Darrian moves the photos again, and Jon sees yet more—his Audi parked at the Jericho Beach lot with the passenger door open, Jake Preston climbing out with an envelope in his hand. Another image shows a plaque next to a door that says PRESTON PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
“I feel sorry for Daisy, Jon,” Darrian says. “I feel bad for Labden and Annabelle. But while your sex life is one thing, this”—he lifts a document—“this is unacceptable. Do you know what this is, Jon?”
Cold drops like a stone through his bowels. He says nothing.
“This, Jon, is a contract with a notorious private investigator hired by you to dig up dirt on a TerraWest colleague. Using race and religious affiliation. Dirt on a competitor for a TerraWest job. And this”—he picks up a copy of another printed document—“is a list of personal details stolen from confidential TerraWest HR files and given to this PI.”
Rage burns into Jon’s eyes. He shoots his gaze to Henry, who meets Jon’s eyes but does not move a muscle.
“Did you do this, Henry?” Jon points to the photos and documents. “Did you set me up?”
“Get out of here, Jon,” Darrian says calmly, coolly. “Get out of my office. Get out of this building. And don’t ever come back.”
“Who delivered that to you?” Jon demands. “Who brought it into this office?”
“I said, get out.”
“I-I can explain. I was set up. I—Ahmed Waheed—he did this. With Henry. They set me up.”
“Get the hell out. I don’t want to see your face again. Ever.”
Jon goes numb. He stares at Darrian. Then he looks in desperation at Henry.
“Don’t make me call security,” Darrian says.
Jon turns and walks slowly, woodenly, to the door with his briefcase in his hand. Everything feels surreal. Time has turned elastic. Sound stretches and distorts. It’s as though he’s hearing and seeing everything through a very long tunnel.
He reaches the door.
Darrian says, “Henry, follow him. Make sure he goes directly to the elevator.”
Jon turns. “I have things in my office. I—”
“Security will box up your personal effects and deliver them to the front door of the building. Your vehicle will be brought around. You can wait on the sidewalk outside.”
As Jon exits the office, Henry pushes himself to his feet and comes after him. In the corridor outside Darrian’s office, Jon spins abruptly and turns on Henry.
“This was you. It all adds up now. You invited me to the pub, and she was waiting there. She moved in after you plied me with whisky, after you gave me the card for the PI. And then my drink was spiked. You fucking set me up. Ahmed Waheed was probably never in line for the COO position. You just wanted to make certain you sank me so he could have a crack at it. Is that what this is about?”
Henry lowers his voice to a gravelly whisper. “Be careful, Jon. Be very careful. I tried to help you. I threw you a lifeline. I can’t help it if you used the line to hang yourself. You should be ashamed. You’ve humiliated your wife, your father-in-law, your mother-in-law. You could have had it all. You’ll be lucky if you ever work in this business again.”
As Jon tries to argue with Henry, two burly security guys approach down the corridor.
“Mr. Rittenberg,” one guard says loudly, “we need your key card and your parking card. Please come with us.”
“No. No fucking way. I’m going to get my things out of my office.”
The men flank Jon. They grasp his arms and start marching him toward the bank of elevators.
“Get your hands off me. Get the hell away from me!”
He sees everyone watching, sitting there in their stupid Halloween costumes, gleams in their eyes. The kind of bloodthirsty gleam that comes when you see someone you don’t like being taken down. Maybe they always all hated him. Maybe he was a bully. Maybe he was just an arrogant ass, and what he sees in their eyes now is the gleam of schadenfreude. He falls silent and walks in submission with the security guards to the elevator doors.
Once downstairs, they usher him out the front entrance of the TerraWest building.
He steps onto the sidewalk. The doors to TerraWest swing shut behind him. It’s begun to rain, and the wind has turned bitter. Dead leaves plaster the paving. Pedestrians bend their heads as they hunker behind umbrellas.
Jon stands without his jacket. Rain wets his face and hair and shirt. His body vibrates with shame and humiliation.
And rage.
He will fucking kill Mia Reiter and the people behind this. He will rip their throats out with his own bare hands.
MAL
November 2, 2019. Saturday.
Mal and Benoit stand in the rain, watching as the tenders on the dive boat feed crane cables to the divers in the water. The divers will go down and hook the cables to the Subaru. A flatbed awaits at the dock edge to receive the submerged vehicle. Ident vans are parked nearby, ready to receive evidence. A tent has been set up as a command center.
A second dive team continues searching beneath the bridge area for the rug and a body. Rigid hull inflatables with tenders guide the divers below, using lines. It’s dangerous work. Poor visibility, a strong tidal current, and underwater urban detritus hampers progress. The entire construction site is cordoned off, but pedestrian onlookers have begun to gather on the bridge high above, watching the scene unfolding below. A helicopter thuds overhead in the low clouds.
Benoit glances up at the chopper. “News chopper. The story is breaking.”
“Just wait until they catch wind an ex-Olympic skier is involved, never mind the married MLA humping a hotshot city lawyer in her Mercedes on Halloween night near the abandoned silos,” Mal says.
Her phone rings just as the dive boat operator signals to the crane operator to start winching the submerged vehicle up.
“Sergeant Van Alst,” she says as she answers.
“It’s me, Lula. I’m using someone else’s phone. Jon Rittenberg has been brought in. His Audi has been impounded and is en route to the crime lab. We’ve got a team searching Rose Cottage as we speak. We’ve taken Rittenberg’s fingerprints, DNA, and scrapings. We’ve taken his clothing into evidence as well, and we’ve documented his injuries. The samples and prints have been sent to the private lab as requested. We’ll hold him until you’re ready. But just so you know, he’s lawyered up with a big gun.”
“And what’s the status with Daisy Rittenberg?” Mal asks.
“West Van PD is en route to pick her up.”
The winch starts.
“Thanks, Lu. I’m on my way.”
She kills the call. In silence she and Benoit watch as the cables move. The yellow car breaks the surface. Seawater gushes out of an open window and pours out from beneath the doors as the Subaru is swung out over the waiting flatbed. Slowly, it’s lowered down. The Holly’s Help logo looks heartbreakingly innocent. The flatbed dips slightly under the weight of its new burden as the tires settle onto the bed.
Two crime scene techs in white boiler suits climb up onto the flatbed and begin photographing and checking the car before it’s prepped for transport to the lab.
“Sergeant, Corporal.” One of the techs on the flatbed calls Mal and Benoit over. With a gloved hand he holds up a ziplock bag. Water drips from the bag. Inside, awash in seawater, is a fuchsia-pink book with purple polka dots. “Found it in the glove compartment,” says the tech. “Glove compartment was open. Also got a women’s purse on the passenger seat. The contents have spilled out on the passenger side. So far we can see a Subaru key fob, wallet, mobile phone.”