'You don't believe me.'
'I'm not sure.'
'May I see you tomorrow?'
'For what?'
'For-maybe you can help me.'
'To do what?'
'Deal with this. There's nobody else I can confide in. I'm sorry.' She sounded rocky.
I sighed again. 'When?'
'For lunch.' She sighed. 'After you've finished seeing my husband. He said he plans to spend the morning in your offices.'
I had forgotten about that. Every third Thursday of the month, Clay Traynor came to our offices to look over new ideas-and to get his ration of bowing and scraping. He had a big appetite.
'My fingerprints,' she said. 'They're going to be all over Denny's house.'
'If you're not implicated in any way,' I said, then stopped myself. I was thinking about the private detective I'd hired. He knew what was going on. When he found out that Denny was dead, what would he do with the material he'd collected the last couple weeks? Go to the police? Use it to blackmail both Cindy Traynor and me?
'What's wrong?' she said.
I told her.
'Oh, God,' she said, 'I've been followed all this time? Why would you do that?'
I told her about the note I'd found by accident one day in the conference room, a lovey-dovey number from her to Denny. It was too flirtatious to indicate anything but an affair, even though it was ostensibly nothing more than a thank-you note for a party he'd given. That's when, terrified that he'd lose us our biggest account, I'd put the private detective on him.
'God,' she said, 'it's so humiliating, being followed like that.' She began to weep softly. In the sound of it I heard a deep but inexplicable grief. 'My whole life's such a mess… I…'
'Cindy, listen-'
'No, I understand. You were only doing what you had to do. It's just having somebody spy on you…' Trie weeping again. 'I think we'd better forget lunch, OK? Good night, Michael.' With that she put the receiver down softly.
For a long time afterward, I heard her soft voice in my mind. It represented a curious peace in the ugliness of the night. I wanted to see Cindy Traynor very badly.
FIVE
'Two days. I don't understand it,' Sarah Anders said to me the next morning.
I had walked down the hall from my office pretending to be looking for Denny Harris.
Sarah-a matronly, attractive woman in her late forties, and a woman as sensible as she is compassionate-is the private secretary shared by both Denny and me. Of course, she's much more than a private secretary-she tells us what we need to do, makes sure we do it, and occasionally even gives us ideas for improving our client services. Part of the reason for her knowledgeabiliry is that she has worked in every department in the agency and knows the shop in detail. Probably, truth admitted, better than I do. I've never been convinced that copywriters, which was what I was originally, make the best executives. Nor art directors.
'Two days,' Sarah said again, her shining dark eyes staring through the open door into Denny's empty office. Sarah was one of the few people who found virtues in Denny. Despite a lot of evidence to the contrary, he appeared to be redeemable-at least to Sarah. 'I'm worried.'
'You try his house?' I asked.
She nodded. 'Every hour. It was the same way yesterday. No answer.'
'He wasn't here at all yesterday, either?'
'No.'
Yesterday had been so busy, I hadn't noticed. I was used to my partner's being gone for long stretches- usually trying to pretend he was somehow attending to business-so I never had any accurate sense of just how much time he spent in the office. I'd just as soon not know.
Which was when I caught myself-that thought. The present tense.
I thought of Denny on the bed. The puncture wounds all over his backside, as if somebody had gone at him with a pickax.
'Damn.' Sarah slammed the phone down. She'd tried his house once again. She shook her head, perplexed. 'I've tried everywhere-bars, health clubs. I just don't know what's left.'
I had to play it as I ordinarily would. I put a smirk on my face and said, 'Maybe he's found some new female delight to lose himself in.'
For the first time, the worry line on her forehead looked less severe. She always got sentimental about Denny's affairs-though she would have been just as upset as I was about Denny and Cindy Traynor, like a mother considering her bad little boy. 'He sure does all right with the ladies, doesn't he?' Then she caught herself and flushed. 'Oh, sorry.'
'It's all right.' I waved a hand to my office. 'I'll be in there working. If Denny doesn't show up, just show Clay Traynor into my office. I'll handle him till Denny gets here.'
There: I had laid all the planks I possibly could so that I could act genuinely surprised when Denny's body was discovered. The dutiful partner, the hard-working businessman, the-show-must-go-on-vice-president-oh, I was a hell of a guy.
Waiting for me on my desk was last month's profit-and-loss statement. Denny took no interest in any detail- just how much we'd earned or lost. I spent more time with the statement, looking for any way we could save money and thereby increase our individual cuts. With teenagers and a dying father, I needed all the help I could get.
The P amp;L didn't tell me much except for one thing-the client-entertainment-expense column was still swelling up. Denny felt he had the right to write off virtually every dime he spent as a legitimate client expense-he hadn't paid for his alcoholism in years-even though he was literally taking it from my pocket. I owned fifty percent of the agency.
If I really wanted to make this look like a typical day, then I'd have to go down the hall to the accounting office and raise a little soft hell with Merle Wickes, the man with the Las Vegas haircut. Once a month I demanded to know why Wickes let Denny get away with it.
My intercom buzzed.
Sarah. 'I'm going to call the police. Just have them run out to his house and check and see if everything's all right.'
'You really think that's necessary?'
'Yes, I do.' She sounded absolute.
What the hell, I thought. May as well get it over with, the discovery of the body, the inevitable questions of the cops.
'Well, OK,' I said.
'Thanks, Michael,' she said.
We hung up.
'I need to talk to Merle a minute,' I said to Belinda Matson, the Accounting Department's secretary, an hour later.
As always of late, she looked unhappy to see me. There had been a time a year or so ago, when she'd first started working here, that I'd had notions about the two of us getting together. Sometimes she brought her lunch and one day in the lunch room I'd seen her reading Steinbeck's In Dubious Battle, a novel whose union theme made me curious about her. I'd asked her about it; she'd said that it had been her favorite novel in high school-she hadn't
