noticed there was someone else in the room; either that or he didn’t care.
“Mr. O’Donnell?” the man said. Now Jack’s eyes perked up. He didn’t say a word, waited for the other man to speak. “Bill Talcott. How can I help you?”
Jack stood up. Gave Talcott a once-over, sizing him up.
Talcott shifted as he stood there, eyes meeting the floor.
Jack was trying to make the guy nervous, take him out of any comfort zone he might have. It didn’t look like Talcott had much of one when he joined us, but I guess Jack wanted to break his spirit completely.
“Thanks for finally joining us,” Jack said.
“My apologies for the wait.” He glanced at Iris with a condescending, apologetic smile, as though blaming her for the delay. Iris didn’t look up from her desk. This did not paint Mr. Talcott in an impressive light.
“Actually Iris was quite helpful,” Jack said. I noticed
Iris’s face look up slightly. “You have no need to embarrass her. Or yourself.”
Talcott’s face went pink, and he stammered. “Of course, I didn’t mean to put anybody down. We’re all under an enormous amount of stress these days, as you can imagine. And if I can say so, without embarrassing myself again, I’m a fan of your work, Mr. O’Donnell.”
Jack nodded, but did not respond to the compliment.
“Should we go somewhere more private?” he said.
“Is this an issue that requires privacy?” Talcott said, confused.
“I’d say so.”
Talcott nodded, said, “Right this way.” We followed him down the hallway behind the reception desk. The corridor was filled with gray metal filing cabinets. A few people stood by, filing, rifling through papers with a quickness that said they’d done it for years. On the walls hung pictures of buildings. Some residential, some commercial, obviously the properties Orchid Realty managed.
We passed by a small kitchen and a large conference room, and eventually were led into Talcott’s office. He ushered us in and closed the door. There were two leather chairs in front of a heavy marble desk. The desk, as well as the windowsills and bookshelves, were lined with snow globes from around the world. The man had literally hundreds of them.
“I buy one in every city I set foot in,” Talcott said proudly. “Three hundred and forty-eight and counting.”
Jack and I sat down. Talcott seemed disappointed that we weren’t impressed. We took out our notepads and pens as Talcott sat down. He waited a moment to see if we might compliment his collection. When it was clear we weren’t going to, he said, “So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“First off, Mr. Talcott, this is my associate Henry
Parker. My apologies for not introducing him earlier.”
“Parker,” Talcott said. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“It’s a pretty common surname,” I replied.
“Any relation to Peter Parker?” Talcott asked.
“You mean Spider-Man?”
“Is that the character’s name? I could have sworn I knew someone else named Parker. In any event, your name does ring a bell.”
I looked at Jack, hoping we could move on. He seemed to get the nod.
“Mr. Talcott,” he said, “do you manage the property at sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas?”
“I do,” Talcott said.
“Are you aware of a company called 718 Enterprises that, up until recently, occupied space in that building?”
Talcott took a moment before responding, “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised. “You’re saying there was never a company at that location with the name 718 Enterprises, or anything similar to that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes, there was a company, or yes there was not?”
“There was no company with that name at that location.”
Jack turned to me, shifting his whole body. I realized
Jack had never seen the sign for the company, he hadn’t witnessed the young men marching in and out of the building with full bags. I was the only witness, at least the only one who was on our side.
“Mr. Talcott, do you read the news?”
“Of course I do. I’m quite fond of Mr. O’Donnell’s work, as I said.”
“Do you read it regularly?”
“I would say so.”
“Well, then do you recognize the name Stephen
Gaines? Or a company called 718 Enterprises?”
This time Talcott’s “no” was hesitant. There was rec-68
Jason Pinter ognition on his face, but he wasn’t about to incriminate himself.
“Let me give you a little backstory. Stephen Gaines was murdered a few weeks ago. Shot in the head in a dingy apartment in Alphabet City. It was in the news quite a bit, especially after the primary suspect was cleared.”
“That does ring a bell,” Talcott said. “So much strife in the news these days, who can remember a name? But the case does sound familiar. Boy’s father was accused of the crime, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. Want to know something else?” I said.
Talcott seemed unsure of how to respond, so he simply said, “Sure.”
“Stephen Gaines was my brother.”
“I-I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences.”
“See, my brother worked with those two guys, Scott
Callahan and Kyle Evans. And my brother confided everything in me.” This part was BS. We’d had one conversation lasting thirty seconds and I didn’t even know he was my brother at the time. “And he told me that Scott and Kyle were employed-that’s a loose term-by 718
Enterprises. Who worked out of your building. Now, if you still don’t remember them I can get you the documentation and you’ll see it at the same time we print it.” I looked at Talcott’s desk. Saw a photo of him with a woman and young boy on a beach, all three beaming. “I don’t know how I’d explain to my son why Daddy’s picture is all over the news.”
Talcott turned a ghastly shade of white, and rocked back in his chair. The chair, unfortunately, did not lean back with him, and he nearly toppled over before righting himself.
Talcott cleared his throat before suddenly leaning down to rummage under his desk. I felt my fingers gripping the sides of the chair-was he going for a gun?
My nerves quieted when I saw what Talcott was reaching for a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt, aged twentyone years. Slightly less dangerous than a gun, though from the shaking of his hands my guess was that after we left, Talcott would drink enough to make him sleep like he’d been shot.
He brought up a small tumbler, filled it to the brim, and downed it, closing his eyes. He looked at us, slight embarrassment on his face. Then he pushed the bottle toward us.
“No thanks,” I said. “I didn’t have breakfast.”
Jack looked right past the bottle. I watched his reaction, but there was none.
Talcott coughed into his fist. His eyes were a little watery. I got the feeling he didn’t particularly enjoy the scotch, but needed it enough to get around that small detail.
“You don’t know what it’s like out there,” he said.
“Out where?” said Jack. “What are you talking about?”
“The economy is in the toilet. The dollar is barely worth the paper it’s printed on.”
“I cash my paychecks,” I added. “We know this.”
“But companies…they’re getting hit the hardest. There aren’t as many customers to go around, and the customers that they do have, well the money they pay doesn’t buy what it used to.”
“What’s your point?”
