plotted and planned and thought about it for several hours, but kept coming back
to the same place. The best way to look around Dylan’s office was to go when no one
was there. Even better to go before he got back from west Texas.
With a vague notion about how I’d get in after hours, I packed a small bag and headed
for the airport. I was able to get a seat on an eight o’clock flight, which landed
me at DFW around nine-thirty. After I rented a car, I took off for Dallas in the growing
darkness, to a cluster of brightly lit buildings west of the North Dallas Tollway.
I parked in the back, behind a row of shrubberies that segregated one parking lot
from another, gathered up my tools, and went to the service entrance of the building.
It was five stories tall, an older building set apart from the high rises that lined
the freeway. A rudimentary security system was easy to bypass. At least, after I climbed
up a drain pipe to reach the wires. The extra electrical engineering courses I’d taken
in college helped, but really, any burglar worth their salt would have had it just
as easy. Jimmying the door was more difficult, but my little hacksaw took care of
the problem.
Within ten minutes of arriving, I was inside the building. If my family could see
me now.
Well aware there are workaholics in the world, some of whom might be in the offices
I sneaked past, I took care to walk softly as I made my way toward the front to look
at the directory, gripping a tiny flashlight in one latex gloved hand and my tool
bag in the other. That done, I went to the stairwell, climbed to the second floor,
and turned left. Arroyo Petroleum’s office was dead center in the hallway, a set of
glass doors all that stood between me and the reception area. I bent to the floor
and worked the lock, popping it open so easily I wondered why they bothered.
Once inside, I wandered around a bit, glancing in each office, discounting them one
by one as too small, or too sparse to be Dylan’s. A.J. was president, but Dylan had
the dough. Naturally, he’d have the best office. The corner office turned out to be
A.J.’s. I knew because of the name plate on the gigantic desk. The room was large,
decorated in masculine leather and dark wood, nothing out of place, neat as a pin.
I walked around his office and noticed a photograph of a dark-haired woman in riding
clothes standing next to a horse. She was passably pretty, if a guy was into east
coast girls with pale skin and a broomstick up their ass. I wondered how rich her
daddy was.
Disgusted with myself for giving A.J.’s latest pigeon a second thought, I set the
picture down and left his office. Next door was Dylan’s office. Had to be. It looked
just as I imagined Enron’s offices looked the night they tried to shred everything.
Files and papers were stacked willy-nilly on the floor, on the desk, in the bookshelves,
on the chairs and sofa, anywhere there was a flat surface. Jesus. It would take the
next twenty years to go through all of it.
I focused on his desk, scanning the myriad notes and phone messages scattered between
cigars still in wrappers and receipts and at least five issues of Penthouse and Hustler . I glanced at his chair and literally shuddered. No way I’d touch it. Who knew what
evil germs and unmentionables lurked there?
Thirty minutes later, I admitted defeat. There was absolutely nothing that would tie
Dylan to the blowouts.
On instinct, I went back to A.J.’s office and looked around a bit more. When I opened
one of his desk drawers, I was surprised to find it empty. The others were also empty.
Turning, I opened the drawers and doors of the long credenza behind his desk. Totally
empty. Not even a box of Kleenex.
That’s when I noticed there was no computer. Granted, he might use a laptop and tote
it around with him, but there was no printer, no cables. Nothing to indicate he used
a computer.
My
to the same place. The best way to look around Dylan’s office was to go when no one
was there. Even better to go before he got back from west Texas.
With a vague notion about how I’d get in after hours, I packed a small bag and headed
for the airport. I was able to get a seat on an eight o’clock flight, which landed
me at DFW around nine-thirty. After I rented a car, I took off for Dallas in the growing
darkness, to a cluster of brightly lit buildings west of the North Dallas Tollway.
I parked in the back, behind a row of shrubberies that segregated one parking lot
from another, gathered up my tools, and went to the service entrance of the building.
It was five stories tall, an older building set apart from the high rises that lined
the freeway. A rudimentary security system was easy to bypass. At least, after I climbed
up a drain pipe to reach the wires. The extra electrical engineering courses I’d taken
in college helped, but really, any burglar worth their salt would have had it just
as easy. Jimmying the door was more difficult, but my little hacksaw took care of
the problem.
Within ten minutes of arriving, I was inside the building. If my family could see
me now.
Well aware there are workaholics in the world, some of whom might be in the offices
I sneaked past, I took care to walk softly as I made my way toward the front to look
at the directory, gripping a tiny flashlight in one latex gloved hand and my tool
bag in the other. That done, I went to the stairwell, climbed to the second floor,
and turned left. Arroyo Petroleum’s office was dead center in the hallway, a set of
glass doors all that stood between me and the reception area. I bent to the floor
and worked the lock, popping it open so easily I wondered why they bothered.
Once inside, I wandered around a bit, glancing in each office, discounting them one
by one as too small, or too sparse to be Dylan’s. A.J. was president, but Dylan had
the dough. Naturally, he’d have the best office. The corner office turned out to be
A.J.’s. I knew because of the name plate on the gigantic desk. The room was large,
decorated in masculine leather and dark wood, nothing out of place, neat as a pin.
I walked around his office and noticed a photograph of a dark-haired woman in riding
clothes standing next to a horse. She was passably pretty, if a guy was into east
coast girls with pale skin and a broomstick up their ass. I wondered how rich her
daddy was.
Disgusted with myself for giving A.J.’s latest pigeon a second thought, I set the
picture down and left his office. Next door was Dylan’s office. Had to be. It looked
just as I imagined Enron’s offices looked the night they tried to shred everything.
Files and papers were stacked willy-nilly on the floor, on the desk, in the bookshelves,
on the chairs and sofa, anywhere there was a flat surface. Jesus. It would take the
next twenty years to go through all of it.
I focused on his desk, scanning the myriad notes and phone messages scattered between
cigars still in wrappers and receipts and at least five issues of Penthouse and Hustler . I glanced at his chair and literally shuddered. No way I’d touch it. Who knew what
evil germs and unmentionables lurked there?
Thirty minutes later, I admitted defeat. There was absolutely nothing that would tie
Dylan to the blowouts.
On instinct, I went back to A.J.’s office and looked around a bit more. When I opened
one of his desk drawers, I was surprised to find it empty. The others were also empty.
Turning, I opened the drawers and doors of the long credenza behind his desk. Totally
empty. Not even a box of Kleenex.
That’s when I noticed there was no computer. Granted, he might use a laptop and tote
it around with him, but there was no printer, no cables. Nothing to indicate he used
a computer.
My
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