a story on Vector, that biology firm. They had a dinner party here on June first?"
"Sure, I remember. They rented the whole place out." Victor nodded emphatically, thumb dusting his first two fingers. "It was a celebration. They got some patent approved or something, had people making speeches."
"I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions for my story?" Walker pulled out a photograph of Tess. "Was this woman there that night?"
"Yeah, I remember her." A smirk. "Past her prime, but still pretty smokin'. She's a photographer or former model or something."
"Is she? How do you know that?"
"Well, she got into a discussion with this other guy over here by the valet-"
"Show me."
Victor walked him a few paces down the sidewalk. "I remember because there was some kind of valet mix-up, caused a little commotion."
Walker noted a dark portal in the restaurant's side, overlooking the valet stand. "What'd the guy look like?"
"I don't really remember. I remember the chick better, right? I was circling with chardonnay, and I heard him say something about what happened in the limo at the shoot. He was sorta, I guess, apologetic without really being apologetic. I remember thinking, The problems these rich folks have, right? Like the guy probably packed Cristal instead of Dom Perignon or something."
"Did you hear anything else?"
"Naw, I was busy."
"You guys have a security camera or anything?"
"Yeah. See that little window?" He pointed, and Walker feigned surprise. "The security director keeps a valet cam, ever since some has-been TV star sued because someone stole personal photos from his glove box. They won't tell us who-part of the settlement, I guess."
"Do you think you could get ahold of the security tape for me from that night?"
"I wish I could. But no way. Especially not for press. The security director would have my ass."
"Maybe he'd let me take a look?"
"No, he's kind of a dick. Actually, scratch the 'kind of.' Plus, they store like three years of the old shit at the security company, in case a lawsuit pops up down the line. It's a hassle to retrieve it. I know because one of the valets got accused of emptying an ashtray full of change my second week. You're not gonna get old footage easy."
The maitre d's head poked above the crowd, swiveled, and found Victor. His conveyance of inconvenience was no less than epic.
"Gotta go. Sorry I couldn't be more help."
Walker smiled and returned the handshake. "You been plenty."
Chapter 41
Dean barely glanced up when Tim and Bear entered. His office was surprisingly small and unpretentious, save the desk's almost wall-to-wall breadth and the expansive window framing his broad build. From the twenty-sixth-floor perspective, his shoulders ranged from the neat rows of granite marking the dead in the veteran's cemetery to the old Fox Village tower, long subsumed by Mann's of Chinese Theatre fame.
Gripping a beautiful guitar by the neck and looking stylishly disheveled in a baggy grosgrain-ribbon button-up, deck shoes, and linen khakis, Chase went to the trouble to meet them at the door. A stack of copies sat neatly centered on a side table. Dean gestured to Tim and Bear, indicating that they should sit, but they remained on their feet, picking through the offerings. The so-called file of disgruntleds. Beacon-Kagan's employment records for Ted Sands included the basic facts, nothing more. A pamphlet on Human Resources guidelines. A few pages on test-subject selection read as if they'd come out of the marketing department. The party guest list Tim knew, by its inclusion, to be as sanitized and inessential as the other documents. He flipped the final folder closed, unimpressed.
"I hope that's a help," Chase said. "Everything you asked for."
"Not everything," Bear said.
"I've got a very busy day."
"Yeah"-Bear nodded to the unplugged Gibson acoustic-"you look pretty wrapped up here in high-level corporate affairs. We'll try not to inconvenience you too greatly."
"On Friday we have our pre-IPO presentation to investors and management. Which means…" Chase's lips pressed thin. "My staff at Vector and I have three days to prepare to receive a hundred of Wall Street's top money managers here in the auditorium on our first floor. Not to mention a raft of business reporters and various other members of the media. So as for inconveniencing us? You haven't. But Mr. Jameson has. And you seem a lot more interested in harassing our company than in apprehending him. Why is that?"
Dean continued alternating between the various lines feeding his headset and the countless stacks positioned at even intervals along the vast run of oak. He paused to offer his son a patient warning: "Chase."
Bear answered the question. "Because you've turned over what looks to be an embarrassment of riches from your PR department, but not much that'll shed light on why Walker Jameson is out to wreck you. Until we can find some answers, we'll keep coming back to you with the same questions." He shifted his attention to Dean. "Where's Dolan?"
A raised report covered Dean's eyes. "Any second." An assistant entered with a question about where to house a hedge-fund group winging in for the presentation, and Dean said, "Four Seasons. The whole team. But rooms-not suites."
"Okay." Chase sat on an arm of the leather couch, set his guitar across the cushions, and busied himself on his BlackBerry. "I'll play along. What more do you need?"
Bear said, "We need you to answer some questions."
"Like."
"Why did your former employee get killed in front of your house?"
"Haven't the foggiest."
"Coincidence, maybe?"
"A lot of power forwards at that party. So. Maybe it had to do with one of them."
"As we suggested-but your father's pretty sure the guest list is not the motive. And it was his flagstone that got stained."