think.”
“How did Roger react?”
“How d’you suppose? He whined and sulked.”
“Then it would be an understatement to say you weren’t close.”
“Rog was a loner, not close to anybody. During the time he lived here before he bought his flat, he barely spoke. It was a relief to see him go.”
“And I don’t suppose he told you anything about what went on at
InSite.
”
“He didn’t talk about his job to any of us.” Harry rattled the ice in his glass, went to the bar for a refill.
“What about his final e-mail to you? Did he say anything in it?”
“His what?”
“In his journal entry the day he died, he said he’d e-mailed both you and Eddie.”
“Oh, that. I don’t know what he said; I deleted it without opening it.” He paused. “I sense you don’t approve of our relationship.”
“I’m not here to judge you.”
“That’s good, because you don’t understand the situation. Nobody does. Rog gave my parents a lot of grief his whole life.” He returned to his chair, flopped into it heavily. “He ran away from home because he was disappointed in love—at eighteen, for God’s sake. By eighteen I’d been disappointed in any number of things, but I didn’t turn my back on my family. For the next seven years, every time he paid a visit he put a downer on all of us. And then the son of a bitch knocked himself off. My folks’re never going to recover from that.”
“This disappointment in love—did you know the girl?”
“Hard not to, the way she used to hang around here. Dinah Vardon was a miserable little twat. Came from Pinole, or some such place. Was living with an aunt and going to school here because the circumstances at home weren’t any too savory. She met Rog at a party, took one look at this house, and decided she’d love him forever in order to get her hands on our money. Dragged him around by his dick for a year, then ran off with somebody who had even bigger bucks.”
“Are you aware she worked with him at
InSite
?”
“She
what
?”
“She’s their Webmaster. Or WebPotentate, as she calls herself.”
“Goddamn.” His face went still, eyes thoughtful. “Maybe that’s how he got the job. And it might explain—”
“Explain what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“I’m interested in anything having to do with Roger.”
“This has no relationship to the lawsuit.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Uh-uh. You go ahead and gather your evidence, but leave me out of it.”
“Why, Harry?”
“Because I don’t care about the suit. Tell you the truth, I don’t care about anything anymore.”
Dinah Vardon and her former relationship with Roger intrigued me, so I drove to my office and called J.D. Smith to ask how his plan to allow me an inside look at
InSite
and its staff members was shaping up. But J.D. wasn’t available at any of his numbers; I ended up leaving messages and, for good measure, e-mailed him. Next I called a couple of Roger’s friends and made appointments and tried Jody Houston again, but got no answer.
It was now nearly five; I added fifteen hours to the local time and came up with approximately eight in the morning. The message slip with Hy’s number in Bangkok was on my desk. I dialed his hotel, asked for his room, and he answered on the first ring.
“About time, McCone,” he said.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I always know.”
And I always knew too. We had an odd emotional connection that seldom failed us. “Why’d you ask if I got the rose?”
“The florist I was using went out of business, and I’m trying a new one.”
“Well, it’s here and it’s beautiful.” I stroked one of its velvety petals.
“Great. So how’re you?”
“Oh … okay.”
“You don’t sound okay. It’s Joey, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We’ll talk about that when it won’t cost us a fortune. But I need to ask you something: do you think I’m insensitive and uncaring?”
“Where’s that
“How did Roger react?”
“How d’you suppose? He whined and sulked.”
“Then it would be an understatement to say you weren’t close.”
“Rog was a loner, not close to anybody. During the time he lived here before he bought his flat, he barely spoke. It was a relief to see him go.”
“And I don’t suppose he told you anything about what went on at
InSite.
”
“He didn’t talk about his job to any of us.” Harry rattled the ice in his glass, went to the bar for a refill.
“What about his final e-mail to you? Did he say anything in it?”
“His what?”
“In his journal entry the day he died, he said he’d e-mailed both you and Eddie.”
“Oh, that. I don’t know what he said; I deleted it without opening it.” He paused. “I sense you don’t approve of our relationship.”
“I’m not here to judge you.”
“That’s good, because you don’t understand the situation. Nobody does. Rog gave my parents a lot of grief his whole life.” He returned to his chair, flopped into it heavily. “He ran away from home because he was disappointed in love—at eighteen, for God’s sake. By eighteen I’d been disappointed in any number of things, but I didn’t turn my back on my family. For the next seven years, every time he paid a visit he put a downer on all of us. And then the son of a bitch knocked himself off. My folks’re never going to recover from that.”
“This disappointment in love—did you know the girl?”
“Hard not to, the way she used to hang around here. Dinah Vardon was a miserable little twat. Came from Pinole, or some such place. Was living with an aunt and going to school here because the circumstances at home weren’t any too savory. She met Rog at a party, took one look at this house, and decided she’d love him forever in order to get her hands on our money. Dragged him around by his dick for a year, then ran off with somebody who had even bigger bucks.”
“Are you aware she worked with him at
InSite
?”
“She
what
?”
“She’s their Webmaster. Or WebPotentate, as she calls herself.”
“Goddamn.” His face went still, eyes thoughtful. “Maybe that’s how he got the job. And it might explain—”
“Explain what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“I’m interested in anything having to do with Roger.”
“This has no relationship to the lawsuit.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Uh-uh. You go ahead and gather your evidence, but leave me out of it.”
“Why, Harry?”
“Because I don’t care about the suit. Tell you the truth, I don’t care about anything anymore.”
Dinah Vardon and her former relationship with Roger intrigued me, so I drove to my office and called J.D. Smith to ask how his plan to allow me an inside look at
InSite
and its staff members was shaping up. But J.D. wasn’t available at any of his numbers; I ended up leaving messages and, for good measure, e-mailed him. Next I called a couple of Roger’s friends and made appointments and tried Jody Houston again, but got no answer.
It was now nearly five; I added fifteen hours to the local time and came up with approximately eight in the morning. The message slip with Hy’s number in Bangkok was on my desk. I dialed his hotel, asked for his room, and he answered on the first ring.
“About time, McCone,” he said.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I always know.”
And I always knew too. We had an odd emotional connection that seldom failed us. “Why’d you ask if I got the rose?”
“The florist I was using went out of business, and I’m trying a new one.”
“Well, it’s here and it’s beautiful.” I stroked one of its velvety petals.
“Great. So how’re you?”
“Oh … okay.”
“You don’t sound okay. It’s Joey, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We’ll talk about that when it won’t cost us a fortune. But I need to ask you something: do you think I’m insensitive and uncaring?”
“Where’s that
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