The detective was silent for a moment, and then she continued. “So tell me, Marcel. Was the murder of your wife premeditated, or was it just an impulse of the moment?”
I visited Jordan in jail. Unlike me, she didn’t have a seven-figure financial reserve with which to post bail. She smiled happily when she saw me, as she was led into the visitor’s room in her orange jump suit. She looked good in orange.
When she sat down behind the clear plastic divider, the smile turned to a glare.
With my wife’s death, I was rich. I’d inherited a chunk of her assets. Life was looking up. I was even starting to think about stepping into the dating world again. I couldn’t get that Russian detective out of my mind. I wondered if she go out with me. Nothing serious–just lunch.
The detective’s radar also told her that Marcel was an abusive husband. And she really wanted to get the abusive husband. Was she letting her personal emotions interfere with the case?
The year before I killed my wife, I travelled to China on a Stanford alum travel study program that took us out along the Silk Road.
Then something strange happened. In a bizarre twist, it turned out that my girlfriend Jordan had been stalking not only me, but also my deceased wife. Security cameras at Carla’s Sand Hill office clued in the police. Apparently Jordan had followed my wife to work in her car, and parked outside the restricted lot.
“Look,” I said. “She has this fantasy that she and I are going to get married and ride off into the sunset. She’s nuts. She doesn’t understand that our relationship is just a fling for me.”
“She’s a stalker,” I said, “I look out the living room window at night into my yard, and see a person standing next to a tree, looking in the window. That’s her.”
In Silicon Valley, if you’re a true insider, you understand that crime pays. So the question for me was this: Could I pin the murder of my wife on my jealous girlfriend?
“Hedge funds buy businesses,” I continued, “Then fire people. And then when the businesses are lean and mean and making money, they sell them back to some sucker who will wreck them again.”
“Why do they do that?” Jordan said.
“Why do buzzards eat dead people?” I replied. “You grab the meat wherever you can find it.”