Cafe Underground Presents
River Of Lawyers
-- Chapters 4
The Detective Andi Wicksham Series, by RL Bell
Copyright © 1997 RL BELL
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....author RL Bell
Andi Wicksham's INVESTIGATORY SERVICES
Chapter 4
Andi went into Coffee People’s for a Black Tiger Mocha about eleven-thirty the next morning. She’d risen determined to make a dent in her backlogged reports and billings, put in a good hour and forty-five minutes, roughed out the next report for Morse just to be ahead of the game, typed in yesterday’s work into her records and made a few unproductive calls to people on the guest list.
She puzzled over Bryant’s mystery guests–a tall brunette maybe named Maureen and a middle-aged man under forty with brown hair, medium height and a green car. Bryant argued with one of them, loudly. Then again, it might have been somebody else–like Ibbe or Drexler. It was a long shot, but with current fashions and the obscuring rain the “man” and “woman” might have been the same person–she typed another line and pushed the save button. It could have been the TV turned up loud for that matter.
She was trying to keep her weekends inviolate–work limited to Monday through Friday and decent hours. It was a good idea, but maintaining the division was impossible. To stave off guilt she promised herself she would be out the office door by eleven. And, she’d done it–well, at least she had come close enough to count.
She watched out the window as a slim woman in a military jacket walked by. Their eyes caught for a brief moment through the plate-glass window as the woman pushed through the doubled glass doors.
Andi swiveled in her seat and watched the newcomer–five-three, slimmed hipped and, from the way she shifted from foot to foot, a least a little bit hyper. Curly hair boiled from a red beret and wisped across her face. A few drops of rain beaded, glistening, on her shoulders and she wore yellow high-topped tennies and paint spattered black levis.
Andi turned grumpily away and pursed her lips. She’d didn’t need the aggravation--was in no hurry to revisit the pain of Traci–anyway this woman positively reeked of being an artist and was probably attracted to nobody but male rock-and-rollers. At this point Traci was a charred and smoking pile of twisted wreckage beside darkened highway of her life. She’d barely dragged her body from the flames and limped away and she didn’t have even a shadow of interest.
The woman with the military jacket sat down next to her. “Wet again...” she said. “Paper says sun tomorrow.”
“Comes and goes.” Replied Andi.
The button on the woman’s coat said “I’m Bi, But I’m Not Attracted To You!”
Andi smiled. “I like your shoes.” She winced at how corny it sounded, repartee worthy of high school. The woman watched her through the corner of her eyes and Andi felt awkward and blushed.
“This your usual coffee shop?” the woman asked. Her narrow nose was slightly ethnic, her skin on the light-tan side of olive.
“Closest to my office.” Andi replied gruffly. Damn! She kicked herself, no reason not to be pleasant “You an artist?”
“Why?” the woman asked defensively, looking down at her clothes.
“Your colors.” admitted Andi lamely, she’d never wear yellow tennies. God, she was like a fourteen year old geek and wished she could slink away.
“Was an English major, now an office zombie. I dabble at art...I have a series of decorated bras.”
“Bras?” Andi choked, looking around to see who was listening.
“They are weird.” the woman said with a half-self-conscious laugh. “Baby bottle nipples and faucets, tassels...assemblages.” Outside, the rain was dumping buckets as a young couple unlocked their car doors, struggled with umbrellas and climbed in.
Andi was at a loss for words. Nippled bras were so...something–she struggled to keep a straight face.
“I write a little.”
Andi lifted her eyebrows and smiled. “That’s more creative stuff than the rest of us.” She’d almost finished her mocha and wondered how to keep the conversation going. “I’m Andi.” she gawkily offered her hand.
It was an awkward moment; the woman had her cappuccino in her right hand and, after trying to reach with her left, juggle the cup down to the counter and shift on her stool to respond. For a long moment Andi’s hand jutted like a crossing guard.
“Lena. Lena Kovid...hmmmm.” she mumbled Andi’s name as if to imprint it in her brain.
Andi glanced nervously away and chewed her lip, “I have an office down the street.” Andi felt an awkward need to keep the conversation going.
“Doing what?”
“Investigation, serve summonses.” Andi answered with a touch of embarrassment. Usually it didn’t feel awkward describing herself as a detective or in silly moments a shamus, or even a private eye, but not at the moment. “Just a little office, no big deal, track witnesses, dead-beat dads, do security backgrounds, little stuff.”
“A detective? A sleuth?” Lena burbled. “You read Lauren Laurano?”
“I’m more the Sam Spade type with a seedy office and not enough clients.” replied Andi self-consciously, squeezing the side of her empty mug.
“It’s more romantic than my job. That is if I had a job. Temping sucks.”
“I need office help.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She bit her lip in annoyance.
“How much you pay?”
“I’ve...uh, never hired anyone. I’m really not organized enough to tell someone what to do.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Reports and billings...my bookkeeping’s a mess, I hardly keep track...I do the reports I have to, but my tax-person curses me every year when I show up on her doorstep with a cardboard box.” Andi pushed her mug away and pulled nervously at her sleeves. She glanced at Lena and stood, stretching and slipping into her coat.
“So...you going to show me?” Lena got up and picked up her bag.
“Uh...sure... I guess.” Andi looked at her watch, “I got a band practice later, but..OK...” she felt suddenly at a loss. “But I really don’t know if there’s anything you can do...my stuff’s in such disorder I kind of have to do it all myself.”
Lena replied “Whatever...” but she was already bouncing by her side into the rain.
Lena entered the office as if it were her natural environment, running a finger along the edge of the filing cabinet and shaking her head at the piles on top and beside it waiting to be put inside.
“You might not believe it, but I’m really a whiz...” she claimed casually.
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, I can see. This is this your basic chronological/level-of-interest-at-the-time file system.”
Andi blushed. “Overflow runs into the closet’s cardboard boxes.”
Lena peeked in the closet and quickly closed the door. “How about your books?”
“I send out bills and log all the checks I deposit.” Andi hoped it sounded reasonable.
“No books huh?” Lena nailed her with a level gaze. “Your tax person tallies at the end of the year and that’s it?”
“So?” She looked the complete fool.
“Best place to start’s your backloged receivables.”
Like a mechanic saying check the filter or change the plugs. Andi, endowed ith infinite denial had not sent a past-due notice in all the time she had struggled in business–she did not even really kept track of how much anybody paid, but she didn’t want to admit it.
Lena smiled a, foot-tapping smile. “Gonna exchange the coffee maker with an espresso machine that can foam a decent mocha.”
Andi smiled vacantly and shrugged.
“OK...Monday then?”
“What?” Andi responded.
“Begin Monday. I feel obligated to give the agency a least a half hour’s notice before quitting. You want this done or not?” Lena had already pulled her coat on.
“Sure...Monday?” Andi suddenly felt adrift.
“Seven an hour if you think I’m mediocre, if you want me to come back it’s ten...then we’ll see how it goes. Cash!” Lena leaned provocatively against the door jamb.
“What time?” Andi asked with sudden concern.
“Beats me. You’re the boss, how ‘bout nine?”
“I’ll be here.” Andi recovered her composure as Lena waved a bright good-by and disappeared down the hall. She listened to the footsteps retreating down the stairs and sunk down in her chair wondering what just happened.
Monday morning a phone message waited from Morse to contact Jesse Ohi at River High Realty, no reference to Bryant and he didn’t leave his name. She wondered if he made it from a phone booth. No real estate office in the world opened before nine–ten would be a safer bet. She set the coffee machine going and stared out at the traffic. Her short-list of suspects was pitiful. Morse remained, despite his absence on the version she sent with her report, Drexler, Sandra Ibbe, Houston Light, and the elusive, brown-haired friend. Pitiful.
The extended list included Lon Lively and just about anyone of influence from All American, Brian-Core, Noris-SDI or other hostile clients. Chang-Turner balanced on its inner cusp because Andi didn’t like her. She poured a cup of coffee and sat down at her desk. She was going over the party’s guest list when Lena swept in.
“Hey boss.” Lena dumped her bag on a chair and struggled out of her coat.
Andi looked across, annoyed. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work.”
Lena stopped, mid-sleeve, staring back wide eyed.
“My name is Andi.”
“Oh...” Lena slowly hung her coat on a chair, her eyes never leaving Andi’s face. “OK, sure.” She randomly picked a pile of papers within reach, sunk into her seat and started sorting.
“There’s coffee made, pick a cup.” Andi returned to the guest list. Bryant and Morse, their clients, even Chang-Turner, but nobody named Maureen. Invited were the mayor, a councilman or two and a who’s who of Portland business. Maybe one of the big-wigs did it–it was a subversive thought. A smile spread across Andi’s face and she leaned back in her chair.
Lena gingerly pulled out the last two year’s tax folders and cleared a space on the table. She looked over cautiously.
“What’s the shit-eating grin for?” Lena’s voice carried a hint of suspicion.
Andi gestured at the list before her. “The mayor and half the commissioners were at the party a guy got wasted at.”
Lena gave a toss of her head. “Cool.”
Andi pulled over the phone.
“Brian-Core, Inc.” a corporate voice answered pleasantly.
“Mr. Drexler please.” Andi used her no-nonsense, business voice.
“Who shall I say is calling.” the voice responded.
“Andi Wicksham.”
“Thank you, and what company are you with?”
Andi hated the question and often lied, after a moment of thought she said, “Just Andi Wicksham would be fine.”
There was a brief silence and then the voice returned. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Drexler is unavailable, would you like his secretary or voice mail?”
Andi opted for his voice mail, where she left a purposefully vague message that would need a call back, repeated her phone number and spelled her name. She had similar luck with All American and Noris-SDI. Patience and persistence was the key to breaking the veil of secretaries. Andi logged the calls and leaned back in her chair.
Going down her list, she called Chang-Turner who confided that Bryant graduated from University of Toronto in the late seventies in business and from Harvard Law in eighty-two, but claimed not to know Bryant’s parent’s names, addresses or occupations.
Andi gritted her teeth and said “thanks.” She could check the Toronto phone book at the library to scan the listings for “Bryant,” but there’d be a hundred or more and Mom and Pop might not be listed at all.
The schools were a place to start, she called their registrar’s to check the dates and asked the Department of Legal Studies for his faculty advisor. They looked it up, but the man died two years ago. The alumni associations checked files and looked up yearbooks, only to find he wasn’t a member. No forwarding address, next of kin, or leads to friends or clubs. It would take a trip to Toronto and Harvard to chase things down and that was as likely as finding the minimum wage enough to live on.
She felt an urge to drive to the Yacht Club and check Drexler’s berth space, but was pulled up short by a new concern. What to do with Lena? There wasn’t anything valuable in the office, but all her files and correspondence could be rummaged. Andi looked over with apprehension. She had an employee a few minutes and already her style was cramped.
Lena swung around. “Mind if I go get my ‘puter?” She inclined her head to a side. “Set you up a billing system.”
“I got something to do anyway. How long?”
“Half-hour maybe. Why?”
Why indeed? “It’ll take me maybe an hour. How do you want to do this?”
“I’ll wait at the Cup and Saucer. On the clock, no sweat.” Lena was already pulling her coat back on.
Cold icy wind pelted the windows of the Yacht Club with driven rain. At nine-thirty in the morning the interior was near empty, but two men and a woman in polo shirts, Dockers and baseball caps–were covering the bartender’s salary.
Andi picked her way through to the office where Stredlow sat before a pile of receipts and schedules.
He looked up through reading glasses and allowed a slight, bemused smile as he took off his glasses. He seemed harried, over-worked and unlikely to be sympathetic. “The police released the boat house Friday and it was cleaned.”
“Actually I wanted to look at the dock.” she smiled, stood demurely and glanced at a note she carried, “17, berth 64A, but if I could get in the boat house too..?” She was willing to be a supplicant if it would get her inside.
“Anything special?”
“Just to check the lay-out. Can I have a key?”
The manager smiled wanly, shuffled through a lower drawer for a map of the berths and put two keys on the edge of his desk. “Bring them back when you’re finished.” There was the sound of muted shouting and commotion from the kitchen, then a clatter like a metal tray of silverware hitting the floor. He glanced in that direction, bit his lip and frowned, but put back on his glasses and picked up his pen.
Andi took the keys and map and strode off.
Berths lined both sides of Dock 17, its walk and gate led from just beside the boat house. Andi unlocked the gate and picked her way down the sloping gangway. The numbering must have been a marketing decision, there were only seven or eight docks all counted lined both sides with spaces holding one large or two cabin cruisor type boats. Berth numbers started inexplicable with 35, number 64A, Drexler’s berth, lay close in and was indeed empty.
She her eyes from the rain and looked back up to the boat house, its doors dark and unlit squares against the lighter stucco. Above, stood the Yacht Club, its windows reflecting luminous grey, an almost unobstructed view coming down the dock. The overhead lights would illume activity even in a storm, though few would even remember they saw it. Only the boats on the inner side obscured the view.
Making her way back up the gangway and unlocking the boat house, she oriented herself. The blood had been there, she mentally placed the evidence on the floor as drawn. It pointed to Bryant entering the dark room, being struck from behind and falling forward. He would have known his assailant–safe assumption. After unlocking, the man might have stepped aside and gestured graciously for Bryant to go ahead–he did and got popped with a pipe.
Everything inside had been meticulously straightened and there was pine soap smell to the air. She closed and locked the door and returned to the Yacht Club.
She had to interrupt Stredlow again to hand back the keys. She asked, “Any word of Mr. Drexler’s boat?”
The manager hardly glanced up. “Not to my knowledge, but it’s big enough to go almost anywhere.”
“In weather like we’ve had?” Andi asked casually.
Norton Stredlow raised his eyes. “With enough motivation.” He gave a practiced, retail smile.
Andi returned to the lounge and looked down at the docks through the drizzling rain. She found Lena waiting, feet propped up on a chair, reading typewritten pages and bobbing her head to the rhythms of something on headphones. When she saw Andi she bounced to her feet, beaming and almost spilling the remains of her coffee.
“Something good happen?” Andi asked cautiously.
“Just thinking about you.” smiled Lena cheerfully.
It took two trips to shlep Lena’s computer. Lena threw her coat over her chair and unraveled cords while Andi settled behind her desk fighting to ignore the distraction.
The phone number of Jesse Ohi at River High Realty waited at the corner of her desk. “Mr. Ohi?” Would she hold?
Meanwhile, Lena rigged and plugged and punched the power. The thing clicked and the screen blinked twice. She clicked her mouse and sped through a series of screens. Apparently satisfied, she straightened her coat on the back of her chair, shot Andi a wry, half-smile and started entering client names into some sort of spreadsheet.
“Jesse Ohi here.” The voice on the phone startled Andi from a moment of reverie. “What can I do for you.”
“My name is Andi Wicksham, I was told to call you to get into a house on NW 23ed.”
“Oh yes...Miss Wicksham. I was told you’d call. When would you like to see the property?”
“It will take me about half an hour to get there.” Andi stated.
“Shall we say an hour? Eleven thirty?”
Andi said that would be fine and lowered the phone slowly onto its’ cradle.
“I have to go out in half and hour...” How come this was awkward? It was like Lena was some sort of guest that had to be entertained.
“No sweat...it’ll take me the rest of the day.” Lena’s fingers flashed; she spoke without missing a stroke.
Andi rubbed her cheek, but her eyes kept straying to the back of Lena’s neck. It would work out. It wasn’t really attraction, just business–a few issues to iron out, but it would be fine. The phone rang. “Wicksham.”
It was Houston Light’s secretary from All American returning her call. “Ms. Light is quite busy. Can I be of help?”
“No, I’m sorry. The only one who can really help is Ms. Light.”
“I understand. Perhaps if you could describe your situation I can get it before her.” The woman was determined to run interference.
“It’s about a missing person; a Mr. Robert Bryant, she has a business relationship with him.” Andi offered.
“Are you with the police?” The voice was persistent.
“No, I’ve been retained by Mr. Bryant’s business partners.”
“Well, I’ll see that this note gets before Ms. Light, but it might be early next week before she can return your call.”
Andi thanked her and hung up. She glanced over the party’s guest list again, but set it aside. No sense in phoning everybody if the police were going to do it too. She’d wait and see what she could get from Ramirez. She took a yellow pen and highlighted Morse and Bryant’s name, Bryant’s clients and Chang-Turner.
Why had Chang-Turner, a staff person, been invited to a gathering of politicos and big-wigs? As far as she knew, the duties of legal secretaries didn’t normally extend to evening parties with clients–even in informal Portland.
Andi picked up her coat and notebook and left Lena with only a small pang of concern, but she wasn’t sure whether it was over Lena or her failings as hostess. “It’s OK. It’s going to be fine.”
Bryant’s house stood dark and empty in the end of January drizzle, trees that would have lush green leaves in summer were scraggly and haunted. She parked half a block away and retreated to her car after a dash to the door to knock gained no answer.
Late by ten minutes, Jesse Ohi pulled up in a yellow Honda, squeezed into a parking space and Andi returned. He turned off the alarm system, unlocked the door, flipped on the entry light and stepped aside to allow Andi into the tastefully decorated hall.
A scattering of mail littered the floor. Andi picked it up and quickly looked through it–no letters or bills, just junk mail. The doors and trim were polished oak, the floors a lighter hardwood. Expensive Persian rugs colored the floor and the walls were hung with southwest weavings and no doubt genuine Picasso pencil drawings.
Andi looked back at the door, it was heavy and old, with a leaded cut-glass light and brass-plated hardware. She opened the door and looked around the porch, shrugged and came back inside.
The living room was colorful, couches and chairs gathered in conversation groups, the January issue of Architectural Digest and a couple of art magazines were tastefully arrayed on the coffee table. Two bookcases were filled with histories of Europe and reference books with a single shelf of hardcover pop fiction, mostly spy novels and thrillers. A note pad in the kitchen listed anchovies, tomatoes, toothpaste, and dish soap. The refrigerator held milk with a freshness date that had just expired and half bottle of chilled white wine along with a goodly selection of relishes and wilting vegetables.
The dining nook and solarium were uninteresting, the bathroom generic. In the office, a filing cabinet drawer was opened a half-inch, with less than half a drawer of generic files on the house and car and licensing. Andi checked the others–they were empty, with clean patches where files had been. The desk was locked, its surface as bland and impersonal as a bed and breakfast writing desk.
She searched each room for telephone numbers, telephone bills, names of friends, calendars with dates and names–any sign of human contacts, but there was nothing. Nothing in the wastebaskets, nothing jotted anywhere, no receipts or stray business cards, no book of friends and family’s phone numbers, no Christmas cards.
Upstairs, another bathroom and two bedrooms waited in silence. The master bedroom’s closet was full of suits and shirts, the two chests of drawers seemed to hold appropriate quantities of socks and sweaters. There was no significant abundance of empty coat hangers. The place hadn’t been stripped of clothes or rigorously searched, but there were no memorabilia or trinkets, no souvenirs or books from student days or bits of change. There were no magazines or books beside the bed as bedside reading. There weren’t even dirty clothes–she checked the bathroom and bedrooms twice, even in the basement’s washer and dryer. There was nothing in the pockets of his coats in the closet, not a single prescription in the medicine cupboard, the only thing remotely interesting was there were two toothbrushes.
Except for possibly the histories and popular fiction downstairs, there was nothing hinting Bryant’s interests. There were no pictures on the bureaus, nothing personal at all.
Left to herself she would have rooted around a bit, done more than superficially look through the bedside stands and underwear drawer. She would have checked under the mattress, over window valences and in the deepest closet corners, but Ohi was at her elbow; bland, uncommenting and inhibiting–silently observing all she did.
Back in the kitchen, on a whim, she lifted the receiver and pushed the redial button. The phone beeped and rang three times.
“Noris-SDI.” a cheerful voice answered.
“Noris-SDI?”
“Yes, Noris. How may I direct your call.”
“Excuse me.” Andi fumbled, “Wrong number.” She hung up and shrugged to Jesse Ohi.
The basement was almost barren as was the garage, except for Bryant’s green Jaguar sedan and a few generic garden tools, both floors swept clean. Andi wiped a finger across the buffet table as they returned to the entrance, there was hardly a slight trace. “There’s surprisingly little dust. Does Mr. Bryant have a housekeeper?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he must with his sort of money.”
Andi waited as he checked the door locks. “You keep the keys of many homeowners?” she asked as they turned toward the street.
“No. Not really. The company sells property and manages a few rentals, but houses like these. We aren’t usually involved.”
“But you know Mr. Bryant?”
“No, I’ve never spoken to him. I’m just an associate, I’ve never been here before. As far as I know this key just arrived with instructions to let you in.” He seemed thankful that the commission-less task was over.
Andi said goodby and returned to her car to scribble her notes. It must have been Morse. It seemed his form to set up an intermediary...nothing direct, everything circuitous...plausible deniably always. His tally on the suspect’s list gained another few strokes. Did he send somebody over to sanitize the place before giving the key to Ohi?
On the ride back to her office she thought about Lena. She hadn’t asked for references or work history–what a great detective, she couldn’t even manage her own business. A shiver of paranoia touched her back. Could Lena have been sent by Morse? It would be true to form, but the idea was bizarre. She shook it off and decided she’d take Lena out to lunch.
Lunch at the Café Underground was magic. Lena was irreverent and perky. They laughed. Their eyes met for fiery moments and there were pauses where it seemed impossible to say anything without innuendo. Through it all Lena maintained her chatter...bubbling about making bread and some political art of the latest darling of the art critics with a cover article in the A&E. They exchanged anecdotes and unexplored careers while avoiding mention of relationships like the plague.
Andi was afraid her crush was as obvious as a teen’s. She wanted to brush Lena’s fingers or casually let their knees touch, but held herself back–she’d enough rejection to last through winter. As they walked back to the office. Andi debated asking for references or job history. Considering the questions made her an ogre–not asking made her a fool.
“I’m entering two years of your clients...addresses and phone numbers...” Lena pointed to her computer screen.
Andi said “I’ve been in business five.”
“Yeah, but there’s some point beyond which it’ll be fruitless and I had to make a cut off somewhere.” Lena shrugged and tapped her teeth with a pencil. “We’ll go back further if this works.” She swung around. “I want envelopes with address correction notes.”
Andi stared back. “I got envelopes...two boxes.”
“Yeah, but if they have address correction requests the post office will send us a forwarding addresses for the price of a stamp. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
Andi gave in.
Lena pointed at the file cabinets. “I’ll go back through the dead files and enter the invoice info, then enter each of checks you’ve gotten to see who’d paid what and when. The stuff’s there, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I do balances and dump paid accounts in a closed file.” Lena looked to see if Andi was following. “Whatever’s left gets bills.”
Andi stood quietly. Never in a million years would she have gotten around to straightening the mess. How had she stayed in business?
“How you log expenses for different clients?”
There was an awkward moment while Andi mentally treaded water. With only a few clients at a time it was no big deal, she just balanced things by intuition and billed what she remembered or had receipts for.
Lena waited a moment, then shot her a glance, “We’ll get to it by-and-by.”
Andi drew a breath of relief.
She phoned Chang-Turner to ask how she ended up on the party guest list, but the receptionist said she was out. Andi left a message on her voice mail and dialed Lon Lively.
“Yeah?” the slightly suspicious voice of Lively demanded as the ringing stopped. His voice didn’t have the slur of drink.
“Mr. Lively? This is Andi Wicksham. I spoke to you last week about Templeton, Morse and Bryant?”
“What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you could give me some background on your ex-bosses. Morse first?”
“Sure.” Lively’s smile was evident even over the phone. “I overheard a dozen conversations. I never spoke a word, but from everything I heard, he’s ruthless. Plays in the big league and for keeps.”
“Ruthless?”
“Reputation as a shark circling oak paneled rooms. You know the image? Serious thousand dollar suits?”
“But he does environmental work.” Andi half-objected. “It seems at odds in a corporate type.
“Funny huh?”
Andi sarcastically murmured “Fascinating.”
“Bryant’s JD/MBA slime. Steely grey eyes, never smiles...doesn’t care for anything but money–at least that’s his image. No morals or ethics when it comes to law, no social conscience, no loyalty or sense of fair play–just a hired gun paid to get results. It was an interesting place to work.”
“How about Chang-Turner?”
“The Dragon Lady?” Lively chuckled. “Smart cookie, and evil. I wouldn’t trust her on a bet.”
“Devoted to Mr. Bryant?”
“Well, there’s devoted and then there’s devoted.” he gave a dry chuckle. “She ran his research and fine-tuned the focus. She’s the one knowing the most dirt, a hard-core pro–I don’t see her as even caring though–her veins carry iced vinegar.”
“What sort of research?”
“Research is everything for that kind of law, most of the loopholes and interpretations have been ironed out so the game is a matter of lining up everything you can against your opponent’s line, with the biggest/stinkiest pile wining. Once the research is in the lawyers meet and settle out of court...sometimes on merits, sometimes ‘cause of other factors.”
“Like?”
“Dirt on your opponent or your opponent’s lawyer can be worth more than gold.”
“And Chang-Turner ran that? So she would have known about the stuff we talked about Friday?”
“Well.” Lively drew the word out. “We’re talking about a law firm here. Nobody in their right mind claims to know anything. In law, what things mean is contested, so nobody claims to know them.” Lively warmed to his role. “She controlled all the dirt we dug, but she officially knows nothing but the names on people’s files.”
“But if she ran research she must have known of the implications.”
“Sure, Machiavelli had nothing on her. She knows everything, but remember she worked for Bryant and Bryant only did boring contracts and business law. Morse did the environmental stuff. On the surface it’s all very clean. Officially, strict lines were drawn, different staff, different rooms, different files–all carefully managed to look hermetically sealed.”
“So, did she know of the extortion?”
“My opinion? My opinion is she knew everything. She set up research and did Bryant’s billings. Every week I’d bill get paid for ten or twelve hours I didn’t put in. I think she keeps her own files even Bryant doesn’t know about. But, like I said, officially she’s just an office grunt.”
“Dragon lady?”
“Big time. Say, do I get paid for this? I should you know, even if it’s over the phone.” Lively seemed to suddenly awake to the value of what he’d said.
Andi made a face, but had to admit that he’d earned it. “Sure, sure...give me an address and I’ll zip you a check.” She wrote down his address. “Chang-Turner was invited to a party at the Yacht Club with a bunch of lawyers and corporate types. You think that unusual?”
“Depends. Bigwigs don’t talk to other people’s staff. But somebody’s executive assistant talking to someone else’s...who’s going to know or care? You got to realize that nobody who’s smart wants to risk knowing anything dirty. There’s bit advantage having it all go through staff. Less likely to be questioned, easier deniability. In this business you got to think deniability–it’s the way it’s played.”
She resented his lecturing but stuffed those thoughts. “You know of anything specific about Bryant’s clients?”
“I could find out...for cash.”
Andi felt the beginning of a headache. “Yeah, sure, but this’ll be enough for now. I’ll send a check.”
The conversation had been wearing–Andi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Chang-Turner had moved to the head of the short list, though it seemed a bad idea to report it to Morse. If things started unraveling either of them might have motivation.
Andi looked up to find Lena staring and shaking her head. “So this is the exciting life of a private eye?”
“You got it.”
“I’m impressed.” Wide eyed and slack jawed, Lena nodded in mock awe.
“And you didn’t hear the stuff on the other end of the phone.” Andi took a sip of coffee, returned reviewing her notes and the room settled into a warm silence.
The phone rang.
“Wicksham here.”
“Ms. Wicksham? This is Sandra Ibbe of Noris-SDI, returning your call”
Andi sat up alert. “Yes Ms. Ibbe, I don’t know if you’re aware, but Mr. Bryant of Templeton, Morse and Bryant is missing and I’ve been retained to look into the matter.”
“You’re an investigator?”
“That’s right. Your company hosted the party at the Yacht Club, I was hoping you could spare a few minutes.”
Andi waited a moment, but Ibbe seemed content to let her continue.
“Your company is represented by Mr. Bryant’s firm?”
“Mr. Bryant handles routine contractual matters.” Ibbe granted cautiously.
“There was tension over a dispute with him?”
“He is our attorney...and our business dealings are confidential.”
Andi continued. “Are you aware of anybody who might have ill feelings for Mr. Bryant?”
Ibbe favored her with a dismissive laugh. “A lot of people have ill feelings for Mr. Bryant. Mr. Bryant pushes people as far as he can. It’s his job.”
“Did you go to your office that Saturday before the party?” Andi pressed.
“I occasionally come in weekends.” There was a defensive tone to Ibbe’s voice.
“Work late that Friday?”
“I usually work until seven.”
“Mr. Bryant made a phone call from his home to your company’s number. I assume it was the last call made before the Yacht Club Party. Can you tell me anything about it?”
“What day was that?” Ibbe grumbled irritably, she seemed to be looking back into her phone log.
And fiddled with her pencil and stalled. “I assume it wasn’t business hours.”
“Our phones aren’t answered after business hours.” Ibbe snapped. She stated it as a categorical fact.
“No phone calls?”
“Outgoing calls...but we don’t have a receptionist on duty after five and people who work late don’t want to be disturbed. Our system gives a recorded message.”
“I see.” Andi said evenly. “Do you know who he could have been calling?”
“I’m sorry Ms. Wicksham, but I’m a busy person. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Ibbe’s voice was laced with venom.
“No...thank’s much. I’ll get back to you if I need anything else.” Andi let out a breath and hung up the phone. It was easy to dislike Sandra Ibbe. She met Lena’s eyes and shook her head.
Andi next phoned the Department of Environmental Quality to see if she could review their records for the misdeeds of Bryant or Morse’s clients.
“Our files are public. But if you don’t have a particular site in mind, it would probably be a huge job.”
Andi thanked the woman politely, cursed under her breath and moved on. Environmental groups were next; somewhere in Portland were people who knew the dirt on companies and corporate leaders. She settled in for an afternoon on the phone. Telephone research might be an investigator’s handiest tool, but the learning curve was brutal and endurance essential. Three hours later she had three full pages of names and numbers from twenty seven different organizations, a dozen or so promises to call back, another dozen voice mail messages languishing in digital cubbyholes and a stiff neck that threatened to blossom into a migraine.
She talked to volunteers and entry-level receptionists each of whom felt they knew important players who could help. Andi copied down numbers and waited on hold, following each lead to another set of names and numbers, asking for suggestions that led to further names and numbers.
She hadn’t found the person who could lead her through the unknown world of environmental action, but she’d made headway and kept notes on who said what about whom. The same movers and shakers were mentioned time and again, but she couldn’t reach them. They seemed tied up in perpetual meetings, but it made sense they wouldn’t sit by a phone with time on their hands, that’s why they were movers and shakers.
A number of people suggested she talk with Ramone Bodega of Northwest Bio–she left a polite message on his machine. She was twice warned that if he was out of town, she might hear back in a day or two.
It was a good bit of work, no sense beating against it further. Her nets were out, bread upon the water; there was nothing left to do but wait. If things didn’t break by Wednesday she would give the lines another shake.
She called Ramirez to see if the DNA analysis of the blood was in. He answered on the second ring. “So, the lab work.” she asked after their usual banter.
“It’s being done, but as far as I know there’s nothing. Blood or tissue held by his doctors got a private court order, so I don’t know anything officially anyway. What’s it going to prove anyway?”
“Next of kin?”
Ramirez gave something between a grunt and a laugh. “Not yet. Nor do got his bank records and the like...it never takes this long. Lieutenant Max is on it.”
“How about the boat?”
“Nothing. Every marina from Vancouver to the Monterey’s got the word. Drexler’s message puts him in contact with Bryant on Friday. Bryant’s secretary confirmed the appointment, but there were two message after Bryant’s disappearance asking Bryant to set up another meeting. You remember hearing that?”
“You talk to him?”
“Says he was hot about a contract problem. I bet he can come up with a witness if pushed...hold it.” Ramirez put his hand over the receiver and talked to somebody by his desk. Then when he returned, “Anything else you want to tell me Wicksham..?”
“I got into Bryant’s house this morning...”
“You what? Why the hell? If you muddy up this case, you’re ass’ll be in a sling.”
Ramirez was actually yelling–he’d never actually done it to her in all the years she’d known him, but she had seen the ploy. The best defense was indignation.
“What case? You been saying there’s nothing. His house isn’t a crime scene. This is how I make my living, Ramirez.” She quieted, “Anyway, the place was gone over before I arrived.”
“Trashed?”
“No...that’s the strange part, just the opposite, sanitized. Nobody lives that cleanly, not a single personal item, no phone numbers or names...no dirty socks or underwear. It was so clean I expected to see the end of the toilet paper folded into a triangle. Somebody rubbed the place spotless.”
“Him or somebody else?”
She paused to consider, “It could be a cleaning lady after he disappeared...but it’s cleaner than that. A bar of chocolate says there isn’t a fingerprint other than mine and the real estate guy’s.”
“Cleaning lady’s most likely...” Ramirez offered dryly.
“Sure, whatever, but don’t be getting on my back about it.” Andi looked out at the rain-darkened pavement. “Can you get his phone records?”
“Already got ‘em...both office and home. But about those fingerprints you might have left at Bryant’s, the brass are getting all wound-up on this thing. They’re going to get access and now...”
“Maybe it’ll be good publicity.” Andi glanced down at her notes and ignored Ramirez’s low growl of disapproval. “I still got nothing.”
“No one to question, Sherlock?”
“Naw, too many. And I can’t find diddly about Bryant’s social life. Who did he know? Nothing more than two toothbrushes in his bathroom and someone maybe going out with him for brunch.”
“It’s a thankless job.” he offered sarcastically.
“Yeah, right.” She’d get no sympathy from Ramirez for unrewarded effort. “How’s Tanya?”
“As good as can be expected without a dinner party to plan. She’s going to be on my case until you come over and let her empathize.”
“Well tell her I’m doing much better now.” It was almost the truth.
“Fast rebound Wicksham, tell me all about it...a new friend?”
“I can’t talk now.” Andi glanced over at Lena who was only pretending to be working. “It’s kind of close to home.”
“Right there huh? I got to run anyway.” Then more distant, “OK...I’m listening.” Ramirez was already talking to someone else before the phone reached his desk.
Andi looked across at Lena. There was only that button on her coat to make her think Lena might be even potentially interested. And she was already involved...with a man. Relationships were overrated anyway. Andi turned and stared out the window, feeling alone.
Go on to Chapter 5
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