Dead Midnight by Marcia Muller Page A

I’ve amused myself for countless hours by watching my staff’s antics.” His doting smile didn’t reach his eyes.
    “They seem a lively bunch,” I said.
    “They’re like a roomful of kindergartners—bright, talented, and skilled kindergartners.” He motioned for us to sit on the uncomfortable-looking sofa and turned his chair around to face us. “All of us at
InSite
believe that the work-place should be enjoyable—a home away from home. It fosters creativity. And what creativity doesn’t get channeled into the work goes into the games. That’s why J.D.’s idea for your game was so appealing to us.”
    “What kinds of games do they play?”
    “Well, the water pistols are a good example. One of the tech staff came into possession of scores of them at a liquidation sale, which he distributed to all takers. They began working out their aggressions by firing on those who irritated them. Within days, the entire staff was armed and ready. Sneak attacks and retaliations are a common occurrence.”
    “Interesting,” I said, trying not to show my distaste. There had been too many incidents of employees opening real fire on their coworkers. Maybe the water pistols were therapeutic, but to me they seemed only a short step away from the real thing.
    Engstrom went on, “We’re a family here. Long hours and working the occasional weekend are necessary in order to keep the magazine fresh—some of the content changes daily. We use a great deal of freelance material”—he nodded at J.D.—“but it still has to be edited, illustrated, and so forth. And the tech staff is on call twenty-four hours in case of problems. Most of us have newspaper backgrounds like J.D., so we run more like a paper than your traditional magazine.”
    A cheer went up from the floor below. As Engstrom swiveled toward the glass, J.D. and I got up to look. A pair of men were entering, one with a liquor case balanced on his shoulder, another laden with plastic sacks. The staffers crowded around them, herding them into the space under the loft.
    “Cocktail hour,” Engstrom said, swiveling back to the desk. “We work hard, but we also play hard. A daily happy hour is paid for by the company, and the currently fashionable cocktail and snacks are served. This week it’s White Hot Zombies.”
    “What the hell’re those?” J.D. asked.
    “Damned if I know. I’m a martini man myself. But the point I’m trying to make is that we treat our staffers well. We provide a catered breakfast and pay for whatever they order in when they can’t go home for meals. Expense accounts are generous. We provide cell phones, Internet access, and, in some cases, computers for home use. We allow pets and preschool children to be brought to work—although there’s only one baby in the nursery right now, and no pets in the office, due to the travel editor’s Great Dane having taken a violent dislike to the Edibles editor’s Lhasa asshole.”
    “Lhasa
what
?” J.D. asked.
    “Dog had a lousy personality.”
    In light of what I’d been hearing all day about
InSite
— which seemed to be common knowledge among Roger Nagasawa’s social circle—Engstrom’s speech sounded as if he were trying to convince us it was a pleasant working atmosphere—and perhaps also convince himself. My suspicion was confirmed when he rose suddenly and lowered the blinds on the glass wall. As he sat down again and fiddled with something under his desk—a control for the listening devices J.D. claimed were planted in the offices?—he said, “What I’m about to tell you is strictly on background, J.D.”
    “I understand.”
    “And you, Sharon—can I count on confidentiality?”
    “Of course.”
    “I have a secondary motive for being intrigued by your game. Someone in our little family is disloyal. Someone in these offices is not working in the magazine’s best interests. I’ve become aware of it in recent months, and whoever it is has to be identified and stopped. I want you,