Connor merged onto the freeway without needing my directions. In fact, he’d driven us home without once asking for them. I envied him his internal atlas. I was born without a sense of direction.
“Just desk time and a couple of business types during office hours?” Connor asked.
“Absolutely.” I crossed my fingers just in case I was lying.
Chapter Eleven
Connor dropped me at the office. I stopped by the break room on the way to my office, picking up a bag of chips and a soda for a belated meal at my desk. While I munched, I surfed the Internet until I found the newspaper article about Flash. It was pretty light on facts. It mentioned Millicent and millions along with a beloved pet, but no details about the trust. I looked for the byline, then pulled the phone book off my shelf. I reached for the phone.
“You never did say what happened to your face.” Joe strolled into my cubicle and sat down.
“Walked into a door.”
“You might try opening it next time.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I hope that’s not a personal call.” Joe shook his head. “Big brother is watching. You remember Stan Intuak? Litigation paralegal on the forty-first floor? He got canned last week for playing computer games online during work hours. And Marta Blake, the summer law clerk, had her full-time offer withdrawn yesterday when they found out she’d been making copies of personal stuff.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. There’s some sort of software that tracks employee activities. Phones, copiers, fax machines. Elizabeth personally reviews the printouts. And you know what that means.”
“She is such a bitch.” I couldn’t believe somebody had actually been fired for making a few extra copies. It was practically an employee benefit. Elizabeth probably thought it was the height of power to be able to crush people for stupid stuff like that.
“Hmm.” Joe rose and ambled out of my cubicle.
“Hey, Joe. Did you want something when you came in or did you just stop by to nap in my chair?”
He shrugged. “Just thought you might want to, you know, talk or something.”
“Talk?”
He tapped next to his eye.
“Oh, that. It’s nothing.”
“Okay.” He shrugged again.
“Thanks for asking.” I was touched and a little embarrassed.
“Sure.” He flushed before wandering away.
I called the reporter, a guy named Bill Forester. His one-second baritone “Leave one” was followed by a computer-generated voice telling me his voice mail was full. How many messages did it take to fill voice mail? Frustrated, I took two preboredom, postconcussion pain relievers and tried to come up with a game plan. Flash was a missing heir. Routine. Of course, most heirs were happy to be found, lured by the temptation of money. Even though I’d never met him personally, I somehow didn’t think Flash was the mercenary type.
I swiveled my chair back and forth. The motion was soothing, almost hypnotic. I took a couple of minutes and closed my eyes, swaying with the chair. The phone rang.
“Sara Townley.”
“This is Elizabeth. Mr. Hamilton wants a daily progress report on the Millinfield matter.”
I opened my eyes and sat up.
“Um, of course.”
She hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand, embarrassed at drifting off even though Elizabeth couldn’t have known that I’d been on the verge of sleep. I stood and stretched, doing neck rolls and shoulder shrugs to wake myself up. I reached toward my bookcase. The shelves groaned with the tools of my trade: phone books, reverse directories, and atlases for legwork. Binoculars, camera, and crosswords for surveillance work. Dictionary and thesaurus for paperwork. Nerf basketball. Joe had installed a hoop that was perfect for blind three-point shots at the buzzer from the comfort of my chair. Even worker bees needed diversions.
I flipped my dog-eared yellow pages. If Flash had been an actual person, then after checking with his beer-drinking, male-bonding buddies, his longtime mistress, and his new girlfriend, I would check the local jails and hospitals. For a cat on the lam, that meant the pound.
There were a dozen animal shelters, welfare societies, and halfway houses for pets listed in the phone book. I’d called half the previous day without success. That left six for today’s mind-numbing chore. I dialed the first number.
“Animal Astrological Commune, Astrid speaking.” She had a soft, breathy voice barely audible over the New Age background music.
“I’m looking for a cat.”
“And what is your sign?”
“My sign?”
“Or your birthday would be better. I could consult your chart for last life connection and psychic empathy, too.”
“He’s male, gray and white, and weighs about ten pounds. Answers to the name Flash.” I drew a cartoon cat’s head on the yellow-lined pad.
“I’m sure that can’t be right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgiveness is a gift of the spirit,” she replied serenely.
“This cat is missing.” I felt like Alice in Wonderland.
“Perhaps his spirit needed to travel along its true path. Rejoice in the journey.”
“Is there someone else there that I could talk to?” I asked, using shading to give Flash’s features a feral quality.
“I am but one,” she said sadly. “Melissa won’t be back until after her honeymoon.”
“Let me guess: You’re new.” Her unflappable serenity made me want to spit nails. “Do you have any animals without known owners?”
“One spirit cannot own another.”
“Could I come look at any cats you do have?” I was starting to feel desperate to get off the phone and back to normal people. Flash’s body was a little disproportionate, but I was satisfied with the overall aesthetic of my rendition.
“You must reach out to the world around you.”
“When?”
“Your psychic energy is ever flowing.”
“When are you open?” I asked, deliberately pausing between each word.
“Whenever.”
“I don’t suppose ‘whenever’ happens on a regular schedule?”
“Not usually, no.”
“Thanks.”
I dialed the next number. The phone rang ten times before being answered by a harassed receptionist with a harsh, “SHARPO.”
“Excuse me?”
“SHARPO.”
“I’m looking for the pound.”
“We don’t call it the pound anymore. This is the Society of Humans Achieving Responsible Pet Ownership.”
“Uh, sorry. I’m looking for a cat.” Was it a full moon?
“Identification tattoo?”
“No visible marks.” My doodle began to sport an ink Mom near his shoulder.
“Microchip?”
“What?” Did she think he was the feline version of 007?
“Does he have a microchip for identification?” She used the same you-are-an-imbecile-wasting-my-time pause between syllables I had used on poor Astrid. Microchip? Maybe it was like a LoJack for pets. Maybe all I had to do was follow the signal to find Flash.
“I don’t know. If he has one, could I use it to track him?”
“The microchip is for identification only. If he’s found”—she emphasized if—“we would know where he lives and who his owner is by the information on the chip.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Name.”
“Sara Townley.”
“His name.”
“Flash.” I added a banner with his name in a flowing, graceful font.
“Description?”
“Gray and white, male, approximately ten pounds.” I shifted in my chair, leaning back to peruse my drawing.
“Altered?”
“I have no idea.” The file hadn’t contained any information about Flash’s medical history. Probably too personal. My pen raised, I briefly considered incorpora
ting this idea into my sketch but decided against descending into pet pornography.
“Some people shouldn’t have pets.” She slammed down the phone.
I carefully returned the phone to its cradle. My head ached, but at least I’d have something to put on the daily report Elizabeth had demanded.
I spent a half hour running cursory criminal and credit checks on the Masterson offspring so I’d have something for Morris’s report before deciding that my promise to Connor didn’t mean that I couldn’t follow hot leads. Well, not hot exactly, but a lawsuit claiming wrongful termination, and the eldest child of a billionaire spending a three-day weekend in jail because he couldn’t make bail were mildly interesting. More interesting than getting browbeaten by strangers for my pet-parenting skills. Besides, a little fresh air would help my headache. It was practically a medical intervention.
I went in search of Joe. I found him at his desk, his face inches from a stack of papers with tiny print.
“How go the crusades?” I asked him, leaning against the opening to his cubicle.
“Bloody,” he said, not looking up.
“I thought you lawyer types loved that sort of thing?”
He did look up then. “We do. We really, really do,” he said in a monotone.
“Can I borrow you car?” I asked.
“Got any more Snickers?” he asked, looking back down at the work in front of him.
“No.”
“Call a cab.”
“If I had wheels,” I drawled, “I could get some.”
“The big bag and a full tank.” He tossed me his keys.
“You need a twelve-step program.”
“Yeah, I’m on that.”
“Joe?”
“I’m in withdrawal here.”
“What would you say if I told you I got married?”
Joe looked up and blinked. Then he went back to work.
I could have stayed in my office and rode the phones, calling the rest of the shelters in case Flash had turned up. On the other hand, since Joe seemed to be in hypoglycemic withdrawal, the least I could do was go on a mission of mercy and pick up some of the poor overworked guy’s favorite treats. I hadn’t taken a lunch break either, and after the stress of last night and the fight—if I could call it that—with Connor this morning, a little alone time was just what the doctor ordered.
Chapter Twelve
Jepsen worked out of the Bank of America building downtown. I took the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor and stepped out, momentarily stunned by a hideous electric blue vase stuffed with stiffened orange feather boas. I looked right and then left. In either direction there were heavy glass doors inscribed with multiple names of law firm bigwigs. I didn’t see Jepsen’s name on either door. I double-checked the address. Bank of America building, twenty-eighth floor. I was in the right place, so where the heck was his office? I picked left and pushed my way through the doors, stopping in front of an elegantly dressed blond woman wearing a phone headset and speaking in melodious tones. She raised one manicured hand to stop me from speaking while throwing me a brilliant white smile of apology. I waited for her to finish while taking in the expensive furnishings and original art on the walls. Morris’s ambient approach to the rich and powerful. Maybe they taught it in law school.
“May I help you?” the secretary asked.
“I’m looking for Jepsen Entrepreneurial Opportunities. Do you know where it is?”
“Sure.” The secretary’s blue eyes did a quick assessment of their own, taking their time and moving from the top of my head, past my navy blazer and wrinkled chinos to my black penny loafers, a puzzled expression on her face. I fought the urge to straighten my clothes.
“His office is in the core. Go out this door and turn left, past the restrooms, and it’s on your right.”
“Thanks.”
A discreet buzz sounded and she answered another call, her expression once again completely bland.
While the law firms had paid premium prices for their amazing views, Jepsen had contented himself with the cachet the address offered. Not that it had helped him. Before the split with Masterson, Jepsen’s name was all over the business section. Afterward, he couldn’t deal cards. Which was probably when Jepsen took up the sport of suing.
His office was in the center of the building. While the heavy wood door boasted a scrolled brass plate with the firm’s name and Jepsen’s name and PRESIDENT, the inner vestibule was small and cramped, decorated in muted purple and gray. I stood between a bleached oak desk too big for the narrow room, and two large overstuffed chairs in fake leather. A framed Munch print screamed at me from behind the unmanned desk.
I noted the empty wire mesh in-basket. The desk held a beige desk blotter, a stapler, and a tape dispenser in precise alignment. I didn’t see a computer. There was a small brass bell, and I raised my hand to summon attention before stopping. Snooping was like eating potato chips: Now that I’d started I was having a little trouble stopping myself. I couldn’t resist the temptation the undefended desk afforded. I looked around oh, so casually. I shifted slightly to peer at the two doors behind the desk, both closed. After a quick glance over my shoulder, I stepped behind the desk. The chair squeaked when I pulled and I reassessed my chances of getting caught. My heart pounded. A moment passed, and when no one appeared I pulled open the top desk drawer. It had pencils and Post-it notes but not much else.
I turned my attention to the upper right-hand drawer, spotting a day planner. I liberated it, flipping open to the current date, then paging back one day at a time. The schedule included meeting times, places, and associates, each with a reference to the purpose of the meeting. Most of the pages were empty, and the appointments seemed to consist primarily of bankers and investors, with an attorney thrown in. The legal appointments were noted with a capital M. Masterson, probably. At the rate this guy was meeting with his lawyers, he’d be broke even if he managed to hoodwink some jury.
There were also two appointments in the month before Flash disappeared that I couldn’t understand. One was just initials with a phone number, and the other was a lunch meeting at the Rock Salt with a lowercase d next to the time. Both were written in a different hand from the rest of the entries. I pulled my notebook from my pocket and pilfered a pen from the middle drawer, carefully copying the two messages. I closed the diary and returned it to the drawer. I made a quick search for a Rolodex or phone book without success. Oh, well, I guess I couldn’t expect the mother lode every time. Deciding I had pushed my luck far enough at the moment, I slid the middle drawer closed and replaced the chair in its previous location. I returned to stand at the far side of the desk and had just raised my hand to ring the bell when one of the inner doors abruptly opened and a rather disheveled flame-red-haired girl in a tight lime green dress and matching spike heels emerged. A rush of success left me nearly giddy. Timing and presentation really were everything.
The woman sauntered toward me smoothing the form-fitting lines of her dress with a hand adorned by three-inch-long black-lacquered fingernails. It took a moment to pull my eyes away.
“You want somethin’?” the woman asked, snapping her gum.
“My name is Sara Townley. I’d like to speak with Mr. Jepsen.”
“You wanna leave your name?”
“I was hoping to actually talk to him.”
“He’s unavailable.”
“Perhaps you could explain to Mr. Jepsen that I am with Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns. The law firm that represents Stuart Masterson.” A technical truth, maybe, but still intriguing enough to get Jepsen’s attention—I hoped. I really hoped he wasn’t going to call and check. I pulled a business card from my jacket pocket and offered it to her. She took it and stared at me for a moment, still snapping her gum, a shrewd look on her ebony face. I made sure mine remained expressionless.
“I’ll ax him. Wait here.” She pivoted on one of those deadly spikes and returned to the door from which she had emerged. She knocked, then steppe
d inside, closing the door behind her. A minute passed before the door opened again and she gestured me inside.
“Mr. Jepsen will see you now.”
I stepped around the desk and entered Jepsen’s office.
A man greeted me at the door with an outstretched hand and a creepy smile baring yellowed teeth. He was about sixty years old, dressed in an expensive blue suit designed to hide what I suspected was serious middle-age spread. His white hair was worn long on one side in a comb-over style. Why was it that men never understood how dumb that hairstyle was? I shook his hand and surreptitiously wiped on the leg of my trousers the moisture his sweating palm had left.
“Henry Jepsen. You’re one of Masterson’s mouthpieces, huh? A girl? Well, it don’t matter. I’m not gonna be sidetracked by a little thigh. Took you damn long enough. I assume you’re here to talk settlement. That son of a bitch owes me.”
“Mr. Jepsen, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“There’s been a misunderstanding, all right. That bastard thinks he can steal from me and get away with it. Then he hides behind a bunch of candy-ass, butt-wipe lawyers. Don’t think that just because I’m willing to talk deal that I’m gonna let that motherfucker off cheap. No goddamn way. He better settle pretty quick or I’m gonna personally see to it that he never does business in this town again. Does he think anybody’s gonna deal with a little pissant like him after I get done? He settles quick and I’ll think about lettin’ him keep his pretty little reputation. He stalls, and I’m gonna make sure that there isn’t a dealer in this town that doesn’t know all his dirty little secrets. And I mean all of ’em.”
Jepsen’s tirade came upon waves of bad breath heavily laced with alcohol. I took a step back to get out of range and bumped into the doorjamb. I wanted to ask Jepsen some questions, but not badly enough to subject myself to physical contact. I already felt like I needed a shower.
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