Company Man Read Online Free

spearhead finials.
    The Suburban screeched to a stop before the ornately scrolled cast-iron gate beside the brick gatehouse built to resemble a miniature castle. A brass plaque on one of the piers said FENWICKE ESTATES .
    That little “e” at the end of Fenwick—he’d always found it pretentious to the point of being irritating. Plus, he was soover the irony here, this posh enclosed neighborhood equipped with the priciest security you could get—the tall wrought-iron perimeter fence with the fiber-optic sensing cable concealed inside the top rail, the pan-tilt-zoom CCTV surveillance cameras, the motion-sensor intruder alarms—where you couldn’t stop the loonies from scrambling in through the dense surrounding woods and climbing over the fence.
    â€œAnother break-in, Mr. Conover,” said Jorge, the day guard. Nice guy, couldn’t be nicer. The security guards were all professional in demeanor, all wore sharp uniforms.
    Nick nodded grimly, waited for the motor-driven gate to open, ridiculously slow. The high-pitched electronic warning beep was annoying. Everything beeped these days: trucks backing up, dishwashers and clothes dryers, microwaves. It really could drive you crazy.
    â€œPolice are there now, you know,” said Jorge. “Three cruisers, sir.”
    â€œAny idea what it is?”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t, I’m sorry.”
    The damned gate took forever to open. It was ridiculous. In the evening sometimes there was a line of cars waiting to get in. Something had to be done about it. For Christ’s sake, what if his house caught fire—would the fire department trucks have to sit here while his house turned to toast?
    He raced the engine in annoyance. Jorge shrugged a sheepish apology.
    The second the gate was open far enough for the car to get through, he gunned it—the Suburban’s pickup never ceased to amaze him—and barreled over the tiger-teeth tire-shredders that enforced one-way traffic, across the wide circular court paved in antique brick in a geometric pattern by old-world Italian stonemasons shipped over from Sicily, past the SPEED LIMIT 20 sign at twice that at least.
    The brick pavement turned into glass-smooth macadam road, no street sign. He raced past the old-growth elms and firs, the mailboxes the size of doghouses, none of the housesvisible. You had to be invited over to see what your neighbor’s house looked like. And there sure as hell weren’t any block parties here in Fenwicke Estates.
    When he saw police squad cars parked on the street and at the entrance to his driveway, he felt something small and cold and hard forming at the base of his stomach, a little icicle of fear.
    A uniformed policeman halted him a few hundred feet from the house, halfway up the drive. Nick jumped out and slammed the car door in one smooth, swift motion.
    The cop was short and squat, powerful-looking, seemed to be perspiring heavily despite the cool weather. His badge said MANZI . A walkie-talkie hitched to his belt squawked unceasingly.
    â€œYou Mr. Conover?” He stood directly in front of Nick’s path, blocking his way. Nick felt a flash of annoyance. My house, my driveway, my burglar alarm: get the fuck out of my way.
    â€œYeah, that’s me, what’s going on?” Nick tried to keep the irritation, and the anxiety, out of his voice.
    â€œAsk you some questions?” Dappled sunlight filtered through the tall birches that lined the asphalt lane, played on the cop’s inscrutable face.
    Nick shrugged. “Sure—what is it, the graffiti again?”
    â€œWhat time did you leave the house this morning, sir?”
    â€œAround seven-thirty, but the kids are normally out of there by eight, eight-fifteen at the latest.”
    â€œWhat about your wife?”
    Nick gazed at the cop steadily. Most of the cops had to know who he was at least. He wondered if this guy was just trying to yank his chain. “I’m