X - Chapter Eighteen "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Eighteen  - Mike Stein 

      There was a slight drizzle in the air as I left the cover of the MetLife Building to cross 43rd Street. I was in a good mood because I had worked a good part of the previous afternoon on Ted Merritt’s speech. It was just about finished; maybe it needed one more reading to be sure. I had captured some of the excitement in presenting an image of the future business environment, and of course, since Ted wanted to get an idea of my progress, I wanted my work to be polished.

      As I walked through the marble hallway of the Helmsley Building, I had to laugh at myself. Sunny weather didn’t always mean good luck, and bad weather bad luck. How silly, I told myself, just superstitions, that’s all. So I trudged through the crowd on Park Avenue and made my usual turn on 53rd Street. 

      The street was closed off, blocked by barricades, a few police cars and a half-dozen cops. From a distance, I could see to mid-way down the block, to my building. There, all jumbled together, were at least one ambulance and the blinking of bright red lights in a disjointed pattern and rhythm, the kind of thing that could hypnotize you. I couldn’t actually count them all, but there must have been close to ten police vehicles. 

      I chose a young cop and asked him what was going on. 

      “You got me,” he said. “All I know, they told me no one gets through unless they work here, in the street. You, you work here?”

      “Yeah, I do,” I answered. “And I gotta get to my office.”

      “Okay, go ahead. But if you’re lyin’, they’ll arrest your ass.” 

      The street was empty, almost deserted, except for some cars parked on both sides. I started walking down the middle of the street to my building, and then I went in. In the lobby, there were three men and two women in business suits in our Starbucks. At the elevator banks, there were more cops, and I had to show my ID and a business card to take the elevator up to the thirteenth floor. 

       In our lobby, there must have been more than twenty-five or thirty people milling around, not knowing what to do, and it seemed our offices were entirely closed off by yellow “Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” tape. Bernadette was sitting at her post, and she looked lost.  

      I spotted Scott Li coming out of the entrance. He held his hands up in the air, raised his voice, and made a short announcement. Ted Merritt had been found in his office, and he was “deceased,” that’s the way he put it, and the police were investigating. 

      There were groans and murmurs among the Winshire employees, even a few moaned “Oh, no,” and then there was a rush of hurried whispering. Scott waited for a short time to let some of the initial shock pass. Then, rapidly, he said people could return to their workstations, wait to be interviewed by one of the officers now in the Winshire offices, and then they were free to leave and report for work tomorrow morning. 

      I felt numb. Often, I don’t react to important events right away. It’s a failure on my part. It takes me a certain time to understand and to respond emotionally. In this case, I just didn’t know anything. There was nothing to respond to. I felt cold, uninvolved. 

      But something told me that I should ask Scott if I could help. He appeared relieved. 

      “Thanks, Mike. You sure can. Find Jimenez, Capt. Jimenez of the Detective Bureau, he’ll have a police band on his right arm, maybe his shield hanging from his neck, and get a few facts, and a short media release. Just write something, and we’ll work on it. We gotta say something. Something to keep the media off our backs, and not attract them.”

      “Got it,” I said. But he didn’t hear me because he rushed off. 

      I had to ask a few uniformed Police officers until I found Jimenez. He was middle-aged, maybe six foot tall, with black hair and the kind of pained expression on his face that said he’d seen it all. Maybe he had. 

      He pulled me down the hallway. In one office I saw several plainclothes officers with Dorothy. It was hard to look at her. She was sitting at a desk, and she was rocking back and forth. Her gray hair had fallen down and spread over her shoulders. Her hands were covering her face, and the bit of forehead I could see looked blushed. Jesus, I thought, this must have hit her, she worked for the guy for more than ten years. I felt my spine jerk. Maybe what I was feeling was more for her than for him, but there was no doubt: It was starting to get through to me.    

      I saw that we were heading for the end office. I saw a bunch of officers there, so this must have been some kind of an operations center they’d set up. But to the right we had to pass Ted’s office. I only got a quick glance. I didn’t see Ted, really. 

      But I could see his polished shoes sticking out from under his desk. Jesus, that was Ted! All kinds of papers covered the floor, like it had just snowed. A shock, like a bolt, raced up and down my spine. It was hot, and the heat lingered. I was starting to feel light-headed and weak, and vulnerable; I just talked to the guy yesterday! As Jimenez rushed me along, the image froze in my mind, Ted’s shoes and the covering of paper on the floor.  

      Jimenez pulled me into the operations center, and started talking to me. “All you can say is the subject was found in his office, deceased. Got it, deceased? And the police are investigating. The cause of death has not been determined. Time of death appeared to be between nine and eleven, maybe up to around midnight.  That’s what you can say. But between us chickens, it’s not a pretty sight. There must’ve been an altercation in there. But I already said too much. Any questions?”

      “No, thank you, Capt. Jimenez.”

      “And remember. Tell your Mr. Li I need to see whatever he has before he puts anything out. I gotta approve it.”

      I thought I had escaped, but then Jimenez put his hand on my shoulder. “You the new one, aren’t you? Your name Stein, Mike Stein?”

      “Yeah, that’s me.”

      “Well, it’s what? It’s eight-thirty. Don’t go anywhere, okay? Around ten, find me. I’ll still be here. I gotta talk to you.”

      “Sure, whatever you say, but I gotta tell you. I’m just about brand new with this company, you know,” I answered. 

      “That’s the point,” he said. “New people keep their eyes open. Sometimes they see stuff, stuff the regular folks just take for granted. Around ten.”

      I hurried back to my office. Going through the hallways, I looked straight ahead, I didn’t let myself look to either the left or the right. Until I threw myself into my chair. 

      Then I felt it, full throttle. Hot shivers along my spine, they came bad. It couldn’t be! I didn’t want to believe it. Jesus, what could be going on here? But it was true. Just yesterday, I was in Ted Merritt’s office, when I heard just the end of his phone conversation. 

      And I heard it.

      I hung onto the edge of my desk, and I closed my eyes. I breathed in and out a few times. Easy! I told myself. Get control of yourself! You’ve seen worse. Easy! I thought of the days I was a police reporter back in Eureka, it seemed so long ago. I saw dead bodies twice. Once was when I saw the body of a teenaged boy, face down in blood, whose stepfather, thinking he was a burglar, shot and killed him, and I let myself weep openly. The other time it was a small-time criminal, in some kind of battle between gangs, took a shotgun blast in the head, and the local detective, looking at the garage’s splattered wall, said he was surprised the victim had so much brains. And I didn’t feel a thing. 

      Yes, I heard it, I heard Ted on the phone, and this time it was personal. Jesus, I work here, I knew the victim. I knew Ted Merritt, and I heard Ted agree to meet the guy, somebody, on the other end of the line for dinner last night, and Jimenez said Ted died last night between nine and midnight. Jimenez said there was an altercation. He didn’t say murder. But I saw Ted laying there. And yesterday, it was yesterday that I heard Ted agree to that dinner, I was there and I heard it.

      Somehow, I forced myself to write. 

      For Scott, I wrote the bare-bones media release he wanted, just like Jimenez said. Except I wrote that Winshire operations were being carried out on a normal basis, and any important information would be announced.

      Then I e-mailed the text to Scott, and when I called him, he said it was fine. I told him Jimenez wanted to talk with me, and he wished me luck. He said he’d like to know how it went. 

      I felt old. I was thirty-eight at the time, and usually I felt young and frankly pretty energetic. But just now, I was feeling vulnerable. Jesus, there’s a killer out there. Someone killed the boss of Winshire Associates, and what do we do? We stand around like a herd of sheep waiting to talk with the cops. Are they protecting us? 

      So you’re gonna be asked questions by the police, by the guy who’s seen everything, or so he pretends, and they they’ll tell you to go on home. And that’s it. But that’s not it. You gotta do something! You gotta decide something! You can’t just wait!

-0-

      The first things Capt. Jimenez asked me for were my driver’s license, my social security number and a business card. When he left to make a copy of my driver’s license, I felt intimidated. I was sitting at a mile-long table in the firm’s board room. From my seat, I could see all of lower Manhattan through a wall of blue glass. And behind me was a wall of phony leather-bound books and pretentious bronze sculptures. 

      When Capt. Jimenez returned, he sat across from me. He seemed to be following a script: What was my job? How long was I with Winshire? Who I reported to?

      I answered: “I’m part of the Media function, and basically I’m a writer, I ghost articles about management subjects, I interview consultants, write the articles, put the consultants’ names on them, and then get them published.”

      “So, you’re a ghost,” he said. “Who’ve you spent time with since you been at the firm?”

      I did some quick thinking. I had to be honest, but I had to be real careful about what I said. “Scott Li, I report to him; Ted Merritt, I was writing a speech for him to deliver to a big meeting; his administrative assistant, Dorothy Reynolds; Bill Voldman, the head of the Technology Practice; Gordon Hope, head of Chemicals and Pharmaceuticals; maybe in all, maybe a dozen people.”

      “When’s the last time you saw Merritt?” Jimenez asked. 

      “Just yesterday morning. We talked about his speech. He wanted it to be spectacular.”

      It seemed Jimenez was zeroing in: “How do all these people get along with each other?”

      I let myself answer more fully. “I used to be a journalist, and this has been a change for me. Here, the atmosphere is tough, really kind of competitive. I feel it. But like I said, I’m brand new. Really, I don’t know what goes on behind the scenes.”

      Then, Jimenez dove in for the kill: “Who you think killed Mr. Merritt?”

      My jaw dropped. I was silent. I knew I couldn’t answer a question like that. 

      Jimenez’ face changed; he seemed concerned. “Look,” he looked down at his notebook, “Mike, you with me? You gotta shake yourself outta it.” 

       “Look, I saw him . . . “ I felt myself stumbling over my words. “I saw his feet, and I knew he was dead, but I didn’t know he was killed. Honestly, really honestly, I got no idea. How in the world . . . ”

      “Okay, let’s try another direction. Who you trust here?”

      “Boy, that’s a big question.” I was starting to regain a little confidence. “Who do we trust? I don’t know. This is New York. You know better than me; it’s a rough city. Anyway, I think I trust Scott Li, yeah, and the head of our Technology Practice, Bill Voldman. Merritt, I don’t know, he’s . . . was a tough guy, but I guess he had to be. But you know I’m a newcomer, and I’ve only met, I don’t know, maybe only a dozen people.”

      “Well, that’s it for now.” Jimenez looked disappointed. “But I might call you. And I wanna tell you, when we talk again, I want you to tell me what you know. I don’t like people that hold back. And if you get on my bad side, your life gets complicated.” He didn’t say anything for a while, then, “That’s it. You can go. But I think we’ll talk again.”   

   -0-

      Scott called me and asked me to handle one more task for him. A reporter from The New York Times had called. His name was Fabio DiAndrea, and he called about the media release, the one I wrote and Scott had just issued on the public relations newswires. 

      “Sure, I’ll call him right away,” I told Scott. “But I got an idea. You know a text that was written maybe two years ago, harmless, in fact, sugar-coated.”

      Scott cut me off. “Yeah, I know it, unfortunately. I was the genius that hired the guy, and I had to pay him, even when nobody liked what he wrote.”

      “Well, I could just get his questions, by e-mail, but send him the text. We could buy some time. Then you and me, we could talk this over tomorrow.”

      “Sold,” Scott shot back.

      I called DiAndrea back. He was a pro. He started probing, asking me things I had no way of knowing. I pled ignorance, but I proposed the text. 

      “You’re a lucky, guy,” he sounded in a hurry. “You’re lucky I’m working on something. So, okay, please send me what you can, and I’ll send you some questions, and we can talk tomorrow. Okay, thanks for trying.” 

      I kept my promise. I scanned the document, e-mailed it to DiAndrea, and set a note to Scott that all was good. I asked him if he needed anything else, and if not, I’d take off. 

      My phone rang. It was Scott. “Mike, thanks. See you tomorrow. I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but I’m wrestling with a few alligators.” 

      As I was leaving the building, I saw that a crowd had gathered. I recognized a good number of the onlookers as Winshire employees. I told myself that I should walk away, fast, but something – instinct, I don’t know what – kept me there. After a few minutes, an EMS team was bringing a folding stretcher down the front steps, and I could see a tightly wrapped form in a white sheet on the stretcher. Jesus, I thought, all that ambition, all that power, a life of striving, and this is how it ends. My spine shook for a few seconds, as the EMS team slid the stretcher into the truck. Then they slammed the doors shut, the rumble of the truck’s engine, and I felt cold.  

-0-  

      Wendy was in the kitchen when I arrived home. Her eyes were bright, and her smile warm. She was wearing a white t-shirt and dark blue pedal pushers. I put my briefcase on the floor and rushed toward her. We held each other, I don’t know how long, but I felt calm and secure, and I didn’t want to let go. 

      Josh and Isaac came into the room, they were bumping against each other. It looked like they both wanted to be in front. 

      “Is Mommy okay, she need your help, Daddy?” Josh asked with trusting eyes. 

      I turned and picked up both boys in my arms. “No, no, Mommy’s fine. Daddy needs just a little hug.” 

      Wendy joined the hug. “Everything’s going to be good, I promise. We’re all fine. Look at us. Who could say we’re not fine? We’re a family.”