Deal Breaker
Page 21
“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
He waved his hand as if to scoff, It’s nothing. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, soda?”
“No, thank you.”
He moved back to his chair. He sat and folded his hands on the desk. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I need my sister’s file,” Jessica replied.
Harrison felt his fingers bunch, but he kept his face steady. “Your sister’s school file?”
“Yes.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“It involves her disappearance.”
“I see,” he said slowly. His voice, he was surprised to hear, remained calm. “I believe the police were very thorough with the file. They made copies of everything in it—”
“I understand that. I’d like to see the file for myself.”
“I see,” he said again.
Several seconds passed. Jessica shifted in her chair. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No, no. Well, perhaps. I’m afraid it may not be possible to give you the file.”
“What?”
“What I mean to say is, I’m not sure you have any legal right to it. Parents certainly do. But I’m not sure about siblings. I’ll need to check this with a university attorney.”
“I’ll wait,” Jessica said.
“Uh, fine. Would you mind waiting in the other room, please?”
She stood, turned, stopped. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “You knew my sister, didn’t you, Dean Gordon?”
He managed a smile. “Yes, I did. Wonderful young lady.”
“Kathy worked for you.”
“Filing, answering the phone, that sort of thing,” he said quickly. “She was a terrific worker. We all miss her very much.”
“Did she seem okay to you?”
“Okay?”
“Before she disappeared,” Jessica continued, her eyes boring into his. “Was she acting strangely?”
Beads of sweat popped onto his forehead, but he dared not wipe them away. “No, not that I could see. She seemed perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking. I’ll wait out front.”
“Thank you.”
She closed the door.
Harrison let loose a long breath. What now? He would have to give her the file; to do otherwise would do far more than merely raise suspicion. But he could not, of course, just pull the file out of his bottom drawer and hand it to Jessica. No, he would wait a few minutes, walk down to the filing room to handle her case “personally,” then return with the file.
Why, he wondered, did Jessica Culver need the file? Was there something he had missed?
No. He was sure of that.
Harrison had spent the last year hoping, praying, that it was over. But he should have known better. Matters like this never truly die. They hide, take root, grow stronger, prepare for a fresh onslaught.
Kathy Culver was not dead and buried. Like some gothic ghost, she had arisen, haunting him, crying out from some great beyond.
For vengeance.
Myron returned to the office.
“Win buzzed down twice,” Esperanza said. “He wants to see you. Now.”
“On my way.”
“Myron?”
“What?”
Esperanza’s lovely dark eyes were solemn. “Is she back? Jessica, I mean.”
“No. She’s just visiting.”
Her face registered doubt. Myron did not press it. He no longer knew what to think himself.
He ran up the stairs two at a time. Win was two floors above him, but he might as well have been in another dimension. As soon as he opened the big steel door, the tireless clamor swarmed in, attacking. The large open space was in perpetual motion. Two, maybe three hundred desks covered the huge floor like throw rugs. Every desk had at least two computer terminals on it. There were no partitions. Hundreds of men sat and stood at every angle, each wearing a white button-down shirt with tie and suspenders, suit jackets draped from the back of their chairs. There were painfully few women. The men were all on the phone, most covering the mouthpiece to scream at someone else. They all looked alike. They all sounded alike. They were all pretty much the same person.
Welcome to Lock-Horne Investments & Securities.
All six floors were exactly the same. In fact, Myron often suspected that Lock-Horne had only one floor and that the elevator was set to stop on the same floor no matter which number you hit from floor fourteen to floor nineteen, giving the illusion of a bigger company.
Office after office made up the compound’s perimeter. These were saved for the head honchos, the top dogs, the numero unos, or in securities talk, the Big Producers. The BPs all had windows and sunshine, unlike the peons on the inside, who sickened and paled from the unnatural light.
Win had a corner office with a view of both Forty-seventh Street and Park Avenue—a view that screamed major dinero. His office was decorated in Early American Wasp. Dark-paneled walls. Forest green carpet. Wing-back chairs. Paintings of a fox hunt on the wall. Like Win had ever seen a fox.
Win looked up from his massive oak desk when Myron entered. The desk weighed slightly less than a cement mixer. He’d been studying a computer print-out, one of those never-ending reams with green and white stripes. The desk was blanketed with them. They sort of matched the carpet.
“How did your morning rendezvous go with our friend Jerry the Phone-icator?” Win asked.
“Phone-icator?”
Win smiled. “I spent the whole morning working that one.”
“It was worth it,” Myron said.
He filled Win in on his encounter with Gary “Jerry” Grady. Win sat back and steepled. Myron then filled him in on his encounter with Otto Burke. Win leaned forward and unsteepled.
“Otto Burke,” Win said, his voice measured, “is a scoundrel. Perhaps I should pay him a private visit.” He looked up at Myron hopefully.
“No. Not yet Please.”
“Are you quite positive?”
“Yes. Promise me, Win. No visits.”
He was clearly disappointed. “Fine,” Win said, grudgingly.
“So what did you want to see me about?”
“Ah.” Win’s face lit up again. “Take a look at this.”
He lifted the reams of computer print-outs and unceremoniously dumped them on the floor. Underneath were a pile of magazines. The top one was called Climaxx. The subheadline read, “Double Xs for Double the Pleasure.” Nifty sales technique. Win fanned them out as if he were doing a card trick.
He waved his hand as if to scoff, It’s nothing. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, soda?”
“No, thank you.”
He moved back to his chair. He sat and folded his hands on the desk. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I need my sister’s file,” Jessica replied.
Harrison felt his fingers bunch, but he kept his face steady. “Your sister’s school file?”
“Yes.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“It involves her disappearance.”
“I see,” he said slowly. His voice, he was surprised to hear, remained calm. “I believe the police were very thorough with the file. They made copies of everything in it—”
“I understand that. I’d like to see the file for myself.”
“I see,” he said again.
Several seconds passed. Jessica shifted in her chair. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No, no. Well, perhaps. I’m afraid it may not be possible to give you the file.”
“What?”
“What I mean to say is, I’m not sure you have any legal right to it. Parents certainly do. But I’m not sure about siblings. I’ll need to check this with a university attorney.”
“I’ll wait,” Jessica said.
“Uh, fine. Would you mind waiting in the other room, please?”
She stood, turned, stopped. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “You knew my sister, didn’t you, Dean Gordon?”
He managed a smile. “Yes, I did. Wonderful young lady.”
“Kathy worked for you.”
“Filing, answering the phone, that sort of thing,” he said quickly. “She was a terrific worker. We all miss her very much.”
“Did she seem okay to you?”
“Okay?”
“Before she disappeared,” Jessica continued, her eyes boring into his. “Was she acting strangely?”
Beads of sweat popped onto his forehead, but he dared not wipe them away. “No, not that I could see. She seemed perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking. I’ll wait out front.”
“Thank you.”
She closed the door.
Harrison let loose a long breath. What now? He would have to give her the file; to do otherwise would do far more than merely raise suspicion. But he could not, of course, just pull the file out of his bottom drawer and hand it to Jessica. No, he would wait a few minutes, walk down to the filing room to handle her case “personally,” then return with the file.
Why, he wondered, did Jessica Culver need the file? Was there something he had missed?
No. He was sure of that.
Harrison had spent the last year hoping, praying, that it was over. But he should have known better. Matters like this never truly die. They hide, take root, grow stronger, prepare for a fresh onslaught.
Kathy Culver was not dead and buried. Like some gothic ghost, she had arisen, haunting him, crying out from some great beyond.
For vengeance.
Myron returned to the office.
“Win buzzed down twice,” Esperanza said. “He wants to see you. Now.”
“On my way.”
“Myron?”
“What?”
Esperanza’s lovely dark eyes were solemn. “Is she back? Jessica, I mean.”
“No. She’s just visiting.”
Her face registered doubt. Myron did not press it. He no longer knew what to think himself.
He ran up the stairs two at a time. Win was two floors above him, but he might as well have been in another dimension. As soon as he opened the big steel door, the tireless clamor swarmed in, attacking. The large open space was in perpetual motion. Two, maybe three hundred desks covered the huge floor like throw rugs. Every desk had at least two computer terminals on it. There were no partitions. Hundreds of men sat and stood at every angle, each wearing a white button-down shirt with tie and suspenders, suit jackets draped from the back of their chairs. There were painfully few women. The men were all on the phone, most covering the mouthpiece to scream at someone else. They all looked alike. They all sounded alike. They were all pretty much the same person.
Welcome to Lock-Horne Investments & Securities.
All six floors were exactly the same. In fact, Myron often suspected that Lock-Horne had only one floor and that the elevator was set to stop on the same floor no matter which number you hit from floor fourteen to floor nineteen, giving the illusion of a bigger company.
Office after office made up the compound’s perimeter. These were saved for the head honchos, the top dogs, the numero unos, or in securities talk, the Big Producers. The BPs all had windows and sunshine, unlike the peons on the inside, who sickened and paled from the unnatural light.
Win had a corner office with a view of both Forty-seventh Street and Park Avenue—a view that screamed major dinero. His office was decorated in Early American Wasp. Dark-paneled walls. Forest green carpet. Wing-back chairs. Paintings of a fox hunt on the wall. Like Win had ever seen a fox.
Win looked up from his massive oak desk when Myron entered. The desk weighed slightly less than a cement mixer. He’d been studying a computer print-out, one of those never-ending reams with green and white stripes. The desk was blanketed with them. They sort of matched the carpet.
“How did your morning rendezvous go with our friend Jerry the Phone-icator?” Win asked.
“Phone-icator?”
Win smiled. “I spent the whole morning working that one.”
“It was worth it,” Myron said.
He filled Win in on his encounter with Gary “Jerry” Grady. Win sat back and steepled. Myron then filled him in on his encounter with Otto Burke. Win leaned forward and unsteepled.
“Otto Burke,” Win said, his voice measured, “is a scoundrel. Perhaps I should pay him a private visit.” He looked up at Myron hopefully.
“No. Not yet Please.”
“Are you quite positive?”
“Yes. Promise me, Win. No visits.”
He was clearly disappointed. “Fine,” Win said, grudgingly.
“So what did you want to see me about?”
“Ah.” Win’s face lit up again. “Take a look at this.”
He lifted the reams of computer print-outs and unceremoniously dumped them on the floor. Underneath were a pile of magazines. The top one was called Climaxx. The subheadline read, “Double Xs for Double the Pleasure.” Nifty sales technique. Win fanned them out as if he were doing a card trick.
