About Face Read online

  about face

  james calder

  about face

  a bill damen mystery

  acknowledgments Many thanks to the following people for their help and expertise while I was writing this book: Jay Schaefer, Ted Conover, Patrice Gelband, Amy Critchett, Victoria Garzouzi, Maribeth Back, Greta Jones, Andrew Black, Bruce Hoyt, KT Wilder, Phil Cohen, Dr. Jennifer Beachy, Dr. Ann Leibold, Hansel Bauman, Nurshen Bakir, Shannon Gilligan, and Bill Reifenrath. Any errors are mine alone. —James Calder

  Copyright © 2003 by Chronicle Books LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, products, therapies, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual people, places, products, therapies, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Calder, James.

  About face : a Bill Damen mystery / James Calder.

  p. cm.

  eISBN 978-0-8118-7063-4

  1. Private investigators—California—Santa Clara County—Fiction. 2. Santa

  Clara Valley (Santa Clara County, Calif.)— Fiction. 3. Biotechnology industries—

  Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.A425A64 2003

  813’.6—dc21

  2003004529

  Book and cover design by Benjamin Shaykin

  Cover photo by Jean Laughton/Nonstock

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, California 94107

  www.chroniclebooks.com

  Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,

  And you, deep read in hell’s black grammar.

  —Robert Burns

  SPENCE: You worried about saving your own skin?

  TERRY: Yeah, I am. It covers my body.

  —Ronin

  1

  There are certain looks on certain faces that make you stop and think. I didn’t know Alissa, but my opinion of her was not high. We had a film to shoot and she was an hour late. From the attitude of those around me, I inferred that waiting on her was customary. Anything to be done with Alissa was done at her pleasure and on her schedule. Well, I had a schedule, too.

  Then Rod showed me her picture. I’ve been shooting for ten years and I’ve dealt with my share of divas. Good looks are no excuse for bad behavior. But there was something about this photograph. Alissa was curled in a bentwood rocker on a deck, feet tucked underneath herself, cobalt blue water and a careless blue sky behind her. The highlights in her almond brown hair caught the sun; a few wayward locks were feathered by a breeze. The setting was leisurely, yet her back was straight, her hands folded. Her green eyes looked down a fraction from the lens; the brows hinted at mischief. It was her smile that got me, the corners of the mouth turned up ever so slightly, the lips full, relaxed, a little amused. It was nearly a Mona Lisa, but more impish, offering much yet simultaneously retracting it. Like she knew that you knew that the smile was a mirage—but you’d fall for it, anyway.

  And I did. The smile had a natural quality, free of guile. If she was a diva, she was the most dangerous type: sweet, sincere, and somewhat oblivious to her powers.

  Before I knew him, I’d have thought it implausible that the man standing next to me would be the smile’s recipient. Rod Glaser was older, not nearly as good-looking as Alissa, and not particularly rich—yet. We were standing on the lawn outside his company, Algoplex. He’d hired me to shoot an image piece for the company and today was the last day of the shoot. It was the day devoted to “the man behind the technology,” a subject with which Rod was not comfortable. He had plenty of intelligence, wit, and even genius, but it froze in front of the camera. Alissa’s name had been uttered all week like a magic potion that would unlock his personality when she joined us on Friday. Now Friday had arrived and we were still awaiting results. In the meantime, we’d shot about an hour of the company’s weekly Ultimate Frisbee game. Rod had fumbled the disk and made looping throws that somehow ended up behind him in a display of full-frontal nerdity. Then he’d come over to apologize again for Alissa and show me her picture.

  Rod was a Silicon Valley engineer of the old school, a man who respected technique. When I complimented him on the picture, he blushed and proceeded to apologize for its deficiencies in craft. He hadn’t treated me and my two-member crew like most executives do. Rod recognized my job required technical art, too, and treated me like a fellow engineer. In his world, there was no higher token of regard.

  “It’s still a great picture,” I said. “Alissa’s photogenic.”

  It was meant as a compliment. But Rod frowned and looked at his shoes—cross-trainers that showed little sign of use—as if ashamed of his luck with her. He tucked the photograph back into his wallet and tucked the wallet into his satchel.

  My crew—Rita on camera, Alan on sound—kept shooting while Rod and I stood watching the game. Rod paced nervously, his hands searching for nonexistent pockets in his sweatpants, small loaf of a belly pushing out his Slashdot T-shirt. He was my height, about six feet, with sloping shoulders, thinning reddish-brown hair, and a superfluous mustache. Its color made it nearly invisible, as if he might have carrot juice on his upper lip. His lips were plump and his blunt features appeared to have been rounded down by some process of erosion. His gangly arms and floppy feet did not help him in Ultimate Frisbee.

  I was feeling more patient now that I knew who we were waiting for. There was no harm in letting the camera roll: It was only video. The grass was thick and aromatic, the sun warm. The faux red sandstone and glass curtain walls of the Algoplex building furnished what passed for local color. But the more Rod paced, the more agitated he became.

  “I can’t imagine what’s keeping her,” he said. “This is anomalous. She’s been late before, but she’s always come.”

  “Why don’t we just go pick her up at her place?”

  Rod shook his head. “I’ve called her twice now. No answer.”

  “Maybe her phone’s not working. Or she left her computer online.”

  “We’re not going.” His voice took on a sudden severity, one I’d heard before only when he argued the utter wrongheadedness of a rival engineer’s theory.

  Now Rod was the one trying my patience. “Well, we’ve done all we can with this setup. I know you said Alissa likes Frisbee, but we need to move along. If you want a rough cut of this film in time for the dinner on Monday night, that is.”

  Monday was the night Rod was set to sign a strategic alliance with a company called Plush Biologics. Plush was developing a line of gene-regulating treatments for the skin, therapies that would renew elastin and collagen, producing not only the appearance but also the reality of youthful epidermis. Already there was a long waiting list for Eternaderm, the first in the line of ultra-lucrative products. Rod’s star would rise with it.

  Rod tapped his front teeth with a knuckle. It was a little habit that meant he saw your point. “This is anomalous,” he repeated. “She’s never failed to keep an appointment with me.”

  “Is there anywhere else we can check for her?” After his quick shake of the head, I said, “We’ll have to move on to the next setup, then. Leave a message telling her to meet us at your house.”

  Rod stood paralyzed, his back slightly hunched. He never quite looked comfortable in a standing position. Only when perched in front of a screen, mouse in hand, did he forget himself: A tranquil absorption came over his face, the tension left his shoulders, and he took on the look of one transported to a more perfect realm.

  Mike Riley, the company’s CEO, broke away from the game to join us. “Whatcha doi
ng on the sidelines, Rod? We need you in there.” Sweat was pouring down Mike’s temples in spite of a white headband. He had short, powerful legs and managed to rule the Frisbee field among employees who were younger and faster.

  Rod’s long face told him he would not be rejoining the action. Mike’s expression turned sympathetic. “Still no Alissa, huh?”

  Rod perked up with a new idea. “Maybe she emailed,” he said. He bent to retrieve his hiptop from his satchel. It was a compact device about the size of a camera that had replaced the array of gadgets once holstered on Rod’s belt. It could browse the Web, send and receive email messages and files, make phone calls, and take pictures. Its top flipped open to become a screen, revealing a keyboard underneath.

  “Don’t you love this guy?” Mike said. “Engineer to the bottom of his toes.”

  Following a series of beeps, Rod got a wireless connection to the Web. His lips pressed together in silent disappointment as he scrolled through his messages.

  Mike touched Rod’s elbow. “Don’t worry, champ. She’s probably just putting her makeup on for you.”

  “Is everything—” I hesitated but had to ask. “Is everything all right between you and Alissa?”

  Rod shrugged. “I haven’t heard of any revisions.”

  “We’re always the last to know, aren’t we?” Mike meant it as a buddy remark, but Rod’s shoulders only drooped lower.

  “Send her over to Rod’s house if she shows up, would you, Mike?” I said. “We’ll be there the rest of the afternoon.” Mike gave me a thumbs-up, then sprinted back into the game.

  “Let’s pack it up,” I called to Rita and Alan.

  Rita gave a smile of relief. She wanted to keep things moving. Rod just nodded with resignation. He was staring out at the field, where the players swerved from one end to the other, like a flock wheeling over a meadow. “Frisbee up!” someone called, and there were whoops as players jumped for it. Spirits were high at Algoplex: The deal to be signed Monday night would guarantee its future. Yet Rod looked like the most forlorn man in the world, gripping his hiptop, grinding his jaw, as though he feared he might never see Alissa again.

  » » » » »

  Rod’s company did data visualization and simulation. He designed software that navigated huge databases to represent in intuitive three-dimensional form veins of information sought by the client. In the case of Plush Biologics, the data represented the epidermis and the genes that produced its tissues. Rod’s algorithms could then take this data and simulate what would happen when new gene-related molecules were introduced.

  Algoplex’s product depended entirely on the genius of its engineers. Rod was Genius in Chief. As hesitant as he was in social situations, he was authoritative in algorithmic matters. He viewed himself as supreme in his field, and his rivals saw themselves in precisely the same way. It was a marvel how this unassuming man could shout down a colleague when the debate turned to code sequence.

  Unfortunately, this did not automatically ensure Algoplex’s profitability. As brilliant as Rod’s work was, until now he hadn’t found the killer app, the monster client, to make the company fly. At 43, Rod was old enough to have a track record and young enough not to have been beaten down. He’d done stellar, under-appreciated work at three previous companies—small, medium, and large—yet still had enough energy and idealism left over to believe his technology could change the world.

  His fire and experience had convinced investors to entrust him with an initial infusion of cash. He’d burned through that first round laying down his code base. He then needed a second round to get his technology into play, but the capital markets had dried up in the post-dot-bomb era. Rod’s pitch no longer had wings, and he hated the song and dance anyway. Four months ago he’d brought in Mike Riley as CEO. Rod relegated himself to Chief Technical Officer, though he was still the heart of the company and had the final word.

  Mike was a few years younger than Rod. He’d declared that both Rod and the company required an image makeover. It was no longer enough to have great technology: Your company had to project the image that it could rule the field, dominate the market. Rod needed to make investors look at Algoplex with new eyes. Mike’s campaign appeared to be paying off with the Plush deal. Not only would it bring new business, it would bring new capital from Plush’s primary backer.

  The film I was shooting was part of the campaign. Our last setup would show Rod at home, doing whatever it was he did in his free time. I was afraid that might mean Ping-Pong and computer games. It was another reason I wished Alissa would arrive to grace the frame.

  We drove to Belmont, a leafy town north of Palo Alto. Rod had bought the house two years ago. It had cost plenty, yet was modest by neighborhood standards: a single story with a deep front lawn bordered by oak and spruce. He hadn’t yet graduated to the square-foot-maximizing carbuncles that Silicon Valley millionaires liked to build, nor did he plan to. He disdained excess, and lusted after resources only to the extent that they were needed to get the job done.

  Rita and Alan unloaded the gear while I toured the house with Rod. Jimmy, Algoplex’s PR liaison, trailed behind. At the front stoop, Rod spoke: “Door open, please.”

  The lock clicked. Rod gave the door a small push and we entered.

  “You didn’t tell me the house was alive,” I said.

  He smiled to himself. “Just a few things I coded in. Let there be light!”

  Lights came on in the dining room. I repeated the phrase as we entered the living room, to no effect. “It responds to the words,” Rod explained, “but they’re linked to my voiceprint. We’d have to code in your voice to give you the power of light. I’ve done it for others.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll stick to lighting the show.”

  The layout was typical, a dining room and living room in front, a couple of bedrooms and a small den in back. In the basement Rod kept a Web server, a library of computer games, and no Ping-Pong table. The decor was Standard Bachelor, including an overstuffed leather couch, a Barcalounger, and an elaborate media center. But there were signs of a new style overlay: a marble vase with flowers, a couple of Modigliani prints, a cashmere throw on the sofa, healthy green plants in the den.

  We’d circled back to the living room. I touched the vase. “Alissa’s influence?”

  “We got that at an antique sale.” Rod said it with the melancholy of one speaking of a lost time. Yet I figured she must be relatively new in his life, or the makeover would have spread farther.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” I said. “Come inside like we did just now. We’ll follow you in with a handheld camera as your house welcomes you home. Maybe you can say something funny to greet it.” I was thinking of ways to humanize Rod. The technology had performed well in our previous days of shooting, but Rod had been rather wooden.

  “Welcome, home,” he suggested.

  “Right. Then, after that . . .” I looked around for signs of an animal. “Any pets?”

  Rod shook his head with that same melancholy. “I had a dog named Piston, but . . . he got kind of lonely.”

  Jimmy laughed at the name. Rod did have a sense of humor. He loved puns. But puns weren’t cinema. This was going to be tough without Alissa. I sensed his life must have been solitary before her, with only his computer and voice-activated house for companions. No wonder he was so glum. Of all the days for Alissa to let him down . . .

  Then it occurred to me that the film might be the very reason for her truancy: If she was planning to leave him, she might not want their relationship to go on record.

  Rita and Alan had begun to unpack the gear in the living room. Alan drew the shades and plugged in the sound cables. Rita and I chose strategic spots for lights. She was an old friend and we’d worked together many times. Usually she did the directing and I did the shooting, but this job had come to me via my friend Wes, who knew Rod professionally, so I took the helm. She claimed to enjoy the reversal of roles.

  The doorbell rang. I looked
down the corridor, past the dining room. A young guy stood at the open door. He was back-lit; I couldn’t see his face, only his outline. He wore a leather jacket and his hair swept up in a James Dean flourish. Rita, unfolding a light stand in the hallway, asked him what he wanted. Rod went striding to the door, shouldered Rita aside, and planted himself in front of the visitor.

  “You can’t come here,” Rod said in an angry voice, leading the stranger down the steps. They went around the side of the porch. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their voices were raised. Rod was incensed, the James Dean guy self-righteous.

  Suddenly he let out a shriek. “Jesus Christ! You’re insane!”

  I rushed to the door. Rod was brandishing a rake with thick metal prongs. The young guy turned and ran just as I got there. Rod sensed me behind him, and gave a look that said I wasn’t supposed to see that. I went back to my job in the living room.

  The house shook with his slam of the door when Rod returned. “Let’s go,” he said irritably. “I want to get this done.”

  “We’ll start outside,” I said. “You’ll approach the door, ask it to open—”

  “Forget about that. I want to stay inside.” Rod’s face was drawn, his cheeks hollow, his lips tight. This was not going to look good on camera.

  “Try to relax,” I said. “Why don’t you sit here on the couch. The camera will be over there so we can get the Modigliani and the vase in the background. Rita, we’ll need that light about two feet to the left. Careful of the reflection on the TV screen.”

  Rita moved the light stand while I framed the scene. She switched on the light. There was a flash, then a startlingly loud pop as the bulb shattered. A scrim kept the pieces from spraying onto the floor.

  “Oops,” she said. “Must be a short.”

  Rod exploded from the couch. “What are you doing!” he shouted. “You numbskull! Someone could have been hurt!”