This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (10 page)

*   *   *

Late in the afternoon, the senior partners had coffee and a selection of pastries delivered to the library. The milling crowd of associates was like a herd of thirsty cows heading for water. Sometimes being small has its advantages. I ducked under a couple of outstretched arms and snagged a slice of Sacher torte and an iced latte that looked like it needed a home.

I took a bite of the chocolate and apricot goody, then spotted Caroline sipping a black coffee. She didn’t have a pastry. I swallowed the bite and felt like my hips spread two inches.

David Sullivan walked past. He also had a cup, but his drink left a faint red line on his upper lip. He caught me looking, made a face, and gestured with his cup. “House blend. Half pig blood, half blood bank, most of which seems to have been donated by drunks. Nasty.” He glared up toward the ceiling and the seventy-third floor. “They know I’m down here.”

“Hey, at least they remembered to order you a drink,” I said.

“It’s still an insult.”

“Okay, fine, have it your way.”

The vampire started walking, but stopped after only a couple of steps. “Rumor has it that you fought with the hound.”

“If by ‘fighting’ you mean I wielded the Mighty Can of Hairspray, then, yeah, I guess I fought.”

A strange expression flickered across his face, but it was gone before I could interpret it.

“You’re in poor odor upstairs,” Sullivan said.

“Tell me something I don’t know. I’m not exactly sure how being a witness
to
, and a survivor
of
, a murder makes me a pariah.”

“We’re Ishmael, McGillary and Gold. We’re known for our discretion. Now there’s a circus out front, and we’re all over the papers.”

“Yeah, Chip should have thought of that before he got murdered. What is wrong with this place? Chip was
killed.
”

Sullivan shrugged. “He was a drone.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Tell me how I’m wrong.”

“Chip was a really hard worker … and … and…” I struggled to add another attribute then finally settled for a feeble, “… and a really nice man.”

“I rest my case.”

*   *   *

The exchange with Sullivan stiffened my spine. I approached the woman who served as assistant to me and two other associates. Mary was in her late thirties and whip thin, with a white streak through her chin-length black hair. It made a dramatic statement against her still young face. I wondered briefly if along with Chip’s boxes, I would also inherit his assistant, the intimidating Norma. I hoped not.

“Mary, I need to talk with John O’Shea. Does he have an office in the building, or does he freelance for us?”

“He has an office on Forty-eighth Street. Mr. Gold keeps trying to get him to work with us exclusively, but he’s stubborn.” She cocked her head, considering. “Actually, I think he just likes frustrating Mr. Gold.”

I had just picked up my purse when I noticed the gorgeous receptionist from upstairs wending his way through the crowded desks and chairs. He was coming right at me.

“Mr. Ishmael and Mr. McGillary would like to see you.” I abandoned any hope of catching O’Shea. It was already 4:15. Even if the meeting with Shade and McGillary was brief, I’d never get to the detective’s office before it closed for the day.

We took the stairs. I was glad. The enjoyment I’d felt while eating the slice of Sacher torte had faded to a dull ache of guilt.

Bruce, the receptionist, took me to McGillary’s office, but before he tapped on the door he issued a warning. “Don’t take too much of his time. He’s on a very tight schedule, and you’re a rather low priority.”

I just stared at him, gaping. Bruce knocked lightly on the door and opened it after we heard the muffled “Come in.” McGillary was behind his desk. Shade was enthroned in a large armchair. I thought Bruce would leave then, but he kept fussing about, straightening papers on the desk and rearranging the cut-crystal glasses on the sideboard. He moved a writing table in closer to Shade’s right hand, then he slipped behind the desk to lean in close to McGillary and asked in tones of worshipful adoration, “Is there anything else, sir? Would you like a little pick-me-up?”

“No, thank you, my boy, that will do.”

“What about you, Mr. Ishmael?”

Shade just waved him away without comment. A flash of disappointment crossed the young assistant’s face, but he finally left, and I was able to study the office rather than watching Bruce’s overly attentive ministrations. If Shade’s office felt like the study of a European bishop, McGillary’s harkened back to the Old West. Three Remingtons graced the walls. There was a large bronze of a cowboy breaking a bronco, and the furnishings were that particular blend of wood and leather known as Territorial.

There weren’t a lot of seating choices available—only the couch, which was both tall and wide. I had two choices: I could sit well back on the couch, which would give me back support, but would leave me kicking my feet in the air. Given how short I was, I knew I’d look like a five-year-old. Not the image I wanted to project.

Or I could sit on the edge of the couch, which would allow my feet to touch the floor, but would make me appear to be nervous, jumpy, and ill at ease. Since I
was
nervous, jumpy, and ill at ease, I voted for the front of the couch.

“Linnet, how are you holding up?” McGillary asked.

“Fine. Happy to be back at work.” McGillary and Shade exchanged a glance. Maybe the enthusiastic response had been a little too much.

“Glad to hear it.” McGillary lined up the edge of some papers on his desk and gave the pens in their holder a minute turn to the right. “It’s been decided to turn over all of Chip’s caseload to you. Assuming you’re willing.”

I may not have been in the workplace long, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you always step up and accept the challenge offered by the boss. Or you start looking for a new job.
But what if the reason for Chip’s death is in those cases?
I pushed aside the fear and said, “I would be delighted.”

“Good, well, it’s settled then.”

He stood. I stood. He began nudging me toward the door. My brief moment in the sun was over. Before he could get me out of his office, I quickly asked, “If I have any questions or problems?”

“Talk to Sullivan.” McGillary was already turning away. Then he added, “Chip’s cases were hardly vital, but we can’t just drop them.…”

My heart sank as fast as his voice, dying away as he dismissed the problem of Chip, Chip’s clients, and presumably me as well.

“Something was vital,” I argued. “Chip was murdered for some reason.”

“I’m sure it will turn out to be something to do with his private life. His cases were, at best, slight.”

I considered telling him he was wrong, but I was already in enough trouble. Like Detective Washington, he’d find out once I had the answer.

*   *   *

McGillary’s dismissive attitude had me fired up, so I dug into the boxes with renewed energy. I would find something in one of those files, or an approach to a case that would elevate it above the designation of
a Chip case
. And I’d be a modern-day Miss Marple—no, not old spinster Miss Marple. Instead, I went back to what the undertaker had called me: a modern-day Nancy Drew. I would solve the murder and win gratitude, fame, and approbation.

As expected, the bulk of the material related to the
Abercrombie
case. One of the first things that needed to happen was meeting my clients. I called Marlene Abercrombie and set an appointment for Friday. Then I called counsel representing Securitech and requested a postponement of the deposition. My counterpart down in Washington was Peggy Waite, and she agreed immediately.

“I was so shocked to hear about what happened.” At least on the phone she sounded genuinely upset. “Chip was a nice man.” She paused. “But maybe you’ll have better luck convincing your clients to accept our offer. They’re not going to win, and this is a time sink for our client.”

“I didn’t know there had been a settlement offer.”

“Oh, several. The current one is more than generous.”

“I’m just now digging into this. I’ll have to unearth it.”

“I’ll e-mail the latest offer to you so you can at least see it, and fax over a hard copy,” Peggy offered.

“Okay. I’m meeting with my clients this week. I’ll let you know what they say.”

“When do you want to reschedule the deposition?”

“How about three weeks. The twenty-eighth?” I suggested. I heard the quick click of the keys on a computer keyboard.

“Sorry, that won’t work for me. I’ve got a trial and it’s scheduled to last a month.” There was silence and more keyboard clicks. “Actually, right after Labor Day would be my first opportunity.”

Oh God, Mr. Gelb, don’t die,
I thought, but I agreed. There wasn’t any other choice.

“Okay, then. September seventh?”

“Sounds good.” More clicks. “I’ll let the court reporter know. I look forward to meeting you, Linnet.”

“Same here.”

I went back to scrounging through the boxes. I found something that wasn’t part of the
Abercrombie
case, a real estate dispute about the placement of a fence separating two backyards in Queens. Whoopie. I also unearthed a dispute with a contractor over the remodel of a bathroom in a condo in Yonkers. Double whoop.

My computer chimed, announcing a new e-mail had arrived. It was from Peggy, and the settlement offer was attached. I opened the file and looked at the amount. Four million. Not bad for a shit case.

I returned to the boxes and found a stack of pink phone messages for Chip, all of which had come in yesterday while I was out of the office. I riffled through the pile like a card dealer in Atlantic City, just to get a sense of the names. Eleven of the messages were from a Syd Finkelstein.

It was now early evening. I was getting hungry and thought I’d done enough for my first day back. I eyed the last box, and decided to just dig through the final five inches to see if anything interesting turned up.

Apparently, whoever had packed up Chip’s office had just thrown things into boxes, because in among the papers pertaining to
Abercrombie
I found a file marked
May Divorce
. I opened it, read the first few statements in Elizabeth May’s Petition for Divorce, jumped out of my chair, and let out a shout of excitement. I hastily sat back down, withering under the glares from my fellow associates. Well, to hell with them.

I had hit pay dirt.

*   *   *

Even though it was eight o’clock there was a light shining through the frosted, bumpy glass of the office door. Stenciled on the glass were the words
John O’Shea, Private Investigator.
There was something so forties and Sam Spade about the old brownstone building, the corner office, the old-fashioned door and lettering. O’Shea might deny it, but he was as flamboyant as his Álfar brethren in playing a role.

I knocked, and the lilting tenor invited me, “Come on in, it’s unlocked.”

I did, and found O’Shea sitting behind a desk in shirtsleeves, tie askew, wearing a shoulder rig. The butt of a gun thrust out of the holster.

“Ms. Ellery, isn’t it?” he said. He eyed the folder I was carrying.

“You have a good memory,” I said.

“You’re a little hard to forget, seeing as how your picture is plastered all over the papers.” I blushed, and he laughed. He came around from behind the desk and led me over to a battered old leather sofa. “What can I do for you?”

“I think I may have a lead on who killed Chip.” I handed him the file.

“Okay, and you’re telling me and not the police … why?”

“Because it involves a case, and I’ve already gotten spanked for giving information about
Abercrombie v. Deegan
to the police.”

O’Shea was flipping through the file while I talked. A frown gathered between his upswept brows. “It does seem this hound had a temper, and he wasn’t real happy with the missus filing for divorce.”

“You’ll check for me?”

He closed the file and tossed it across the room. Somehow the papers stayed inside and, even though the edges of the folder flapped like a hurt bird’s wings, it still landed neatly in the center of his desk.

“Sure. This should be an easy one. I’ll go to the husband’s address and see if he answers the door. If he does, we’ll know he’s not a smear on the top of an elevator. Just tell your assistant to set up a billing file for this case.”

“You’re not on retainer?” I asked.

“I am, but the firm breaks out my hours between the various cases so they can ding the clients for my services.”

“Right, of course, duh. I should have known that.”

“Why would you? And besides, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look exhausted.”

“I am, a bit. I didn’t have lunch today, and the blood sugar spike from a pastry mid-afternoon has definitely faded.”

“Then we should go get some dinner.”

O’Shea stood and pulled his sports jacket and hat off the wooden coatrack in the corner.

My unwary tongue took control. “You really are channeling Dashiell Hammett, aren’t you?”

He flashed me a grin. “The dame walked into my office carrying a file. I knew she and it were going to be trouble.…” He held the door for me.

*   *   *

O’Shea picked a Chinese restaurant within walking distance of his office. Its linoleum floor, utilitarian metal and plastic tables, and sturdy metal chairs gave it all the ambiance of a bus station. The only attempt at decor consisted of shell paintings of goddesses riding on waves, scholarly old men with long beards sitting in bamboo forests, and panda bears.

“Do you mind if I order?” the detective asked. “I eat here a lot, and I know what’s good. Any allergies?”

I blinked at him for a moment, then realized the question was directed at me. “No, just no chicken feet, please, and not too spicy.”

“Wimp.”

“Hey, I’m an East Coast girl.”

“And salsa is the most popular condiment in America now. Where have you been?”

“Growing up in a vampire household,” I replied.