Fault Line

He thought, Oops, and in the giddy, adrenaline-charged aftermath, the thought was hilarious. He pushed the back of his hand over his mouth and shook with silent laughter.

He hoped the brass wasn't going to be too pissed.

6 IMPLACABLE

Once he'd canceled the meeting, Alex felt a little calmer. It was like ru

Except there was no alternative to Hilzoy. Hilzoy was a once-in-a-lifetime ticket.

He worked on a few other matters, but he couldn't get Hilzoy out of his head. He wanted to find out what would happen to the patent application if Hilzoy were… gone. Presumably it would be treated as part of Hilzoy's estate, and pass to his descendents or beneficiaries. But who would those people be? Alex didn't know the first thing about Hilzoy's family, other than that he was divorced and had no kids. Was there any way to salvage this thing without Hilzoy, with just the patent?

His mobile rang. He checked the readout. It was a blocked number, but he was so hungry for news he answered anyway.

“Alex Treven.”

“Mr. Treven, this is Detective Gamez of the San Jose Police Department. Am I reaching you at a convenient time?”

Alex's heart started kicking. “Uh, yeah, it's a fine time. Is this about… is it about Richard Hilzoy?”

There was a pause on the other end, and Alex wondered whether maybe he shouldn't have said that.

“There's been a crime,” Gamez said, “and we'd appreciate it if you could come down to the station to answer a few questions.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “When?”

“Right now would be best.”

“Sure,” Alex said again. “Just tell me where you are.”

“Two-oh-one West Mission Street. Use the front entrance and ask for Detective Gamez.”

“I should be there in about a half hour. Can I just ask you-”

“Let's talk when you get here,” Gamez said. “A half hour, right?”

“Right,” Alex said, and the line went dead.

He started tidying up a few things on his desk, then realized he was being ridiculous. He was afraid of what he might learn, that was it, and was looking for a reason to delay. Or maybe he was seeking to impose some order on the universe by straightening up his desk. Please.

He headed out. “I just got a call from the police,” he told Alisa as he walked past. “I need to go down to the station.”

“Is it Hilzoy?” she called after him.

“We'll find out.”

He plugged the address into the M3's nav system, then followed it onto Page Mill Road toward 280. As he crossed Foothill Expressway, he remembered reading about some bicyclist who had died nearby about a year earlier. A freak accident, a broken neck. The memory increased his certainty that something really had happened to Hilzoy. He knew life was like that, knew it firsthand. Just when everything was fine, when it couldn't be better, fate liked to reach out and remind you of exactly how tenuous it all really was.

He wondered why Gamez would be calling him. It had to be Hilzoy. But how had the police known to call him? And how had they gotten his mobile number?

Then he realized. Hilzoy's mobile. The appointment with Alex and the VCs would have been in the electronic calendar. And Alex had called him, what, twenty times that morning? All those calls, and Alex's number, would have been in the log.

He tried to imagine what the appointment and all those logged calls would look like to the police. He wondered if he could be a suspect. Jesus.

San Jose Police headquarters was a fortress, all concrete blocks and ninety-degree angles and dark reflective windows. The two benches in front were bolted to the cement beneath and did nothing to leaven the formidable atmosphere of the place. Even the trees and plantings felt more like camouflage than decoration.

Alex took a deep breath, walked up the cement stairs, and entered a lobby. It was more of the same: bulletproof glass, surveillance cameras, heavy high-tech-looking metal doors. A half dozen people were plopped down along two rows of metal chairs, all of them wearing the kinds of expressions you might expect on someone about to be called in for a nice long root canal.

Waiting rooms. He hated them.

A woman who looked like she might be there to answer questions was standing behind the reinforced glass. Alex walked over and said into the intercom, “Hi, my name is Alex Treven, I'm supposed to ask for Detective Gamez. I think he's expecting me.”

“Treven?” she asked, and when Alex nodded in confirmation, she said, “I'll call him and let him know you're here.”

Twenty uncomfortable minutes later, a guy came through the interior door and looked around the room. He was about six feet and muscular under his gray suit jacket and dark tie. He had close-cropped black hair, and with the coloring and the name, Alex figured he was Latino.

Alex stood up and looked at him. The guy said, “Alex Treven?”

Alex nodded and walked over. “Hi, you're… Detective Gamez?”

“That's me.” The man didn't offer to shake Alex's hand. “Sorry I kept you waiting-we've had a lot of information coming in on this case and it's keeping us jumping. Let's go inside where we can talk.”

Alex followed him in. He wanted to ask about the case but decided it was better to say less. Besides, he figured he'd know more soon enough, one way or the other.

They took an elevator to the second floor, then walked down a short corridor. The place felt governmental to Alex, though he couldn't articulate exactly why. Maybe it was the functionality of the decor. Fluorescent lights overhead, drop ceilings, plain tile floors in the hall. They passed a few open doors, and the sounds of conversation from within were muted, serious, as though the people inside were hard at work. Alex was struck by the size of the facility, by the amount of manpower and other resources the government obviously could bring to bear on a problem if it wanted to. There was something… implacable about the place, and Alex found it intimidating.

They turned right through an open door. There was a sign overhead-something like CRIME INVESTIGATION UNIT. Alex didn't quite catch it before they had gone through. Inside was a large carpeted area with about a dozen cubicles. Alex could see people working at a few, but no one looked up.

Gamez led him into a small room to their right, maybe eight feet by six. The ceiling was low. A table, three chairs, and no shadows under the harsh fluorescent lights. All the noise without seemed to die in the room, and Alex wondered if it was soundproofed.

Gamez closed the door and they sat facing each other. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and fixed his eyes on Alex. “When we spoke on the phone, you asked whether this was about Richard Hilzoy. Why did you ask that?”

Alex was mildly taken aback by the guy's abruptness. “We had an important meeting this morning and he didn't show up. I called him a bunch of times, then sent my secretary down to his apartment to see if she could find him. She said it was surrounded by police, and someone said someone had been killed. I was worried it was Richard. Is there a reason you won't just tell me? I'm his lawyer, I'm concerned.”

Gamez was looking at him closely. After a moment, he said, “Richard Hilzoy was murdered this morning in the parking lot of his building.”

Murdered. Even though Alex had suspected the worst, and thought he'd been prepared for it, the news shook him.

“Damn,” he said. “How… what happened?”

“I have a few more questions I'd like to ask you,” Gamez said. “Your meeting this morning. Who was it with? What was it about?”

Alex answered Gamez's questions. Gamez wrote things down in a small notebook. Occasionally he asked Alex for clarification. Sometimes he circled back to something Alex had said earlier. He confirmed that it was the appointment in Hilzoy's calendar, and the multiple calls in the phone log, that led the police to Alex. Alex realized Gamez wasn't just looking for general information, but that he himself actually was a suspect, and even though he knew he had nothing to worry about, it was u