I was ushered through a large maze of cubicles, each furnished with the requisite white desk, a multi-lined telephone, computer, and monitor. Most were occupied with conservatively dressed employees typing on keyboards, talking on phones, or shuffling through large stacks of papers. The whole scene reminded me of the “pit room” at Global Investments, where every young trader started his career sweating over compiling a clientele portfolio worthy of promotion and a one-way ticket out of the ‘Pit.’ Pit was short for armpit, which is exactly what that room was—hot and stinky. This room was, too.
We finally reached the back wall, which housed a couple of large offices marked ‘personnel.’ A tidy, middle aged woman greeted me with a firm handshake. “I’m Mary Hatfield. I’ve been reading over your resume, Ms. Osborne, and I must say I’m quite impressed.”
I smiled, hoping I hadn’t overdone my credentials.
“Have a seat and let’s talk a little bit about your qualifications.” Ms. Hatfield perched herself on the other side of a highly polished desk and eyed me approvingly. “So, what brings you here from Indianapolis?” she asked, right off the bat.
“My husband had a job transfer.”
“Oh really, what does he do?” She glanced down at my ring finger which I realized was bare. Oops.
I scrambled for a story. “He’s in the technology industry. His company offered him a promotion here.”
“Interesting,” she replied. Although I knew it wasn’t. Technology was a good cover. Most people didn’t really know what exactly the technology industry was nor did they care to find out. Had I said doctor, or professor, it would have opened up a whole new line of questioning.
“Do you have children?” she asked in a tone that suggested that children were quite disgusting.
“No,” I replied, with equal disdain.
She leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen and eyeing me. “We actually have a legal assistant position open at this time. I’d like to set up a formal interview for early next week, if that works into your schedule.”
I was taken aback by her eagerness. I really did overdo my resume. “Would that position be as an assistant to one of the firm’s partners?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Maloney?” I pried.
“Why, yes. Do you know Ms. Maloney?” she asked.
“Only by reputation,” I said, keeping her guessing. “I hear that she’s one of the best attorneys in town.”
“Yes, she is. Of course, all of our attorneys are excellent,” Ms. Hatfield replied with professional pride.
“That’s why I’m here. I want to work for the best,” I gushed and flashed my best smile. “This must be a very stimulating environment to work in. I bet all the attorneys are close,” I added.
“Close?”
“Well yes. I mean, the partners must have had to work long hours to build such a reputable firm. I’m sure they’re all the best of friends.”
Ms. Hatfield shrugged, “I guess you could say they’re friends.”
I glanced to the side, and then lowered my voice. “I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Hatfield. I can assure you that I’m always discreet.”
“Discreet?”
“Yes, I’ve worked in several successful law firms, and it’s always the same. Who can blame them? Working such long hours together, enduring huge amounts of stress and sharing a passion for … justice. Why wouldn’t these types of things happen?”
Ms. Hatfield looked bewildered. “What type of things?”
I leaned in and spelled it out, “Affairs,” I whispered like it was a dirty word.
She sat a little straighter in her chair and lifted a brow. I continued my spiel before she could fully ingest what I was saying. “I did my homework about this firm. I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I just want you to know that if I were to be hired, that I would be the epitome of discretion.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Ms. Hatfield stood with my resume in hand and glanced at the wastebasket near her desk. She was probably wondering if she should dump my resume now or wait until she could get me out of her office.
I also stood but remained squarely in front of her, blocking the way to the door. Keeping my eye on her reaction I let loose with a zinger, “I mean, what’s going on between Ms. Maloney and Mr. Schmidt. Word gets around in legal circles, you know. Everyone assumes it’s how Ms. Maloney earned her way to partnership.”
Ms. Hatfield’s eyes bulged and her chin receded into her neck, making her look like a bullfrog preparing to croak. She tossed my resume into the basket and raised a quivering hand, “Get out now.”
Just as I suspected, she didn’t deny the affair.
I made a beeline out the door and quickly retraced my steps through the pit room and back to the lobby. The acne challenged teen was still there, absently thumbing through a magazine and looking perturbed. I was entering the elevator when I heard the receptionist tell her that Mr. Schmidt had called and apologized for being late, but that he would be back any second. My heart lurched. As my elevator descended the floors, I prayed fervently that I wouldn’t run into Schmidt; but as luck would have it the doors slid open on the main floor revealing a trio of suited men. Richard Schmidt was one of them.
I raised my purse in front of my face, ducked my head and made my way past them as quickly as possible. However, in my haste, I overstepped and skidded on the back of my heel. My foot slid forward across the marble floor at lightning speed and before I knew it, I was performing an ungraceful rendition of an Olympic gymnast’s floor routine, which I completed with pelvis-breaking splits and a mile long run in my panty hose.
Several gasps echoed across the lobby. I looked up just in time to catch the look on Schmidt’s face before the elevator doors closed. I could only hope that his expression was due to the fact that some strange woman had just taken a nose dive right in front of him, and not to the fact that he had recognized me as Sean Panelli’s crazy bag-lady girlfriend. If the latter was the case, I could expect a phone call at any time.
I left the Clark Building with as much dignity as I could muster. Back in the Volvo, I shed my torn pantyhose and put the car in gear. As I left the lot, I caught sight of a familiar form on the sidewalk. Madeline Reiner dressed in an overcoat and what looked like twelve inch stiletto lace-up boots. I paused at the corner and wheeled in my seat just in time to watch her walk into Schmidt’s building. Coincidence? I doubted it.
I punched the accelerator and hit the road.
*
After I left Schmidt’s office, I spent over an hour driving around town in a funk. I had given up a morning of work and had got little information to help me solve this case. I briefly contemplated an afternoon of dumpster runs, but decided against it when another round of rain began to pelt against my windshield. Of course, I could have hit a few consignment shops or stopped by a couple of department stores to see what was on clearance, but I had a strong desire to move forward as quickly as I could on Amanda’s case. I popped into a gas station for a quick snack run. After refueling with a soda and a candy bar, I decided to hit the one place where I had always found answers, Community Union Library.
As I waved and smiled my way around the circulation desk, I thought about how comforting this place was to me. Maybe it was because, growing up, I’d spent most of my after school time here waiting for Dad to get off work, or maybe it was because the library had, for the most part, remained untouched by change for the last twenty-five years. The only visible updates were a dozen or so computer terminals in the back corner. Most of the employees were the same. Even Mrs. White, the head librarian, was still wearing the same tent shaped, green and yellow, muumuu that she wore in 1986, or maybe she had a dozen just like it at home. Heaven forbid.
I hung out with the staff for a few minutes making niceties, before heading up to the second floor where the archive room was located. I wanted to check out the back issues of the Sun and Tribune. My visit to Schmidt’s law firm
opened up the possibility of an office romance. However, Madeline entering the Clark Building wearing her come-and-get-me boots went a long way in confirming my suspicions about her and Schmidt. I could just imagine that she was heading up to his office to meet him for a little afternoon delight.
Entering the archive room, I noticed two computer terminals and a microfiche machine. Most of the library’s periodicals were stored on compact disc, except for older volumes, which were still not converted over from microfiche files. Unfortunately, the issues I wanted were still on microfiche.
After a few failed attempts, I got the hang of the machine and was moving through back issues quickly. I didn’t find too many references to the Schmidts or Reiners; only a picture or two of black tie events. They looked happy in all of the photos. Of course, that was the purpose of the society page, to make the lives of the socialites appear euphoric, so that the rest of us could aspire to be just like them. Not that I envied any of their lives. If I had learned anything this week, it was that these people, for all their power and status, were wacko.
There were a couple of references to Ms. Maloney. The first was an announcement of her promotion to partner in the firm, which had occurred only a few years ago. I was right. Sarah Maloney was young. In fact, the article repeatedly referred to her as one of the top young trial lawyers in the state and commented on the fact that she was able to rise to the position of partner at such a young age. I couldn’t help but wonder if a little extra billing time with the firm’s founding partner didn’t help accelerate her rise through the ranks. Although, from what I’d read, I couldn’t tell for sure. The ever-dutiful Ms. Hatfield’s profuse denial of any allusion to seedy indiscretions amongst the firm’s partners left me wondering if I was on the wrong path as far as Ms. Maloney was considered.
Thinking of seedy indiscretions, I allowed myself a little fun-time scanning the business sections for articles on Greg Davis. After reading just a few stories about him, I became completely in awe of all that he had accomplished over the years. He’d worked his way up from renting small properties to young families and college students, to building some of the biggest developments in the city. The more I read, the more entranced I became with his story.
There weren’t tons of photos of Greg, but I did find one of him at a construction site. He was standing with some workers staring up at some sort of steel beam structure. It must have been hot that day, because he was dressed in jeans and a short sleeve t-shirt that seemed to be clinging to his body. I enlarged the photo until he took up the entire screen. Even in black and white, he looked good.
“Hey, heard you were here.”
I jumped and tried to cover my tracks. Too late, Sean caught a glimpse at the image on the screen. He grimaced, but didn’t say anything.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “And who told you I was here? Are you having me followed?”
He laughed. “That wouldn’t be such a bad idea, but no. I couldn’t reach you on your cell, so I stopped by your place and ran into your dad. Apparently your visit here sparked the library social network. Someone called your house to say hello to your father and mentioned that you were here researching the back issues of newspapers. Your dad’s convinced that you’re going through the business ads. He said you had an interview this morning?” Sean scanned my outfit. “Nice clothes. Not really you, but nice.”
“If not really me, who?”
He thought for a moment. “Your mother?”
I laughed. “You’re a pretty good detective, Panelli. I dressed right out of mom’s closet this morning. I even visited a salon yesterday,” I added, weaving a partially true alibi of my doings since he’d last seen me.
Sean’s gaze roamed over my tresses. He studied them for a few seconds with the same strange expression that Reggie had the day before. “It looks the same to me,” he said, opening and shutting his mouth a few more times before raising a speculative brow and changing the topic, “What gives, Pippi? You’re not going back to the corporate world, are you?”
“No...” I hedged, wondering how I was going to explain my sudden interest in the back issues of Chicago’s newspapers.
“Never mind,” he said, raising a warning finger. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know because I’m sure it’ll start another argument. I’m sick of fighting with you. I really just stopped by to see if you want to go out for dinner or something.”
I glanced at my cell, surprised to see it was already dinnertime. “Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was. I am hungry.”
“That settles it,” he said, “Dinner and drinks, my treat. We won’t discuss the case at all, agreed?”
“Agreed,” I responded. I wasn’t learning much from perusing the back issues anyway. We decided to leave my car, and go together in his jeep.
Instead of our usual one-step-up from fast food places, Sean surprised me by taking me to one of my favorite steak houses. Several times over dinner, I tried to steer the conversation to the case, but he didn’t fall for it. Instead, we discussed everything but the case. It was just like a real date. I was enjoying myself so much that I was surprised when he looked at his phone and told me it was almost ten o’clock.
“I’d better get you back to your car.” He stood and helped me out of my chair. We held hands as we dashed through the lot in the pouring rain. Then, we rode in silence, listening to the radio.
The library had closed at nine, so the lot was vacant when we pulled in. He parked next to my vehicle and turned off the engine. We sat kissing for several minutes before he broke it off. “I’ll see you to your car.”
“Uh, huh.” I moaned, reaching for him again. We continued for another minute. Just when things were really heating up he broke away again.
“Let’s get you home,” he whispered.
“Fine,” I sighed, sliding over and starting to let myself out.
He jumped out and ran to open my car door. We stole another quick kiss, before I hopped in and started my engine. All the way home I could see his lights in my rearview mirror. He even sat idle in the alley while I dashed up to my apartment. As soon as I got in, I went directly to the window as I knew he was waiting for my “all-safe” signal before he left. I waved him off and was about to turn away when, a couple hundred yards down the alley, a pair of headlights flipped on and a car slowly pulled away from the shadows. A shiver ran down my spine—the neighbors in that direction, all elderly, never drove at night.
Chapter Eight
I woke up the next morning and immediately thought back to the mysterious car I had seen in the alley, but it all didn’t seem so sinister in the light of a fresh day. I was determined to push the case out of my mind for a while. What I really needed to do was control my run-away imagination and focus on some real work for a while or I wasn’t going to be paying the bills this month.
It had finally stopped raining, but everything was saturated or flooded. I decided not to scavenge. Instead, I ate a quick breakfast and then spent some time checking over my on-line auctions. I had been so busy with the case that I had let a few product inquiries slip by and lost out on several sales. I gave myself a mental slap upside the face. At this rate, it would be a slim month.
I concentrated my efforts for a couple of hours and packaged some items to ship. After cramming a few dozen boxes into the back of the Volvo, I headed downtown to the post office. I’ve been known to send fifty or more packages a week—today I was only sending sixteen.
My regular schedule goes like this: Monday mornings I photograph and list all the items that I’ve found the week before. I then spend the rest of the day repairing items or packaging items that need to be sent on Tuesday from the sales completed the previous week. Tuesdays I’m at the post office by eight o’clock and then I’m off to check dumpsters on the northwest side of town plus the North Central College area. The rest of the day is devoted to repairs and miscellaneous paperwork. Wednesdays I hit the south side of Naperville, and a couple of consignment shops. Thursdays
I ship out any ‘Buy it Now’ sales that closed out early. Then I start hitting the afternoon garage sales, which is the favorite part of my job. Usually all day Friday, I continue with garage sailing, unless it’s the third Friday of the month, which means I have to get ready for the Third Saturday Flea Market. I have a regular ten-by-ten booth. The market is my bread winner. On a good weekend I can net around a thousand dollars. A lot of hard work, but not a bad way to make money, if you know what you’re doing. I do.
While I don’t make nearly the money I made as an investment banker, I can live comfortably. Of course, it helps that while I was in the banking business, I made several well-placed investments, so I have a good start on my retirement. The bad thing: health insurance. I have none. So far, I’ve been fortunate, but I know I’m just playing roulette with my luck. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out a new strategy.
I made it back to my apartment around 4:00 and decided to devote a couple of hours to fixing up some old inventory and getting it ready to sell. I was especially interested in working on a small dresser I had scrounged a couple of weeks ago outside some campus apartments. It was surprising what college kids opted to throw out instead of transporting. This was a narrow, four-drawer, nondescript piece that probably held CDs or something, but it was solid pine. With the right paint colors, some new hardware, and a little distressing here and there, I would transform into a great ‘shabby chic’ piece.
I flipped on the fluorescent shop lights that I had hung over the back corner of the garage that my parents had graciously sectioned off for my overflow storage and messy work jobs. I laid out a large drop cloth, tuned the radio to my favorite light-rock station, and got busy stripping and sanding. All the while I was working, my mind raced with thoughts. Most of them disturbing: Amanda Schmidt’s body displayed in the casket, Madeline Reiner in black leather and stiletto boots, and Greg Davis.
This last one bothered me the most. I couldn’t get the guy out of my mind. Even when I was out with Sean last night, my mind wandered to Greg. I had been obsessing over him ever since we met at the country club. I’m not sure why I was so attracted to him--well, besides his obvious good looks--but there were lots of good looking guys around, including Sean. No, it was something else with Greg. Probably the fact that I knew what everyone was telling me was true: Greg wasn’t my type. He was a player, a user, the dangerous type I knew I would never be happy with a guy like him; so, why couldn’t I quit thinking about him?
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