“They’ll let me know.”
“Yeah. They don’t have a thing. What about James
Mitchell?”
“What about him? They didn’t want to listen. They didn’t want to talk about anything except this phone call.”
“So you never got to speak to them about the
party?”
“No, they weren’t interested.”
“Bastards. We’ve got to get them to listen to us.”
“What do we do?”
“Never mind that now, sit back and enjoy the game.
Let the Kings entertain you.” Bob patted Josh’s shoulder.
“We’ll worry about it after the game.”
Josh sat back and joined in with the thousands of fans enjoying the game.
Bob sped along the interstate with the other drivers leaving the game. He was quiet, lost in thought, and Josh was no different. Bob’s silence had little to do with the King’s collapse during overtime. Something in his brain itched and he couldn’t quite reach to scratch it.
When Josh had told him about the police visit, something had clicked in his head, but the connection eluded him. It was the woman who had called the police, Margaret Macey. Her name meant something to him.
Suddenly, a car horn blared in annoyance. In a world of his own, Bob had let his car wander to straddle the line separating the second and third lanes. The noise snapped him out of his deep contemplation and back to the matter of car control. He jerked the car back into his lane. The disgruntled driver accelerated past Bob’s Toyota.
“Shit, Bob. I can do without two traffic accidents in the same calendar month,” Josh said just for Bob’s benefit—he rarely got the chance to inflict the same brand of humor on his friend that his friend did on him.
“Hey, sorry, man. I wasn’t concentrating,” Bob said.
He stared straight out into the darkness that lay at the end of the headlight beams.
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?” Confused, Bob glanced over at Josh.
“For the caustic ‘fuck you’ remark,” Josh said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was miles away, thinking.”
“I’m sorry, did it hurt?” Josh said and laughed.
A pained expression appeared on Bob’s face. “I’m
serious, Josh. I was thinking about that woman the cops told you about.”
That brought Josh’s humor to an abrupt end. “Margaret Macey, you mean?”
“Yeah, I remember hearing her name recently. And I think I know why. She’s a client.”
The remark silenced both men for a moment. The thump-thump of the tires striking the all too regular breaks in trie worn concrete road punctuated the quiet.
“Shit,” Josh said. “I don’t know if that’s something to feel good or bad about.”
“Neither do I,” Bob said.
“I don’t think it adds much to my case that the
woman I allegedly threatened is a client of a close friend of mine. I’m sure if Brady knew that he would have both of us in front of a judge in the morning.”
“I’m not sure it means anything. It’s probably a coincidence that you are both my clients. Now forget
about it. I’ll take you home and I’ll look into it. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Josh said.
“All right, I shouldn’t have told you. I can do without you going postal on me.”
Josh conceded to Bob’s request with little resistance.
They lapsed into silence once more, their minds filled with more questions and fears. The car’s interior reverberated with the drone of engine noise and the Doppler
effect of passing vehicles.
Bob dropped off Josh outside his house, told him not to worry and promised he would get back to him. He waited until Josh let himself into his house and closed the door before driving away.
In his office, Bob returned the handset to the receiver.
He’d just informed his wife that he’d be home late from the Kings game. He had to check out something at the office. Nancy had slammed the phone down with a
sharp crack. That’s gonna cost me, Bob thought.
He switched on the computer on his desk. While it booted up, Bob left his office and went to the filing cabinets in the archive. His computer database would have details regarding all his clients, including Margaret Macey, if she was a client of his firm. But his filing cabinets contained the personal correspondence he received from his clients and copies of original documentation.
He
searched the deep drawer cabinet for Macey. The
double cabinet contained two rows of files side by side, but didn’t contain a record for Margaret Macey; only a Harrison F. Macey, who had a car insurance policy with Bob.
“Shit. That woman is a client. I know it,” he muttered to himself.
He went back to his office. The computer’s screen bathed the room in a spectral glow. He hit the light switch on the wall by the door. The fluorescent strips flickered into life with a bink-bink sound.
Bob shifted the heaps of paperwork strewn across
his desk to the floor to make a clear spot.
“A messy desk is a sign of a sharp mind,” he’d told his wife.
She’d responded with, “No, that’s the sign of a lazy bastard.”
In his opinion, both sayings had merit.
He sat at his desk and logged onto the network. He selected a file that provided client information. Typing Margaret Macey’s name in the appropriate data fields, he started a search. The computer blinked a dialog box: Searching… Please wait.
“Thanks for the advice,” he said.
The screen flashed up the information. There she
was—Margaret F. Macey, her address, age, social security number, and past business transactions.
“She is a customer,” he exclaimed to his empty office.
With the mouse, Bob clicked the Print icon at the top of the screen. A whirring came from the printer in the main office and sheets of paper emerged from the machine like a white tongue.
Hungrily, he read through the information and the grin dropped from his face like a rock. Margaret
Macey had made a viatical settlement with Pinnacle Investments less than two years ago and he’d acted as the
agent. Bob’s brief notes detailed that the medical treatment she had undergone for a weak heart was beyond
what her medical insurance would cover. He’d helped her to pay for medical bills and provide cash for further treatment with the viatical settlement of her hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy that her dead husband had made her take out years before.
It wasn’t the revelation that he’d acted as agent to Pinnacle Investments to both Josh and Margaret Macey that left him slack-jawed. He had hundreds of clients he’d dealt with for years, but he rarely remembered their names a few days after dealing with their accounts.
But in this case, he remembered the senior citizen’s name because James Mitchell had asked about her
and Josh at their meeting.
