The Consultant Read online

  As he rode up the elevator to the sixth floor, sharing part of the journey with a silent woman he didn’t know who got off on the fourth, the feeling did not go away, and when he saw half of the programming staff crowding the open area in front of Lupe’s desk, he realized that whatever had happened, it obviously involved his division. His mind began running down scenarios as he approached. Mass layoffs was the scariest, and not one he could automatically dismiss.

  But he was not prepared for the news that greeted him.

  “Tyler Lang’s dead,” Lupe announced before anyone else could say anything.

  He looked from his secretary to the programmers, part of him hoping irrationally that this was some sort of prank, though he knew it wasn’t, and he asked, “What happened?”

  Lupe started to talk but was drowned out by the programmers, who all answered at once. “He was electrocuted—” “It was a freak accident—” “—at his desk.” “He was—” “—the OfficeManager updates—” “—working after hours.”

  Craig raised his hands. “Hold on a minute. Hold on. One person at a time.”

  Lupe pointed to Huell Parrish. “Huell talked to Tyler’s wife.”

  The programmer was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called you first, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Craig interrupted him. “It’s fine. Just tell me what happened to Tyler.”

  “Well…” Huell took a deep breath. “I guess he stayed late yesterday to work on those OfficeManager updates. Lorene and I had come up with some code that we gave him to look over, and I guess that sparked something because Bev, his wife, said that he called to tell her he wouldn’t be home until seven or eight. He still wasn’t home by eight-thirty, so she tried calling his cell phone but got his voice mail. She tried his office number, same thing. Then, around nine, she got a call from, I don’t know, the paramedics, the police, the hospital, someone, saying that Tyler was dead. She thought it was a joke at first, but obviously it wasn’t. One of the nighttime custodians had found him at his desk, slumped over, and it looked like he’d just fallen asleep, but when he got closer, the janitor smelled something burning. He’s the one who called 911. Tyler had been electrocuted.”

  “Oh my God,” Craig said.

  “Yeah. Somehow, he’d knocked over a pitcher of water on his desk—maybe he had fallen asleep—and the water puddled on the floor, where the power cord to his desktop had been worn through and live wires were exposed. Tyler had kicked off his shoes and was barefoot, and…he was electrocuted.”

  “He was dead when the janitor found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Craig turned to Lupe. “How did you hear about it?”

  “From him,” she said, nodding toward Huell. “But I called Human Resources, and they were already aware of what happened.”

  Craig realized that he didn’t know the protocol for death. Was it his responsibility to inform the higher ups in the company if one of his employees died? No one had called him. How was he supposed to find out? Via email? Like he had here, from office gossip? Nothing like this had ever come up before. Maybe, if someone in his division died and he was the first person in management to learn about it, he was supposed to call Scott and let the department head take it from there, pass the buck up the ladder. He would call Scott after he got through here.

  “I hate to be crass at such a moment,” Jason said, “but that OfficeManager deadline’s coming up soon, and Tyler had all the updates. We’re going to need to get into his computer. Do you know his password and ID? ’Cause none of us do.”

  “We’ll figure out something,” Craig told him, and after several more moments of shocked commiseration, the programmers left, most of them heading over to the elevator, a few taking the stairs.

  “I can’t believe it,” Lupe said.

  “I can’t either.”

  “Should we send a card to his wife?”

  “And flowers,” Craig said.

  “I’m not sure flowers are appropriate for a death. Aren’t they usually for celebrations?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I know nothing about funeral etiquette. Why don’t you research that, find out what we should do, and go ahead and do it. Maybe one card just from me and another from the division.”

  “I’m on it,” Lupe said, sitting down and turning on her computer.

  Phil was striding down the hall toward them. “I just heard. Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.” Craig walked into his office, Phil following.

  “That is freaky.”

  Craig had been thinking of the interview with Tyler that the consultant had recorded—

  “Craig Horn’s a douche”

  —and was ashamed that he felt more shocked than saddened by the programmer’s death. He’d always thought that Tyler was his friend, but over the past twenty-four hours had come to realize that he did not know the man at all. Now he never would.

  How well did he really know anyone? he wondered.

  “Conflicted, huh?”

  Phil certainly knew him. “Yeah,” Craig admitted. “Well, not really. I mean, not about him dying. That’s horrible. But, apparently, we weren’t friends, even though I thought we were. So I’m wondering if I should even go to the funeral or memorial service—if I’m invited—because I’m not sure he would have wanted me there.”

  Phil was silent for a moment. “I don’t know how to say this,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not some wacky conspiracy theorist, but it seems more than a little coincidental that the guy they wanted to fire had a fatal ‘accident.’” He put air quotes around the word “accident.”

  Craig shook his head dismissively. “Even I don’t buy that.”

  Phil shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

  “Who was it they wanted to fire in your division?”

  “Isaac Morales.”

  “Well, if something happens to Isaac, then I might concede that you have a point.” He looked askance at his friend. “You’re not serious about this, are you?”

  Phil didn’t answer.

  “Spit it out,” Craig told him.

  Phil looked toward the door to make sure they weren’t overheard. “You heard how he died, right?”

  “Of course. He was electrocuted.”

  “Because he’d knocked over a pitcher of water. And he was barefoot. And there were exposed wires. And and and…”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Who has a pitcher by their computer? A plastic water bottle, yeah. But a pitcher? And who takes their shoes off at work? Has Tyler ever done that before? And is he in the habit of keeping pitchers of water around? And what about that conveniently exposed power cord? How much do you want to bet that it’s the only cord worn down that far in the entire building? How does a power cord even get worn down? It certainly doesn’t happen naturally.”

  It did seem kind of suspicious when spelled out like that, and it made Craig not quite so inclined to discount Phil’s speculations. Still, Matthews had the authority to fire anybody he wanted at any time he wanted, and it strained credulity to believe that it was easier to do away with Tyler than lay him off. That seemed a stretch even for Patoff.

  “He could’ve just had him fired,” Craig pointed out. “Killing him, or arranging for him to die in some sort of elaborate Mousetrap way, seems way too complicated and just flat-out unnecessary.”

  “Maybe,” Phil conceded. “But I say we keep our eyes open. My hunch is that this is only the beginning.”

  EIGHT

  It might have been a Friday, but for the fifth day in a row, Austin Matthews left work after eight and did not get home until nearly nine o’clock at night. Jack Razon, his vice president in charge of Advertising, had threatened to quit this afternoon, and while he would be happy to see that selfish prick out the door, Patoff had told him that for the moment it would be better if everyone in management remained in place. Once the new plan had been decided upon and implemented, then the
chairs could be rearranged.

  So he’d spent the last two hours trying to sweet talk that pouting baby into staying, and Jack had finally had his ego massaged enough that he’d agreed not to quit.

  Lights were on in nearly every room in the house when Matthews drove up, but the porch light was off, which told him that Rachel was mad at him again. It was his own fault—he should have called to tell her he was going to be late—but there was nothing he could do about it now except face the music, promise not to do it again, and hope that her hormones weren’t kicking in today.

  He got out of the Jag, locked it, and, ignoring the growing knot in the pit of his stomach, walked up to the darkened front porch and used his key to open the front door.

  Rachel met him in the entryway. “Hello, dear. I’m glad you’re home.” There was no sarcasm in the greeting, which seemed suspicious until she leaned in close and whispered, “I want that man out of here.”

  Before he could ask who, she was leading him into the living room. “One of your coworkers dropped by. I guess he has some business to discuss with you.”

  Sitting on the couch was Patoff.

  Why was he always on edge when he saw the consultant? He didn’t know why, but he was, and Matthews entered the room with a fake smile plastered on his face. “I thought I was through with work for the weekend.” He found himself wondering how the consultant had gotten here. The gate had been closed when he arrived, there was no car in the driveway, and he could not remember seeing any vehicles on the street in front of the house.

  Patoff stood. “I’m sorry to bother you at home,” he said, although Matthews could tell that he was not sorry at all. The consultant had wanted to come here; otherwise, he would have said whatever it was he was he needed to say back at the office. Even if something new had come up, there was nothing so important that it couldn’t wait until Monday.

  Did the man ever stop working? Matthews was beginning to have his doubts. It was difficult to imagine the consultant relaxing at home and watching a football game. On the other hand, it was very easy to envision him staying indoors all weekend analyzing data and plotting out spreadsheets on his computer.

  “What do you need?” Matthews said curtly. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  There was a clipboard in Patoff’s hand, though there had not been a moment before. He walked around the low coffee table. “I need you to sign this,” the consultant said.

  Matthews accepted the extended clipboard and looked down at the densely printed form attached to it. “What is it?”

  “You can read it for yourself, but, basically, it gives BFG Associates the right to collect employee computer IDs, passwords, and email addresses for the purpose of monitoring work product. It has been our experience that when employees know their computer time is being monitored, productivity increases. They are less likely to search private interest items, update their Facebook pages, play games, do online shopping or otherwise use company time and company property for personal use. Instead, they concentrate their time and energies on completing work assignments.”

  Matthews was hesitant. “Isn’t that a little Big Brotherish? Invading workers’ privacy? It seems to me that you get more work out of a happy worker than a disgruntled worker, especially in a creative business like ours. Allowing them a little leeway and giving them a little freedom seems like good policy to me.”

  “If it was good policy, I wouldn’t be here,” the consultant said. “You hired us because CompWare is having troubles. As I’m sure you know, the courts have ruled that employees do not have an expectation of privacy in the workplace. Allowing us to monitor employee computer usage over a set period of time will allow us to more thoroughly analyze your company’s work patterns and help enable us to forge a comprehensive plan for getting CompWare back on track.”

  Matthews glanced down at the printed form, then handed the clipboard back. “I don’t want to think about this right now,” he said. “Show it to me on Monday. We’ll discuss it then.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I just need you to sign—”

  “It’s—” Matthews glanced at his watch. “—nine twenty-three on a Friday night. My weekend has started.”

  “I understand. But if you would just—”

  “Look,” Matthews said. “It’s been a long week. Forgive me if I need a little R-and-R, but we suffered a tragedy in our midst, and I think we deserve a little breathing room, some time to absorb it and get over it.”

  “Yes,” Patoff said without conviction. “A tragedy. Although— not to be too mercenary about it—Mr. Lang’s death does save us from having to lay him off and pay him a severance package. And, as I understand it, the company is freed from its pension obligations, as those benefits as currently defined are nontransferable in regard to spouses and families. So basically, it’s a win-win.”

  Matthews was shocked. “A win-win?”

  The consultant held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. All I meant to say was—”

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” Matthews said firmly. He leaned forward. “I told you before, and I meant it: I don’t want you coming to my house.” He stepped aside, motioned for Patoff to pass, and followed him to the front door. He did not relax until the consultant was outside, the door shut and locked behind him. Looking through the door’s peephole, he watched the man walk down the drive and out to the street, the gate opening before him. Matthews breathed an inward sigh of relief when the consultant’s tall thin form was no longer visible.

  He turned to face his wife. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bring work home.”

  “You didn’t bring work home. He came here on his own.” She shivered involuntarily. “I want you to know that things were getting very uncomfortable before you arrived. That man…” She shook her head, letting the sentence trail off.

  “What? Did he try anything with you?”

  “No.” There was a pause. “Not exactly. But there was a feeling I got from him. Like…like…I can’t really describe it. All he talked about was work, but there was something icky about him. I didn’t like being alone with him. He’s not a trustworthy man, Austin.”

  “He’s all right,” Matthews told her, though he felt exactly the same way himself. Icky. It was the perfect word to describe the consultant.

  “I don’t want him in my house.”

  “I told him that,” Matthews said. “He won’t be coming back.”

  She shivered again. “He’d better not.”

  Matthews had to go to the bathroom, but before he’d made it halfway down the hall, Rachel called out, “Austin!” He hurried back into the living room.

  “One of my snow globes is missing!”

  “No it isn’t,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me. I know if something’s missing or not.”

  “Well, it couldn’t have been him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Why are you taking his side over mine?” Rachel demanded.

  “I’m not,” he protested, but in fact he was. Why? he wondered. He wasn’t sure, but it probably had something to do with the fact that he didn’t want to confront the consultant.

  Was afraid to confront the consultant.

  “What does it look like?” he asked. “Maybe you just misplaced it.”

  “How could I misplace it? I never move it. It’s supposed to be right there on that end table.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “A snow globe. Medium size, like the one next to the lamp there. Gold base.”

  “Is that it?” He saw, with relief, one matching that general description on the floor next to the couch, and he moved forward to pick it up. “See? It’s not even stolen.”

  Rachel walked over, peered into the glass and jerked back, horrified. “That’s not mine!”

  “Of course it is.” But as he looked more closely himself, he saw that it could not be. For within the water-filled globe was a graphic scene
of naked men and women engaged in acts of sickening debauchery.

  “I want that out of this house!” Rachel ordered. “And I want you to call the police!”

  “I can’t call the police,” he told her.

  “And why not?”

  “I just can’t. Not at this point. We have a contract with this guy. CompWare is shelling out major money for his firm’s services, and, the situation being what it is, I can’t afford to alienate our consultants by sending in cops after them. Especially when it might all turn out to be nothing.”

  “So you’re going to let that creep steal my stuff and replace it with this…filth?”

  “Of course not,” he promised. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow—I mean Monday—and get this straightened out. Don’t worry. I’ll lay down the law with him, and if I don’t get some satisfactory answers, I will call the police. But I’m not going to do it now on such a flimsy premise.”

  “Flimsy premise? He stole one of my antique snow globes and replaced it with that. In my book, that’s a crime, and if you’re not going to call the cops, I am.”

  “I’ll talk to him, I said.”

  “I want my snow globe back.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “You’d better.”

  “I will,” he said, “but right now I have to go to the bathroom,” an exit line that could not be argued with. Once again he started down the hall. He didn’t like the fact that Patoff had once again shown up at his house when he had specifically forbid him from doing so. It showed that the consultant was not afraid of him, and Matthews wondered if that was the whole point of the visit.

  What would he do if it happened again?

  He didn’t know, but just the thought of it made his palms sweat, and he thought that he’d better confront the man before this situation got too far out of control.

  ****

  Monday morning, Matthews told his secretary Diane to have Regus Patoff come to his office; he wanted a few words with the consultant.

  Ever since waking up, he’d been thinking about what he was going to say, rehearsing in his mind the delicate matter of asking the man whether he had stolen Rachel’s snow globe and replaced it with another one. It was hard to accuse someone of stealing when confronting them face-to-face. Especially someone like Patoff.