Remote Control Read online

  Emma gazed down at the casket. Shutters clicked, catching the brittle light flickering in her eyes.

  “I don’t yet know how much I will miss you, Daddy. That…is a black territory in my heart. It’s a place I’m still too terrified to explore.”

  The president, too, spoke that morning about Emma’s father. He praised his surgeon general for his sense of duty to his country, for his ultimate sacrifice. He condemned those in the antiabortion movement who condoned the murder of Dr. Spire. The president spoke of the pornography of assassination, of the imperative that ours remain a nation of laws, not ideologues.

  For America it was a CNN day. A video memory.

  The president has many days.

  But this day was Emma Spire’s.

  Live.

  Later she went to Hollywood, ensuring she would not be forgotten.

  Cozier Maitlin was exasperated. “That’s not what I mean, Alan. I don’t mean how does she know of Emma. What I want to know is how does Lauren know her? Here in Boulder. Are they friends? What? What was Lauren doing up here tonight?”

  “You know that Emma came to Boulder to go to law school, right? After she decided not to marry that actor.”

  “Yes, of course. Apparently the poor man had done everything but straighten his cummerbund when she dumped him.”

  Alan ignored the invitation to gossip about Emma’s aborted marriage. “Last spring some time, Emma applied to do an internship in the DA’s office. Lauren got acquainted with her there. They’ve become friends.”

  The first part, the law school–in–Boulder part, was common knowledge. And the internship? People magazine had done a five-page piece about that. Maybe Cozy didn’t read People.

  “Was Lauren coming up here to see Emma tonight? Was this DA business or personal business?”

  “I don’t know how my wife spends her days, who she sees. She doesn’t provide me with a copy of her calendar. I think Lauren should answer these questions, Cozy. I would be speculating, and that’s not fair to either Lauren or Emma.”

  Cozy jerked his head quickly to face Alan. “Does the shooting have to do with Emma? Tell me that. What are we dealing with here?”

  Alan was mildly appreciative of Cozy’s interviewing technique. Alan could have taught him a few things about the use of non sequitur but a growl from his belly distracted him, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for a long time. Maybe that was the cause of the headache flaring in his brain stem.

  “My wife shot somebody tonight. That thought is as baffling to me right now as if you told me aliens had landed in Boulder. I don’t know what’s what. Maybe my wife is sitting alone in jail because of Emma Spire. And then maybe not. I don’t know. But I do know one thing, Cozy: If this does have to do with Emma, there are going to be more sleazy reporters camping out in Boulder tomorrow than have congregated anywhere since O.J.”

  Maitlin swallowed the last of his tea and reached forward to place the empty cup on the console between the front seats. “Although I am certain you have your reasons, I don’t believe you. And I will admit to being wary and less than pleased that you are not being more forthcoming about this. Do you actually think the cops don’t know that Emma Spire lives right up the street from here? I mean, really.”

  “From my brief conversation with Lauren tonight, Cozy, I’m working under the assumption that she feels she needs to hold that card close to her chest right now. I don’t know the answers to your questions. Lauren does.”

  Erin interrupted. “I’m ready to start canvassing, Cozy. Alan, can you drive him back to town? The big boy’s license is under suspension due to a proclivity toward trying to break the land speed record. And, Cozy, if you don’t have somebody back up here in ninety minutes to give me a ride home, I’m going to tell the state bar about your account with Victoria’s Secret. A cab is fine, I don’t care. Pull some strings. I promised the baby-sitter I’d be home by two-thirty. Nice meeting you, Alan.” She paused and waited until he looked at her. “We’ll do everything we can to make this come out okay.”

  Erin slid out of the car and walked around to the window next to Alan. She knocked on it. He searched around for the button and lowered the glass a few inches.

  With one hand she held the hair back from her face. She whispered, “If I were in jail, he’s who I would call. He’s pompous, he’s arrogant, and he’s good. Keep reminding yourself to forget the first two traits.”

  In three determined strides Erin Rand disappeared into the storm.

  Cozy was absolutely unconcerned about what Erin might have whispered to Alan. He suggested that Alan and he move up to the front seat.

  “Erin’s a good investigator, she’ll come back with something,” he said. “Especially with the wonderful treasure map that Detective Purdy left for her. People talk to Erin. I’m not sure I’ve ever understood precisely why, but they do. I found her inquisitive manner increasingly grating after we were married. Though I suppose it had its charms early. That, and the fact that the woman reached into my pants even before I’d ever dreamed of reaching into hers.”

  “You two are married?”

  “Were, were. Ages ago, when we were young. And quite foolish. At least I was. She still is, I think.”

  “The kids with the baby-sitter, they’re—”

  “A different ex-husband altogether, thank you. Although I love them dearly. Twin girls, ten years old.”

  “And Erin works for you now?”

  “Erin works for no one. She’s independent, literally and figuratively. Has her own cute little business. My law firm employs her from time to time. Quite regularly, come to think of it.”

  “That’s not difficult for you? Hiring your ex-wife, working with her?”

  “The woman was dear enough to put me through law school without complaining too loudly. Helping her out with an occasional job seems the least I could do. And anyway, she’s good, like I said, people open up to her, find her soothing. She always wanted to be a therapist, like you. That is what you do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. She has inviting eyes, Cozy. Compassionate. Maybe that’s it.”

  “Maybe. It’s something I’m told I lack—outward demonstrations of compassion. I’ve always thought that public empathy is thin ice for a criminal defense attorney. Society seems to feel that compassion should be bestowed most generously on the victim, don’t you think, and not on the accused? Sometimes I’m not at all certain that I disagree. Other times things get turned around, though, and I’ll admit to you that’s not when I’m at my best.”

  Given the day’s events, Alan was less inclined to concur than he might have been.

  “But if that is your opinion—that Erin’s manner is ‘inviting’—a sweet word by the way, she would get a kick out of it, then perhaps I should assign her to interview you and allow her to ask you all the tough questions about your wife and Emma Spire that you’re not inclined to answer.”

  Fighting hunger, fatigue, and shock, Alan paused and thought before he spoke. “Don’t misread me, Cozy. There are some complicated things going on. But this isn’t about me. Lauren gets to make this call.”

  “Not Ms. Spire?”

  “She’s already made her calls.”

  “Ah.”

  “Hopefully, Lauren and Casey are sorting all this out right now, right?”

  “Right, hopefully. Although this process, arrest and arraignment, is not as predictable as you might be inclined to believe.”

  “Assuming that they’ve talked, I would really like to head back to town and hear from Casey what’s going on. I have to get Lauren her medicine before midnight. And I have the checkbook that Lauren needs if she’s going to give Casey a retainer.”

  “Well, the retainer,” said Cozy warmly. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  He placed his hands on the wheel and without facing Alan said, “Do you mind driving? Even if I still had my license, I admit that I have this neurotic thing about driving in arctic conditions.”

  TWO
r />   Tuesday, September 24. Late afternoon

  66 Degrees, Sunny

  The sun was shining and the sky was clear, the air as sharp and fresh as the first sip of a cold beer.

  Lauren played an adequate second base for Montezuma’s Revenge, a softball team loosely managed by Alan’s partner in clinical psychology practice, Diane Estevez. This game was against the Virga from nearby Broomfield.

  Alan Gregory plopped down next to Raoul Estevez, Diane’s husband, to watch the two teams warm up. Raoul said, “Great day for a game, huh? The opposition seems quite formidable, though, don’t you think? All the parts of their uniforms match. I wonder if they have a shoe contract with Nike.” Raoul was sitting with someone Alan didn’t know.

  “Alan Gregory,” Raoul said, “this is Ethan Han.”

  Alan did know Han by reputation. Ethan Han was Boulder’s entrepreneur du jour. The “Island Wunderkind,” one of Denver’s dailies had called him.

  During a recent meal with Diane, Alan, and Lauren at the Zolo Grill, Raoul had described Ethan Han as “a special breed of entrepreneur. He has a unique vision of technology that extends far beyond commercial viability. With what he sees and what he wants to do with what he sees, he will either shake this world to its toes or he will die frustrated while trying. That is, if he manages to avoid the pressures of his creativity.”

  Alan asked, “What does that mean?”

  Raoul thought about what he wanted to say. “His mind works much faster than his laboratory. He wants to explore the next idea, and the next, before he completes the necessary pieces of the first.”

  “He’s impetuous?”

  “No. He is like American food. He is unseasoned.”

  Looking for subtext in Raoul’s crafty use of language, Alan said, “So I take it that you are going to work with him?”

  “Absolutely. Who better? This man can change the human condition. Ten years, fifty years from now, his work will be remembered.”

  With Raoul Estevez and his conveniently awkward English, it was impossible to tell whether “who better” meant “who better could I find to work with” or “who better could Han find to help him achieve his vision than me.” Alan assumed both possibilities might be true. No one had nannied more of Boulder’s storied entrepreneurial successes than had Raoul Estevez. His résumé read Storage Technology, NBI, Minibyte, McData, Exabyte, and TelSat. Raoul’s wet-nursing of these high-tech start-ups had earned him great wealth from stock options over the years, and apparently he was now involved with Ethan Han’s medical engineering firm, BiModal.

  “What’s so visionary? What did I read, Han’s company does electronic prosthetics, biological monitoring, and medical telemetry, right? How large a market can there be for that? Doctors and hospitals, who else needs that kind of equipment?”

  Raoul dismissed Alan’s limited perspective with a wave of his long fingers. “Saying that Han does ‘prosthetics’ is like saying that Jurassic Park was about lizards. BiModal already does incredibly sophisticated sensory myoelectrics for amputees. They are close to completing a prototype artificial retina. Astonishing things. You do not have an entrepreneur’s vision, Alain. Telemetry, yes, Ethan knows it better than anyone. Biological monitoring, yes, cutting edge. But Ethan Han is not in this world to build a wristwatch EKG receiver so that cardiologists can monitor their patients from the golf course. His brilliance, his gift, is in creating software that decodes neural signals. And he knows things about business that young men don’t usually know. The right technology creates markets, it doesn’t fulfill them. Ethan has visions for what can be done with his technology that the rest of us haven’t thought of, and won’t ever be creative enough to think of. Education, entertainment, new forms of medical diagnostics. Consider Bill Gates here, not Henry Ford.”

  Alan’s experience of Raoul was that he was such a good salesman he often sold himself first, so he said, “May I ask who recruited whom?”

  “I don’t understand.” When Raoul wasn’t comfortable with the twists of a conversation, his communication skills suffered drastic impairment, and he transformed himself back into a vestigial immigrant from Barcelona. The truth was that he was trained at Harvard and Cal Tech and spoke English with more authority than most members of the U.S. Senate.

  “Did you seek out Han or did he hear about you? Who was courting whom prior to this nuptial?”

  “Nuptial? That is like a—?”

  Diane, his wife, interrupted her assault on a quesadilla to cut in. “He’s afraid that nuptial might be yet another Anglo-Saxon idiom for fucking.”

  “It means ‘marriage,’ Raoul.”

  “He knows what it means, guys.” Lauren smiled warmly at Raoul.

  Raoul refilled everyone’s glasses with Crazy Ed’s Chili Beer before he answered. “Ethan called me, just to talk, when I got back from Huntsville last month. He’s having some cost-containment problems, heard I had some experience with that.”

  Over the last six months Raoul had been spending much of his time in Tennessee wrapping up his involvement with another start-up, TelSat, which was in the process of selling out to TCI. Diane had told Alan that she and Raoul were going to make a shitload of money in the transaction, too.

  “And for your deal with BiModal, are you taking salary or stock options, Raoul?”

  “The company is not rich with cash. R&D for the artificial retina and a…new project is killing them. Ethan is not wealthy, either. He is…what do you say?”

  “Broke?”

  “Yes, that. But I was thinking more…his existence is austere, frugal. I’m accepting options only this time. I think it is prudent. BiModal needs its cash. You may have read that Ethan turned down an unsolicited offer from HP two, three months ago?”

  Alan had read about the solicitation in the paper. “Was it a good offer?”

  “Yes, based on current revenues and conservative projections. A pittance for what BiModal should be worth in five years. Or even two, if Ethan’s plans work out.”

  “So I should buy twice as much stock as I otherwise might consider?”

  “Sorry, but you cannot. BiModal is privately held. Ethan and his family. A partner. A couple of big investors. That’s it.” His dark eyes locked onto a waitress who was approaching with the table’s entrées. “Part of my job will be to stretch his capital. He wants me to streamline his R&D and help reduce costs of moving into production.”

  Again, Alan heard subtext. “What’s the rest of your job?”

  “It is—what—unspoken? I am to be his mentor, I think. To guide his imagination. To break his wildness, like a young horse needs. You know?”

  “You make him sound capricious.”

  “No, ‘unfocused’ is a better word, I think. He does one thing for a while, then he gets excited about the next. A bad habit. It eats capital.”

  Alan had read that Han was twenty-nine, but reclining on the grass at the softball game, he looked twenty-five. He was wearing a Daily Bread T-shirt from the bakery on Pearl Street, some long cotton print shorts, and pale orange flip-flops. His dark black hair was unruly in an adolescent way and his tropical skin was as smooth and rich as melted chocolate. His sunglasses looked expensive.

  “Do you know some of the players, Ethan?” Alan couldn’t help wondering why Ethan had come to the park on a weekday afternoon to watch a softball game. It was a nice day for hanging out in the sun, sure, but most spectators were friends or relatives of the players.

  “No, no. I only know Diane. Maybe I’ll meet someone though, right? That’s always possible.” He didn’t look at Alan as he spoke.

  Alan said, “Raoul may have already told you, but I met my wife here. That’s her at second base. Lauren.”

  Han had been looking that way. “She’s quite attractive.” His comment seemed offhand, as though he were approving of Alan’s selection of a tie. “As a courtesy to you, I’ll cross her off my list.”

  Han’s humor was either as dry as a good chablis or he wasn’t kidding. Alan could
n’t tell.

  “What about the left fielder? Whose wife is she?” He pointed to the outfield.

  “She’s new. I don’t know her,” said Raoul. “Maybe Alan knows who she is.”

  He did. The left fielder was a substitute, not a regular. Her abundant brown hair was tied back in a ponytail that flowed halfway down her back through the opening in her cap. She wore sunglasses that obscured most of her face. At that moment she was shagging whatever fly balls Diane’s bat could loft that far and demonstrating a pretty fair arm.

  Alan hesitated before addressing himself to Raoul. “That’s a friend of Lauren’s from work.”

  “She’s a prosecutor, too?” Raoul asked.

  “No, an intern. Law school student. Some of them spend some time in the DA’s office.”

  Ethan was piecing together the riddle. “What’s her name?”

  “Emma,” Alan said. “Her name is Emma.” He wondered which one of them would bite.

  Ethan Han leaned forward deliberately, as though being twelve inches closer to left field would yield him considerably more data. “The ‘Emma’? That’s Emma Spire out there?”

  “Yes, one and the same.”

  “I read that after she left that actor on the altar she had come to town to go to school. I would love to meet her. Can I meet her, do you think?”

  Raoul—who had never himself been introduced to Emma Spire, but to whom all things were always possible—said, “Of course you can. Diane will introduce you. Maybe we will all go out for pizza and beer afterward. Alain, yes? Won’t that be fun?”

  Before he answered Alan watched Ethan Han shift the rest of his weight forward and rest his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his palms.

  Lauren was beat. The Broomfield Virga had won 14–3. Because of the Virga’s exemplary batting skills, Lauren had been left standing in the sun at second base for extended periods of time. Alan knew she was exhausted and assumed she would want to skip dinner with their friends and head home and rest. He had his heart set on a Nick-N-Willy’s garlic and basil pizza, anyway. He’d stop and pick up a ready-to-bake and throw it into the oven at home whenever Lauren was ready for dinner.