Chapter 6
Bethesda, Maryland
Tim Warner had the bad luck to be the first one in the office on Tuesday morning, as he was most mornings. He’d never really been a morning person, but when he started working at Patriotech, he learned he got most of his work done before his colleagues arrived for the day and started peppering him with questions about how many vacation days they had left and when their worthless stock options would vest.
Even though his job was mundane, Tim felt lucky to have landed a position shortly after graduation, especially in a recession. His salary sucked, that was for sure, but he did have an impressive-sounding title—Director of Human Resources—which was made somewhat less impressive only if one happened to know he directed a staff of zero.
Tim told himself he was making an investment in his future. Patriotech, as a technology startup in the defense sector, was well-positioned to go public within a few years. At least that was what the CEO, Jerry Irwin, had said when he’d interviewed Tim for the position of human resources specialist. After the interview, Tim had been inspired by Irwin and his vision for the company, so he’d leapt at Irwin’s offer to come aboard with a fancier title and stock options, despite the paltry pay.
In the two months he’d been at Patriotech, Tim had remained impressed by Irwin’s vision, even as he’d grown to hate and fear the man. Tim lacked the technical background to understand the product Patriotech had developed, but he assumed Irwin’s violent outbursts and rapid mood swings were a sign of his genius. Or more accurately, he hoped they were a sign of his genius, because Irwin was making his life miserable.
Tim stooped and picked up The Washington Post before swiping his access card in the reader by the lobby doors. Once inside, he flipped on the lights and took the newspaper from its biodegradable green bag, scanning the headlines before he deposited the paper on Lilliana’s desk in the reception area. What he saw below the fold ruined his day: “Hemisphere Flight from National Airport Crashes into Mountain in Virginia; No Survivors.”
Tim skimmed the article to confirm what he already suspected—the downed flight was bound for Dallas—then hurried into his cubicle in the back corner of the office, pulled out a personnel file, and dialed Angelo Calvaruso’s home number.
After he hung up with Calvaruso’s newly minted widow, he sat perfectly still, cradling his head in his hands, for a long while. He stayed immobile when Irwin came into the office and breezed past him on his way to his glass-walled corner office.
After another minute, he steeled himself and walked over to Irwin’s office. His legs felt like they were encased in rock. At just twenty-three, Tim had never had to deliver news like this before; he wasn’t sure how to go about it.
He rapped softly on the open frosted glass door. Irwin looked up from his Wall Street Journal.
“Tim,” he said. Then he waited.
For a moment, Tim had an overpowering feeling Irwin already knew, but he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Irwin read nothing but The Wall Street Journal and technical journals, claimed not to own a television, and listened only to classical music on satellite radio in his BMW. There was no way he would have heard about the crash.
Tim swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Uh. Jerry, I don’t know if you heard but . . um ... there was a plane crash late last night . . .” He trailed off.
“Oh?” Irwin said.
“Yeah, um ... well . . .,” Tim took a breath, and the words tumbled out of their own volition, “there were no survivors, Jerry. Angelo was on the plane. I’m so sorry.”
Irwin just looked at him.
“Angelo? Calvaruso? The consultant?” Tim prompted him, thinking Irwin might be blanking on the name. Or maybe he was in shock, Tim thought.
“Oh,” Irwin said again, finally. “Tell Lilliana to send his family flowers when she gets in.” He turned back to his paper. Tim was dismissed.
Tim walked back to his cubicle, wrinkling his brow in confusion.
Just one month earlier, Irwin had insisted Patriotech hire Calvaruso as a technical consultant under a one-year, $150,000 contract. Tim had gone to see Irwin when the order crossed his desk, and Irwin had blown up at him. In fact, he reflected, it was after their confrontation that Irwin had really started to make life unbearable.
Tim couldn’t understand what Irwin had been thinking. Not because the contract payment was four times his own salary—well, not only because of that. Angelo Calvaruso was a seventy-two-year-old retired snowplow driver for the City of Pittsburgh. Tom found it unimaginable Calvaruso had technical expertise worth what Irwin wanted to pay him.
Irwin had exploded when Tim questioned his decision. His face had darkened, and an ugly raised vein had begun to pulse at his temple. He’d screamed so close to Tim’s face that Tim had been able to count the fillings in Irwin’s teeth and feel the heat from his breath. He’d told Tim to draw up the contract and keep his worthless opinions to himself.
Tim had rushed to prepare a contract then snuck into Irwin’s office and left it on his desk when he was out at lunch. He got it back signed, along with a note to get keyman and travel insurance on Calvaruso in the amount of one million dollars each.
Tim had scoffed at the idea that the old man’s technical skills or knowledge—whatever they were—could possibly be so critical to Patriotech’s business that they needed keyman insurance on him, but he didn’t dare raise it with Irwin. He simply called the company’s broker and got the coverage.
Now, after all that, Irwin seemed completely unfazed that the old man had died after having worked for the company for just four weeks.
Then, a very ugly thought occurred to Tim: Patriotech had paid Angelo Calvaruso exactly $12,500. Rosa Calvaruso was about to collect a million bucks under the travel policy, and Patriotech was going to collect the same amount under the keyman policy.