being gone- yeah, I guess they’re tense.”
“Should they be?”
“About Greg turning on them or something?” I nodded, and Pratt’s brow furrowed. “I’d like to say no, but the truth is- I don’t know. Greg is paranoid, and he never, ever leaves his ass uncovered. He’s definitely not a guy I would play musical chairs with- not without a lot of padding. But… I don’t know.”
The waitress brought our food. Pratt took a desperate swallow of her Coke and a bite of her burger. Juice ran down her chin, and I handed her a napkin. I took a spoonful of vegetable chili. It tasted like old succotash, soaked in Tabasco. I pushed it aside.
“You’ve said Greg can be difficult”- Pratt snorted-“is there anyone he was particularly difficult with? Anyone holding a grudge?”
She shook her head. “He’s difficult with everyone.” She chewed some more of her burger. “But someone holding a grudge? Nobody jumps out, unless you count the people suing him.”
“Who else is he close to, besides you?”
Pratt wiped her hands on her napkin and pulled her hair back and was quiet for a while. She shook her head slowly.
“I don’t really know. I know he loves his kid- Billy- as much as he loves anybody. He may not know what to make of him half the time, but he loves him. Besides that?” She shrugged.
“No other family?”
“There’s the ex, if she counts. They still talk- about the kid, mostly- and she still pisses him off. And I think he has a brother or stepbrother who got himself in trouble a few years back- somewhere out in Jersey, I think. A reporter picked up on it, and it was five minutes of embarrassment for Greg.”
“How about his friends?”
“There’s some guy he goes to hear music with, up in the country someplace. I don’t know his name, though.” She thought some more and hesitated. “And… there was Sovitch.”
“Linda Sovitch? From Market Minds?” Pratt nodded. “They’re friends?”
“They used to be- when Greg was on the show all the time. I’m not sure how friendly they are now; he wasn’t happy when the guest spots dried up. But I know Greg had lunch with her- right before his last session with Tampon.”
I finished my ginger ale and crunched on an ice cube and thought. “Did he ever talk about leaving?” I asked.
“Leaving Pace? We talked about it a lot- especially lately- about going out on our own, setting up a research company. One of the things that drove him nuts about settling the lawsuits was he thought it would screw that up- screw up his reputation and his earning power. Screw them up more, I guess.”
“You would do it- go into business with him?”
She nodded vigorously. “For an equity stake? You bet I would. Nothing like that is coming my way at Pace.”
“You’re not in line for Greg’s job if he walks?”
Pratt made a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? I’m fine to keep the seat warm while Greg’s away, but when it comes time to fill his spot permanently, they’ll bring a name in from outside- assuming they want to keep a research department at all. If Greg leaves, I’ve got to make plans, one way or another.” She fiddled with the pile of slaw on her plate and looked at me. She wasn’t as light-headed now, and worry was coming back into her eyes. I didn’t have long.
“Do you remember what he said in his voice mail- when he told you he was taking vacation?”
She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message- something like I’m out of here for three weeks- starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”
“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing- about why he left when he did?”
She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things- the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon- and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.
“Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”
“As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”
“He ever do anything like this before- just take unscheduled vacation time?”
Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”
“But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”
Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”
“Are you worried about him?”
Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
7
It was a long run- two miles up, six miles around, and two miles back home- and I was right in the middle of it, at the north end of Central Park, on the steep climb up one side of Great Hill. It was five-fifteen, just past dawn, and the thin clouds that had brought showers overnight had begun to fray. The pavement was still wet and traffic was light: a few cabs, a few black cars, an aggressive peloton of racing bikes, and some other solitary runners, cocooned in thoughts and breath. I leaned into the hill and tried not to gasp. My own thoughts turned to Nina Sachs and her family.
It had been close to ten last night when I’d walked from Clark Street down Old Fulton to Water Street. Brooklyn was cooler, and the breeze off the river had sent a chill through me. Lights were burning in Sachs’s loft and also at street level, in the I-2 Galeria de Arte, Brooklyn branch. I stood at the big glass door and looked inside.
It was a huge space, as large as Sachs’s loft, with bleached wood floors and a wall of sidewalk-to-ceiling windows. The other walls were white, and a dense constellation of lights hung from the ceiling. Also hanging- from ceiling-mounted tracks- was a platoon of room dividers, movable walls of various widths presently arranged to divide the gallery into three exhibition bays. In the foreground, about ten yards inside the door, was a long mahogany counter, chest high and elaborately paneled.
There were people in the gallery, a skinny young woman with bleached hair, camo pants, and a T-shirt that let her midriff peek through, and an even skinnier young man with shiny blue bellbottoms and a steel ball through his nose. They were sealing and hauling wooden crates with impressive speed and skill. There were two opened wine bottles on the long counter, and three glasses, and an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette. I heard music through the glasssomething thudding and techno.
Ines Icasa came through a door at the back of the gallery. Her hair was pulled back and she paused in mid- stride when she saw me. She was perfectly still for a moment, and then she moved again, walking to the counter, plucking her cigarette from the ashtray, and waving me in.
I pushed open the heavy door. The music got louder and I felt the bass in my gut. I smelled tobacco and sawdust and wood polish. The skinny people looked up from their crates and eyed me speculatively. Ines called me over.
“A?QuA© tal? Just passing through the neighborhood, detective, or are you shopping for some art?” I smiled. Ines took a deep hit off her cigarette and reached for a wineglass. She poured some red wine, showed me the bottle, and raised her nice eyebrows. I shook my head. Ines frowned melodramatically and poured herself some more. I heard a noise from the end of the counter, and a foot, wearing something like a bowling shoe, slid into view. I walked over and looked down. It was Billy.
