Two Dead, One to Die

By Louise Hoblitt

Promoter Darby Hill has no problem bending the facts. After all, making TerraTech's video game arcade look good is why she was hired. Nope, no problem at all until she's asked to bend the facts about a murder and then another A behind-the-scenes look at the exciting state-of-the-art world of TerraTech Video Games. Smart and savvy Darby Hill is competing against her former lover for a top spot on the corporate ladder. But soon she finds herself struggling with more than her job. She's fighting for justice and then her life in this fast-paced insider look at the competitive world of public relations, corporate cover-ups and murder. Who needs video games when you have a Darby Hill book in your hands?
-Penny Warner, Author of the award-winning Connor Westphal mystery series
BLIND SIDE, SILENCE IS GOLDEN A stellar debut! Louise Hoblitt has a keen sense of pacing, a terrific ear for dialogue, and Darby Hill is a compelling and sympathetic sleuth. Find a comfortable chair and plan to stay up late. Highly recommended.
-Sheldon Siegel, New York Times Best Selling Author of FINAL VERDICT

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462078943

Louise Hoblitt

Louise Hoblitt, a former educator, picked field crops, worked in a cannery, wrote for newspapers, flew airplanes, and scuba-dived. She lives in a four-level house she built herself in the Oakland Hills. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.

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All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Louise Hoblitt

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

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Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7894-3 (ebook)

ISBN: 0-595-26414-X

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

In the memory of my mother and father

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to Jane and Martha.

A special thanks to Eileen and Anna of

my writing group and to Jean for editing.

PROLOGUE

Spring, 1973

Jones looked at the darkening sky and back at his worker. Bernardo! Get the GM! Adelante! Adelante! Move it, you wetback wonder. Move!

Lately, Jones’s anger had been fast to surface. He needed to get out of this little money-saving enterprise as soon as possible. The authorities were getting serious about such things. Next thing you know they’d be here nosing around. The thought made him edgy. He’d dump this place, get it off his back for good—then disappear for a while if he had to.

He watched Bernardo half-run, half-shuffle to the back of the lot to get the truck. This kid was the right one to bring over from his day crew. Never questioned anything. Couldn’t speak a word of English. Followed directions as if he were about to be beaten with a stick by his daddy back in Mexico.

And he needed money. For lunch breaks, Bernardo would bring out a tortilla, only half-filled with rice or beans, and sometimes, with nothing in it at all. Jones had seen the others give Bernardo cookies or bananas from their lunches. Furthermore, the kid acted desperate for overtime work. All these things made Jones feel like he owned Bernardo. He could do with him what he damn well wanted.

He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a small curved flask. Uncapping it, he threw it up to his lips, and tossed his head back.

Wha—? he muttered, bringing his head down again to stare at the flask. He had known there wasn’t much left, but only a drop or two? Shit! He recapped it and shoved it back in his pocket. This was the second one he’d finished off today. The one he kept in his car he’d polished off before noon. This brilliant idea to save money was getting him down. It took more and more liquor to get through these last days before it would be all over.

He put his hands on his hips, impatient that Bernardo was taking so long. He hated these peons who worked for him and he hated coming here each evening after his regular work. But, bye-bye. He could soon forget all of it forever. A little smile curled his lips. The gung-ho sucker from out of town was coming to look at the place next week, and Jones had to be ready for him.

Bernardo pulled up in the beat-up ‘63 GM truck and poked his lean, anxious face out of the cab window for further instructions.

Jones pointed to the huge pit and felt a surge of rage. Why couldn’t Bernardo see what was to be done? Allá! Allá! You dimwitted oaf. Jones felt better when he vented his anger out loud.

Bernardo pulled the truck up to the edge.

Dump! Dump! screamed Jones. He put his hand out flat in front of him and slowly tilted it up. Bernardo nodded. The back bed of the truck raised up at an angle and the contents slid out and down and disappeared. Bernardo returned the truck bed to its normal position and looked out at Jones for more instructions.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go. Go. Park it. Park-ay! Can’t you think? What’s done with an empty truck? Gawd, you’re a stupid brute. Bernardo Brute!

Again Bernardo looked out from the rolled-down window, but this time bitterness had hardened his face. He pulled back on the hand brake, causing a series of grating noises, metal contacting metal. He turned off the engine. Throwing open the door, he jumped down with the keys in his hand and stuck out his jaw. No soy un bruto.

Get your foreign ass back in that truck and park it in the back of the lot. En la back! Jones whipped his arm a couple of times toward the back of the lot.

Bernardo didn’t move. No soy un bruto. No hablo inglés mucho, pero no soy un bruto. He threw the keys at Jones’s feet. No work here mas. And...yo sé, Señor. I know.

Jones looked at the keys on the dirt and held back a new surge of anger. "Oh, ho! So you do understand English, eh? What is it that you know, Bernardo? What do you know?"

No es legal.

"What isn’t legal? Jones sneered. You’re what’s not legal."

Este. Bernardo jerked his head backward toward the pit. Mi money, Senor. He held out his hand.

Jones considered the situation. Wait! Okay. Money. Sorry. Sorry. But will you please, por favor— Jones walked up to the gaping hole where Bernardo stood. First, por favor, park the GM. Park-ay, por favor? He again pointed to the far end of the lot.

Bernardo grudgingly picked up the keys. When he turned toward the truck, Jones picked up a nearby shovel. Holding it with both hands, he drew it behind him and quickly stepped after Bernardo. With a mighty forward momentum, he swung. There was a loud thud followed by a low vibration from the shovel blade.

Bernardo’s body jolted forward. It landed on the dirt in a way Jones thought made him look like he was taking an afternoon siesta. But the widening moon of blood seeping to the surface of his straight dark hair belied that, all right.

Jones looked around. Seeing no one in the fading light, he edged up to Bernardo. With shovel still in his hands, he used his foot to roll the body over a few times until it was at the edge of the hole.

This is your own damn fault, Bernardo. You made me think you didn’t know English.

CHAPTER 1

27 years later

Five minutes before the scruffy old stranger invaded our second floor work space, I had been sitting in my stamp-sized office. It was one of several cubicles partitioned off against a wall for minor managers like Curtis and me. It was an ordinary day. But the results of what was about to happen couldn’t have been imagined in the wildest flight of imagination.

For a moment I had looked out the office window at the bustle of work in TerraTech’s Communication Room to think about my career. Wouldn’t I better manage this Public Relations Department than flashy Curtis Brand? Surely so, I thought, though a wavering uncertainty played around the edges of my answer.

Lacking a cutthroat style, I was banking on attitude. No ugly thoughts. No behind-the-back remarks. Just continual demonstrations that I fit the job description better than he did. Competing with Curtis was hard. And to my everlasting regret, I had made it even more difficult on myself when I first signed on with the video game theme park down by the Oakland Coliseum. I’d broken the cardinal rule: never get involved with someone from the workplace. Worse yet, the involvement had been with Curtis. What a disaster.

By now, boss Carole Pemberton had dumped most of the Comm Room operations on the two of us as she eased herself out of the job. About to move on, she would choose one of us to replace her.

But, ooh, could I taste it. Darby D. Hill, Vice-President of Marketing and Public Relations for TerraTech’s Video Game Arcade. Just uttering the words delivered a euphoric charge. That’s how much I wanted it. Desire not only welled up, it bubbled over and flowed around all my activities.

What was my plan? I would plow through work breaks. I would work every night at home. I would look like a million dollars. I would do anything my bosses asked and a whole lot more.

I was nervous about the Choice. Carole’s evaluating eyes seemed to follow me whether she was present or not. Judgment Day was at hand. The announcement would be made. If unwilling to take a lesser position or if resentful, the loser’s password would become null and void, and office access denied. That way, the loser wouldn’t be tempted to sabotage the works.

I turned and typed in a command for a list of newspapers. A soft pop erupted and the fluorescent glow of my screen faded to a glassy grey. I stared at it. What was it about Fridays? Try to tie things up for the weekend and little knots and tangles begin to appear. I’d have to use a different computer. I dialed Tech Support and requested another monitor be sent to my office right away.

There were a few spare computers in the main room. Clipping on my pager, I glanced into a small wall mirror, tucked back a wisp of brown hair, and checked my eyeshadow. Then I walked out the door into the large rectangular Comm Room where the work of TerraTech’s marketing and public relations buzzed along.

I spotted a free computer at one end of a work table. As I hurried toward it, I looked around for Carole. It is always wise to know if one’s boss is nearby. I let my eyes sweep across the wide room, across the processing clerks, the enlargers and the ad display tables. I looked to the right beyond the wide glass doors of the Comm Room where her office was. The two elevators at the second floor hallway busily swallowed and regurgitated employees and visitors, but Carole was nowhere in sight.

Before I could sit down at the computer, my romantic mistake, Curtis Brand, slipped in front of me and seated himself. He clutched the mouse and concentrated on the display.

I protested. Hey, thief.

Communal. Communal. Generic machine, he murmured, looking intently at the screen. Just a quickie. Speed and satisfaction guaranteed. His head turned toward me long enough to send a sly look.

He was trying to amuse, but his remark was a bit too much.

Knock it off, Curtis.

Had I known about his reputation before we got together, I wouldn’t have bought his lavish praise or misread his sincerity. Gullible me. I felt a flush rise up just thinking about it.

I learned I was one in a string of many. Being new and in administration had kept me out of the gossip loop and we’d kept our dating away from the office. After a few months, Sylvia, the Comm Room appointments manager, told me he was involved with someone from a law firm downtown. I broke out in a cold sweat. I felt faint, then sick. He had strung me along instead of telling me. In a flash I saw him as he was, a sweet-talking two-timing cad, and I’d wished to God I were home with my face in my pillow.

Curtis looked back at me. Right. Bad joke, he said. Sorry. Don’t want you of all people turning against me, Darb. You mean a lot to me. He sent me an apologetic smile and turned back to study a second menu on the screen.

You mean a lot to me? The remark was thoughtless considering our past. It was also inexcusable.

I said to knock it off, Curtis. You’re now engaged to India, remember? India Jamison was one of the nicest young women I’d ever known, in spite of being the privileged daughter of TerraTech’s owner, Randolph Jamison. I wondered if he’d end up hurting her too.

"I didn’t mean it that way, Darby. I meant I like you. Okay. I was wrong to say it. Sorry. I still have lingering bad habits," he replied, his voice drifting off.

I shuddered and glanced at the second communal computer at the other end of the long table. It too was still in use. Are you going to be brief here or shall I go somewhere else?

Brief, Co, he said, using his familiar shorthand for me as his co-director. I’m in a rush too. I’m already late for a Channel Eight interview, but I need the precise titles of our three latest video games.

I looked toward the double doors. Where was my monitor replacement from tech support?

As Curtis continued his hunt-and-peck style, I begrudgingly conceded him a few points. He made the rounds in the Comm Room and schmoozed up one and all. This had the effect of buoying up office morale. And...I felt a pang...he was attractive with his even features, black curly hair, and precise way of moving. In spite of the Don Juan reputation, he was very popular.

He had another plus. He often made local television appearances promoting TerraTech’s Arcade. Administrators, junior executives, secretaries, and aides all loved watching him hold forth on the tube about the virtues of our games.

My eye caught sight of Carole, fully materialized and approaching. Time on your hands? It looks like a traffic jam over here.

Carole Pemberton, fine-featured, blonde, and ten years older than my own thirty years, embodied my idea of perfect corporate efficiency. I had accepted her as my professional role model and mentor. I couldn’t let her think I was wasting time or hanging around Curtis without good cause.

I scrambled to look good. "Of all things, my monitor just blew and I’ve called down for another. In the meantime, I need a computer to pull up a list of newspapers, but it is busy here. There are other things I need to do but Curtis says he’s about done here, unless, Carole, you want me to do something else right now." I spun out the words explaining myself to the woman in whose hands my future lay.

She shook her head. Not at the moment, Darby. As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone again.

Just give it up, Curtis. As a typist, you’re remedial.

Women’s work, that’s why. He looked back at me again. Oh-oh. Clarification in order. That too was a joke. As he turned back, a list of computer games appeared. Ah.. .here we go.

Well, write them down. Write them down. I laced my fingers together behind my neck and let my eyes skim over the sea of computers, telephone attendants, and swarm of TerraTech posters plastered on the walls. But something didn’t fit.

A bulky shape swayed back and forth behind the heavy glass doors leading to the hallway and elevators. An old man was apparently attempting to avoid his own reflection in the glass doors as he peered into the Comm Room. Black greasy streaks smeared his khaki work shirt and pants. The shadow from the bill of his cap made it hard to see his eyes, but his unruly gray eyebrows made him look like a wild man.

No one showed up here looking as poorly as he did. Could it be he was to be met and taken somewhere? To fix some pipes or work on the air-conditioning? A doubt lingered. How had he passed through the guarded lobby desk, anyway?

Curtis, did you forgot to pay your mechanic?

What? Nope. Porche is just fine. He wrote down his third title. I tapped on a listing on the screen. "That one—The Hubble Trouble—still needs to be reviewed. Want to do it?" Reviewing meant going out to play the game in one of the game sections. In this case it would be in Sky Probe III, which housed astronomy games. Reviewing made for a nice little break from office routine.

Not if it has to be done today or Monday or Tuesday.

Lady, boomed a voice next to me. A wave of sour breath washed over me, reminding me of some moldering cheese I’d once left in the refrigerator too long.

I drew back in disgust and forced myself to look at the old man who had come through the glass doors on his own during my moment of inattention. Fingerprint smudges were pressed into the bill of his base-

ball cap. He gripped a cane in one hand and placed the other hand on the table edge near Curtis.

What is it? That was as polite as I could manage. I glanced at a frosty growth of stubble on the lower part of his face which made him look like the hard luck cases at some of the downtown parks. Maybe I could speedily direct him out and on his way.

I wanna see a guy named Curtis Brand, he shouted. He here? The volume jolted me and the people close by. A few feet away, Ter-raTech’s solid little messenger, Lettie Packer, stopped rolling her delivery cart down the aisle and put a steadying hand on her glasses to peer at the three of us. At the same time, nearby workers slid their eyes off their screens to stare.

And the nature of your visit? I stalled. Curtis had glanced around when he heard his name, but turned back to the screen. Obviously, he wanted none of the man. I had taken the cue.

But with a quick change of mind, he stood up and turned around. I’m Curtis Brand. What’s the problem?

Aha. The old man fastened his eyes on Curtis and looked as pleased as if he had won a jackpot. Me and you got things to talk about, Mr. Brand. He glanced at me. In private.

Curtis crossed his arms. Well, now, what would that be about, Mr. uh—

Jones. Al Jones. That don’t mean nothing to you yet. Take us somewhere we can talk. You’ll be interested enough in what I got to say when you hear it.

Oh? All right then, but it’s got to be quick. Let’s go to that office. He pointed across the room toward his glass-enclosed cubbyhole along the wall next to my identical one. Turning back, Curtis mouthed the words, Call.security.

Exactly what I was going to do. I stepped to the closest data processing desk and picked up a phone while keeping my eyes on them. The old man was moving quickly, throwing weight on the cane with every step of his right foot. Curtis followed, game list in hand.

The switchboard came on. There’s some old guy in the Comm Room who doesn’t belong here. Get security up here fast.

I turned back and stared into Curtis’s office. The door had been closed but I could still see them through the glass windows. They seemed to be having a normal conversation.

I remained standing. I continued to monitor them as I tapped at a few computer keys to retrieve the newspaper list, but I soon stopped and watched them steadily. The old man was speaking, Curtis listening.

Lettie Packer walked over and handed me two manila envelopes. Who is that funny old geezer, Ms. Hill?

I don’t know. Someone for Curtis.

At that moment, the old man erupted from Curtis’s office and stumped across the room toward the glass doors to the elevators. As he passed me, his rheumy blue eyes skittered across the workers nearby. Gonna do your big opening for the public a week from today, eh? he shouted. Well, you all have a real good time then!" A mocking laugh erupted from his throat. He clumped on past and pushed his way out of the double glass doors.

I turned to locate Curtis. He stood in front of his office struggling to get an arm in his jacket sleeve. He glanced around wildly. I made my way over to him. My God, what was that all about?

Damn, he muttered, pulling on the rest of his jacket. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

What? I asked again, but he couldn’t escape from his thoughts.

What is it, Curtis? I demanded, feeling a sudden chill.

He didn’t answer. Following his gaze, I saw the old man disappear into one of the hall elevators precisely as a technician with a monitor in his arms emerged from the other. At the same time, two security guards rushed into the hallway from the fire stairs door and began an eye search of the Comm Room.

If that old fool isn’t crazy, he’s going to blow us all out of the water! Curtis still hadn’t looked directly at me. I need to see someone and I don’t know when I’ll be back. He brushed past me and hurried toward the glass doors leading to the hallway.

Curtis, wait! I pleaded. What about your Channel Eight interview? I asked to his departing back before I realized he couldn’t hear me anymore.

CHAPTER 2

Dashing out the front door, I retrieved Saturday’s paper from the sidewalk. The chill of the early March morning filtered through my green jersey nightshirt, and I leaped back in the house and slammed the door.

I sat down on a stool at the counter that separated the kitchen from a small dining area I never used. The aroma of fresh coffee dripping down from the one-cup brewer wafted my way as I tried to concentrate on the newspaper in front of me. But I couldn’t. After hastily scanning the headlines, I pushed it aside.

On the floor was a video game magazine and I stretched down to pick it up. I told myself I would look for marketing ideas. A few seconds later I dropped it back to the floor. Still agitated, I turned on the counter top radio and found a golden oldies station with music that reminded me of growing up in my grandmother’s house. The Mamas and Papas were singing a song about Monday. I didn’t want to think about Monday. I wanted to fill in the missing holes from yesterday.

The sinister old man had spooked Curtis. Why? And where was Curtis from mid-afternoon until late last night when I finally gave up trying to call him? I put my elbows on the counter and watched the last few drips fall into my coffee mug.

The phone in front of me rang and I grabbed the receiver.

Darb! sang out the familiar voice.

His cheeriness struck me as highly inappropriate. All the worrying I’d done and nothing was wrong?

Curtis, what’s going on? I tried to get you at different times last night but you had your machine turned off. I even got worried and went over to your place and rang your door bell.

You did? He sounded surprised.

And thanks for leaving me with your TV interview. Bob LaSalle at the station was very upset when he got me instead of you. Actually, their response was mild, but I wanted Curtis to feel guilty, not only for making me cover for him, but also for leaving me out of what was going on.

Darby, I’m sorry. Let me explain. That old guy was going to call Randolph Jamison and bad-mouth me—tell him some garbage about me gambling and playing around. Where he came up with that I don’t know since it’s a total crock.

Well, of course, I agreed, wondering if I should cross my fingers.

Even if it were true, that old duffer wouldn’t know about it. But if he got to Randolph with a letter, say, it could be enough to turn my future father-in-law against me. He’s a stickler about wasting money, especially by gambling, since you know how he tells anyone who asks how he carved TerraTech out of nothing by accessing the right grants and then managing the money so well.

Yeah, I said, thinking about when harsh-speaking Randolph Jamison had pulled me aside after an executive staff meeting early last week. Curtis won’t pull any rank because he’s engaged to my daughter, he had said. He had looked grim, his jaw muscles flexing in anger. If he thinks he’s positioning himself for an easy climb up the ladder of success, he’s sadly mistaken. He’s got to prove himself. That’s why I’m leaving it all up to Carole to decide. You or Curtis. Whoever will do the most for TerraTech. That little speech by the main man had flooded me with hope.

I refocused on what Curtis was saying. He doesn’t exactly approve of me as a son-in-law, you know. He sees me as some sort of caravan thief stealing his precious daughter away. So what would he do if he thought I was playing around? Probably shoot me.

I absolutely didn’t want to think about Curtis and India, or Curtis playing around, so I changed the subject. So the old guy was trying to get money from you. Did it have to be such a big secret?

Now hold on, Darby. I just thought I should take care of it myself since it was about me. Anyway, that old guy was obviously some sleazy opportunist. So much for my benevolent feelings toward senior citizens.

I whirled around on the stool, away from the counter. How did this Jones know who you were?

I can only imagine he read about my engagement in the paper and thought he could cash in. I rushed off to talk to Randolph about it so things wouldn’t get out of hand. Uh, I have to admit I panicked. Sorry. Anyway, the old guy shouldn’t be a bother anymore. I’ll see that he isn’t let in again.

Curtis needed to be reminded again how much of an inconvenience he had caused me, so I said, I called security but when they got to the second floor, you and the old guy were both gone. What could I report? They asked if the two of you left together. Since you hadn’t, they let it drop.

Well...yeah. I did leave you hanging, and I’m very sorry about that. I owe you big time, Darb. But don’t worry. The guy was just a two-bit crook who saw an opportunity. What bothers me is the fact that someone like him even got up on the second floor. I thought we had a better filtering system at entry level.

Okay, Curtis, but couldn’t you have given me a call yesterday evening some time?

He gave a short laugh. "That’s the other thing. Darb, if you never forgive me, I will understand. But my life got totally out of control last night. Just listen to this. As a complete surprise, my cousin and his wife and two kids descended upon me and I had to deal with them all evening—maps, lodging, which restaurants, what they should see.

God, it was awful. Then I had to help them get settled in a motel. I certainly wasn’t going to put them up at my place. Of course we all had to eat at some tourist seafood restaurant down at Jack London Square they’d read about in their tour book. So when I finally got unglued from them, I figured I’d let you sleep and call this morning. Here I am.

Nice try, I thought. Okay, Curtis. I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.

Wait!

Gotta go. I hung up. I’d heard enough of his version of things.

Putting my elbows back on the table, I plopped my chin into my palms and eyed my full mug of coffee. When the telephone sounded again, I didn’t answer. Too pat, Curtis, I murmured, staring at the ringing machine, especially the relatives-from-out-of town bit not allowing a quick phone call.

How persuasive Curtis could be. During