Mann asked, Do you have any ideas about how it happened? About who did it?
Virgil opened his mouth to answer, and Davies broke in. I just want to see her. What if there's been a mistake?
She's been identified by people who knew her, Virgil said, as kindly as he could. The photograph on Erica McDill's driver's license is a picture of the woman who was killed.
I still . . . she began, and she turned in a circle, and Stanhope patted her on the shoulder.
Mann: You said you have some ideas . . .
It seems to me after some investigation that the killer is a woman who knows how to handle a rifle and knew the territory. Could be local, or could be an outsider, a guest at the lodge. If I knew why, I'd be closer to a complete answer.
Mann rubbed his nose and then looked at Harcourt and said, That's not what I expected to hear.
Harcourt nodded, and Virgil asked, What'd you expect?
He shrugged: That it came like a bolt out of the blue and nobody had any idea. If that were the case, I could probably give you the why.
Virgil spread his hands. I'm all ears.
Mann said, Lawrence told me on the way up that he and Erica had agreed that she would buy his stock in the agency. That would have given her about three-quarters of the outstanding stock, and total control. Ever since Erica took over, she's been agitating to make the agency more . . . efficient.
She wanted to fire people, Harcourt said. As many as twenty-five or thirty. A lot of them have been with the agency for a long time. They've been protected by the board. Erica had the authority to fire them, as CEO, but then her actions could be reviewed by the board, and there are a number of people on the board who already didn't like her. There would've been a fight
What did you think about the firings? Virgil asked him.
Harcourt stepped back and sat in one of the library chairs and crossed his legs. Virgil noticed that even though he was wearing jeans and ankle boots, he was also wearing over-the-calf dress socks. He said, I was generally against them I could see a couple of them, but no reason for a top-to-bottom housecleaning.
But you were gonna sell?
Harcourt sighed, and looked around the room at all the faded old books. I kept the stock in the first place because the agency pays a nice dividend. But I'm seventy-one and I've got a bad ticker. I need to get my estate in order, he said. The thing about an ad agency is, its property is mostly intellectual. It's a group of talents, a collection of clients. We don't really own a damn thing, except some tables and chairs. We even lease our computers. So, if I passed the stock down to my children, and Erica got pissed, she might just cherry-pick the talent and start her own agency, and my kids would get screwed. They'd get nothing. But bolting would be a big risk for Erica, too. Big start-up costs, diminished client list. She'd be much better off keeping things as they are. All of that gave me an incentive to sell, and Erica an incentive to buy. We made a deal a couple of weeks ago. We never closed on it.
Mann said, The point being, there are about thirty scared people down in the Cities who think they might lose their jobs. Some of them have worked at the place for twenty-five or thirty years. They'd have no place to go. Too old. Burned out. Some of them, or one of them, might have . . . you know . . . killed her to stop that. That was my first thought, when I heard she'd been killed.
Would killing McDill actually stop the firings? Virgil asked.
Mann scratched his head. I don't know. For a while, probably. I don't know who gets her stock, now. Her parents are still alive, I think. . . .
They are, Davies said. I won't get a thing. Not a thing.
She didn't leave you anything in her will? Mann asked her.
I don't think she had a will, Davies said. She was pretty sure she'd live forever.
She had a will somewhere, Harcourt said. She was too . . . not calculating, but rational . . . not to have a will.
Oh, for Christ's sakes,
Virgil opened his mouth to answer, and Davies broke in. I just want to see her. What if there's been a mistake?
She's been identified by people who knew her, Virgil said, as kindly as he could. The photograph on Erica McDill's driver's license is a picture of the woman who was killed.
I still . . . she began, and she turned in a circle, and Stanhope patted her on the shoulder.
Mann: You said you have some ideas . . .
It seems to me after some investigation that the killer is a woman who knows how to handle a rifle and knew the territory. Could be local, or could be an outsider, a guest at the lodge. If I knew why, I'd be closer to a complete answer.
Mann rubbed his nose and then looked at Harcourt and said, That's not what I expected to hear.
Harcourt nodded, and Virgil asked, What'd you expect?
He shrugged: That it came like a bolt out of the blue and nobody had any idea. If that were the case, I could probably give you the why.
Virgil spread his hands. I'm all ears.
Mann said, Lawrence told me on the way up that he and Erica had agreed that she would buy his stock in the agency. That would have given her about three-quarters of the outstanding stock, and total control. Ever since Erica took over, she's been agitating to make the agency more . . . efficient.
She wanted to fire people, Harcourt said. As many as twenty-five or thirty. A lot of them have been with the agency for a long time. They've been protected by the board. Erica had the authority to fire them, as CEO, but then her actions could be reviewed by the board, and there are a number of people on the board who already didn't like her. There would've been a fight
What did you think about the firings? Virgil asked him.
Harcourt stepped back and sat in one of the library chairs and crossed his legs. Virgil noticed that even though he was wearing jeans and ankle boots, he was also wearing over-the-calf dress socks. He said, I was generally against them I could see a couple of them, but no reason for a top-to-bottom housecleaning.
But you were gonna sell?
Harcourt sighed, and looked around the room at all the faded old books. I kept the stock in the first place because the agency pays a nice dividend. But I'm seventy-one and I've got a bad ticker. I need to get my estate in order, he said. The thing about an ad agency is, its property is mostly intellectual. It's a group of talents, a collection of clients. We don't really own a damn thing, except some tables and chairs. We even lease our computers. So, if I passed the stock down to my children, and Erica got pissed, she might just cherry-pick the talent and start her own agency, and my kids would get screwed. They'd get nothing. But bolting would be a big risk for Erica, too. Big start-up costs, diminished client list. She'd be much better off keeping things as they are. All of that gave me an incentive to sell, and Erica an incentive to buy. We made a deal a couple of weeks ago. We never closed on it.
Mann said, The point being, there are about thirty scared people down in the Cities who think they might lose their jobs. Some of them have worked at the place for twenty-five or thirty years. They'd have no place to go. Too old. Burned out. Some of them, or one of them, might have . . . you know . . . killed her to stop that. That was my first thought, when I heard she'd been killed.
Would killing McDill actually stop the firings? Virgil asked.
Mann scratched his head. I don't know. For a while, probably. I don't know who gets her stock, now. Her parents are still alive, I think. . . .
They are, Davies said. I won't get a thing. Not a thing.
She didn't leave you anything in her will? Mann asked her.
I don't think she had a will, Davies said. She was pretty sure she'd live forever.
She had a will somewhere, Harcourt said. She was too . . . not calculating, but rational . . . not to have a will.
Oh, for Christ's sakes,
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