by John Moralee
“Thanks.” I sat. Dyler pressed a button. “Can we have some coffee in here, please, Sandra?”
“Yes,” said a woman’s voice.
“Michael Quinn. That name … Didn’t your brother kill Hanna Devereaux?”
“He didn’t kill her. It was an accident.”
Dyler nodded as though humouring an infant. “Yes. An accident. That car crash. I remember. The Devereauxs were devastated by their loss. Hanna was a lovely girl with so much to look forward to. A lot of people blamed your brother for it because he’d been drinking. You got into quite a few fights over it, if I recall. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
So why did you? I wondered. “That’s in the past.”
“Yes, yes. So, how can I help you?”
“I was hoping you could help me find out where Scott is. If I could look at the cases he was working on -”
He held up a hand to stop me. “Ah. That’s unfortunate.”
I was about to ask why when a young woman brought in coffee. She poured it into dainty little cups not much bigger than thimbles. Dyler thanked her. He watched her tight skirt and long legs as she left. (And so did I.)
“Why’s it unfortunate?” I asked.
“You can’t see our files. It’s our policy.”
“But they could directly relate to why he’s missing.”
“I am aware of that small possibility,” he said, sipping the coffee with deep appreciation. “But they are confidential documents. I can’t let you have them without a warrant stating exactly what you are looking for, and since you aren’t a police officer I definitely can’t show you.”
“May I ask why you won’t let me?”
“The integrity of the firm is paramount. We deal with important clients and corporations that value our discretion.”
“I just need to look. That’s all. I don’t want to hand them to CNN.”
“I can’t. Not –”
“- without a warrant.”
“Yes. I do wish I could help more, after all Scott is a member of my firm and I do care about his welfare, but I can’t let you have access to Dyler and Westbrook files. We don’t even allow the partners to take them out of the office.”
“Maybe I should talk with Mr Westbrook then.”
“He’ll say the same, I assure you.”
The needle was stuck in the groove. He was being awkward for awkward’s sake. I reckoned Dyler could just as easily ignore the rules if he chose, but he was being awkward. It made me more interested in seeing the files. I would see them – with or without permission. But I didn’t press the point further. He wasn’t going to help, that’s all I knew. I thanked him for his assistance – if he caught my irony, he didn’t show it. I drank my coffee - what there was of it. I wondered if Dyler drank it in such small doses so he could watch his secretary come in and out wearing her tight clothing. Probably.
As I stood up, he said, “Look, I can tell I’ve offended you. I really don’t mean to. Here at Dyler and Westbrook we like to think of ourselves as a family. Scott is part of that family. I’ll see if David can assist you.”
“David?”
“David Freeman. He’s an associate. Very smart, though don’t tell him I said that – wouldn’t want his ego inflating. He’s working with Scott on some cases.”
“Which he can’t talk about?”
“Correct, but he may know something about Scott’s personal life. Maybe that will help? I wouldn’t want anything to have happened to Scott.”
“Neither would I.”
“He’s a huge asset to the firm.”
“And a good friend.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. A good friend.”
A security man escorted me back to the lobby, where I received a nasty look from Ross when I dared to sit down. David Freeman met me thirty seconds later. He moved towards me with confident strides and shook my hand with a powerful grip. He had a floppy brown hair parted in the middle, which he flipped back over his eyes every five or six seconds. He looked about eighteen, but since he was an associate, I guessed he was about 25. “Mr Dyler told me you think Scott is missing? What makes you think that?”
He talked fast like a hyperactive kid. Young lawyers were often like that – bursting with pep like puppies struggling to please the older dogs, bulldogs like Dyler.
“He’s not here, is he?”
“Point taken. He normally comes in at sevenish, but he didn’t today. I just assumed he was sleeping in late – as a junior partner he doesn’t have to work a hundred hours a week like me. But it is strange. Do you think something horrible has happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I saw him at lunch yesterday – he seemed fine - but what was he like in the afternoon?”
“The afternoon? Let’s think.” Freeman stared into space for a few seconds, grimacing and umming and aahing. “He did look a little distracted.”
“Distracted? How?”
“Like he was thinking about something else. But that’s not strange for Scott. Mr Taylor, I mean. He likes juggling more than one ball in the air at a time. Busy, busy, busy. He loves a challenge. He’s fun to work with because he works so many cases. I’ve been learning a lot. So have Alex and Melanie – they are the other associates sort of under his wing.” He paused, looking at me intently. “Say, you were the man outside yesterday?” I nodded. “Thought so – I knew I’d seen you somewhere. Got a memory for faces. You remind me of that guy in the mo- hey, that’s you. Michael Quinn. Wow. I’ve never met an actor before. That must be great.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You mentioned Alex and Melanie?”
“Yes. Maybe they know more? You could try asking them if they know anything. They get off at noon, usually go to the coffee house down the street. They do some great espresso there. I’ll tell them to meet you. Now, what was I saying about Mr Taylor?”
“His behaviour yesterday?”
“Yes, of course. Yesterday perhaps he was rather distant. He sent me to the research room for the whole afternoon. I think he wanted to be alone.”
“Any ideas why?”
He shrugged.
“What work was he doing?”
“I can’t discuss legal work – not if I want to keep my job. Sorry. But I’m sure his work wasn’t the problem. It seemed like he was having trouble at home or something.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just guessing. I mean, he loves his work. Absolutely dedicated.”
“Who did he see yesterday afternoon?”
“I honestly couldn’t say. I was busy in the research room most of the day, like I said. He went out.”
“Well, if you think of something …” I wrote down my telephone number and address. “Please call me.”
“Sure, sure. I will.”
The coffee house smelled of far away places, as if the coffee beans kept in glass display cases under the counter had trapped the essence of the lands from which they came. Alex and Melanie, the two associates, sat opposite me, reflecting my concern for Scott. The way they looked at each other made it obvious they were engaged in an office romance. They even looked uncannily alike – like siblings. They were not but I couldn’t help look for similarities. Alex had short dark hair and blue eyes and so did Melanie. They were the same height. Alex wore a light-grey suit. Melanie had a light-grey jacket and skirt. They sat with their left elbows on the table, left hands supporting their heads in the same position, thumbs on chins, fingers over their mouths. When Alex said something with a nod or head shake, Melanie mimicked the gesture, unaware of doing it. As an actor, I was trained to notice mannerisms. It was amusing to watch. I wondered if Dyler and Westbrook approved of employee relationships. I doubted it. They had to be hard workers then.
“David says Scott is missing,” Melanie said. “I can’t understand it. Can you, Alex?”
“No,” he said.
“Can you tell me if there’s any reason why he would disappear?”
Melanie shrugged, looking at Alex. He shru
gged, too.
They said together: “We can’t talk about the firm’s business.”
“I understand that. What I don’t understand is why? Why is the firm so secretive?”
“You don’t know the history?” Melanie asked.
“No.”
“The firm originally had three partners – “
“Dyler, Westbrook and Little,” Alex interrupted.
“Yes,” Melanie said. “They all met at Cape Mistral High. They were the best of friends, apparently. They all went to Harvard and attended the same classes. It was Dyler’s idea to start a practice together. So they set up a law firm in Cape Mistral -”
Alex added: “It was a sensible location for meeting millionaire yacht owners and rich bankers.”
“Anyway, Little got greedy. He left the firm after five years, taking seventy per cent of the clients with him. Dyler and Westbrook were left with mortgages to pay off on incomes they simply weren’t making. They nearly went bankrupt.”
“It was pure luck they survived,” Alex said. “Now Little owns the big firm right across the street from them. He hates Dyler and Westbrook just as much as they hate him. Stealing their clients is his hobby. He poaches them.”
“Nice guy.”
“That’s why Mr Dyler is so cautious,” Melanie said. Alex nodded. Melanie spoke in a whisper only the three of us could hear. “Mr Dyler’s a weird person. Paranoid. I don’t think anyone likes him. Mr Taylor warned us when we joined the firm that he took some getting used to. When Mr Taylor was just an associate, Dyler would sometimes watch over his shoulder - literally.”
“He does that with me whenever I Xerox anything,” Alex confirmed. “Sometimes I think he’s going to bite me, like a vampire.”
Melanie rubbed her neck, shuddering. “Mr Dyler doesn’t let associates do anything unsupervised when it comes to clients. He trusts the junior partners a little more. I kind of feel sorry for him, not trusting anyone. It’s all Little’s fault. To think he has an office right across the street! I would never work for a man like that.”
“Never,” Alex said. They smiled at each other.
“There’s still bad blood?” I asked.
Melanie laughed. “That’s an understatement.”
“That’s why he won’t help me?”
“Basically. He probably thinks you are after something.”
“Like what?”
“Information for Little.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“Told you he’s paranoid.”
Alex whispered: “Just don’t tell anyone what we’ve told you. Our jobs.”
“Our jobs,” Melanie repeated.
“Are safe with me,” I said. They relaxed. I got the impression they were too frightened of losing their jobs for saying the wrong thing. I would hate to work in that environment. I asked more questions about yesterday. They didn’t know where Scott had gone in the afternoon. They had been ‘busy’ in the research department. I thanked them and paid for the lunch against the protests. Before they left, Melanie visited the restroom. Alex waited until she was inside before asking for an autograph. Luckily, I carried some photographs. (I found it easier than signing napkins, shirt sleeves and scraps of paper.) He asked it to be signed “for Yasmine with love.”
“Yasmine?”
“My wife. It’s her birthday next week. She’ll love the surprise.” He drank the last of his coffee. “Please don’t mention this to Melanie. She wouldn’t understand.”
“They wouldn’t let you look in his office?” Fiona said, when I met her later at her house.
“Dyler was very adamant about it. You’d think it was the headquarters of the CIA, the way he acted.”
Fiona swore. “That’s lawyers for you.”
“You don’t like them?”
“I dislike the partners. One or two of the junior partners are okay. Some of the associates are okay, too. Scott had some associates around for dinner once a month. When they aren’t competing against each other, they can be good company. But at work? It’s a power game where the sharks survive longest.”
Dyler’s doctrine of client confidentiality was a brick wall I couldn’t climb over.
“Fiona, can I search Scott’s things?” I was thinking that maybe some of his clothes may have been taken, meaning he had gone away voluntarily.
“Do anything. He won’t mind. His private stuff is in the den.” She looked tired as she showed me to the door. Being awake all night had taken its toll on her health.
“Can you check to see if any clothes are missing?”
“Clothes … Do you think he ran out on me and the kids?”
My cheeks reddened. “No, but we need to check. When the sheriff pulls his finger out of his butt, he’ll ask. We might as well be certain beforehand.”
She did that while I searched the den. The room was filled with books on hundreds of subjects from physics to philosophy. He’d picked up the reading habit from his uncle, Vernon. It was organised in a disorganised way; Scott would have known where everything was with his eyes closed, but I didn’t. As I opened drawers and cabinets, I was aware of the family photographs all around the room like silent observers. When Scott had been in his den, pictures of Fiona and Amanda and Elizabeth had surrounded him. I could barely imagine the pleasure it was to have a young family to cherish, but I gained some inkling when I came across a drawer filled with his children’s drawings and writing books. He had kept them like precious jewels sealed in airtight plastic bags.
But nothing helped solve the mystery of where he was.
Fiona came into the room shaking her head. “None of his clothes are missing. Nothing’s been removed. His credit cards were in the dresser.”
She looked as if she’d been crying in their bedroom.
I wanted to reach out to her and take away her pain, but I knew the only person who could do that was gone.
Chapter 5
Yesterday, I’d promised myself I would see my friend Wayne Leary. Now I had a second reason to see him – perhaps he could tell me more about Scott. The Scud Hunter was anchored in the same place. It still looked deserted. I called out, but heard no reply. However, I could hear something deep in the bowels of the boat. A rumbling. I boarded it. “Wayne? You down there?” I listened. An almost continuous metallic banging came from below the deck. It sounded like a thrash metal band were warming up for a gig. I called out, louder. He had to hear me this time, I was sure.
“Hold on,” was the muffled answer. “Up in … seconds.”
“What? Can’t hear you.”
“I said I’d be up in five seconds.” Wayne slammed open a hatch and emerged in overalls black with grease. He held a wrench in both hands. His face was dirty except for around his eyes, where he’d been wearing goggles, which now rested on his forehead. He shook his short, sandy hair, showering dirty water and oil on the deck. His pale eyes narrowed as he looked at me with recognition.
“Hey,” I said. “Scott told me where to find you. Which is -”
He stepped towards me as if going to tackle me. I saw the dark tattoos on the backs of his wrists, snaking up his arms. “Michael goddamn Quinn. I thought you were too big for this town?”
It wasn’t how I wanted Wayne to react, but I couldn’t blame him. “I was acting stupid when I left. I’m sorry.”
“Scott should have told you not to waste your time. He may be a soft touch, but I’m not. Sorry is not good enough. You didn’t need us when your life was all peaches and cream. Now it sucks don’t expect it to start up where you choose because that time is long gone. Long gone.”
“Wayne –”
“Shut up. I thought we were buddies. You, me, Scott … only you shut us out. I’ve had some hard times, man. Times I needed friends. One time, I called LA. I could only get through to your agent. She said you’d call me back. You never did.”
“I don’t remember that. Honestly.”
“Yeah, well, I do.”
“I’m sorry.”
>
“Big deal. I don’t want to be your friend, hotshot. Go back to Tinseltown.”
“Let’s t-”
“NO! Get off my property right now.” He raised the wrench. I’d never seen such fury in him. He advanced, and I had to step backwards. “GET OFF! GET OFF! GET OFF!”
I held up my hands. “Okay, I’m going. Just know I want to set things straight any way I can.”
“Do it by leaving.”
He slammed the hatch behind him.
The noise began again.
I walked off in a daze.
Damn him. He hadn’t even let me tell him about Scott.
David Freeman was right about the espresso at the coffee house near the law office. It was delicious. I found myself going back for more as I wondered what I could do for Fiona. I was eating a sandwich at a quiet table when the lanky man came in.
“Michael Quinn! It’s great to see you’re back in town. I’m Douglas Clark. Remember me?”
The name meant nothing. But clearly he expected it to. He was wearing a light-grey Armani suit with a silk handkerchief hanging out of one pocket, folded perfectly like a serviette. “Uh – nice to see you, Don.”
“It’s Doug, not Don. You don’t remember me? We went to Cape Mistral High School in the same year. I was in your drama class. You played Othello; I played your understudy.”
“You’re that Doug?”
“The very same.”
He had been a skinny guy who wrote poetry and loved Shakespeare. He had been an enthusiastic actor, but had lacked self-confidence in front of a large audience. He had seemed a shy and lonely person, not quite fitting in. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m a reporter for the Tribune. I’m the feature editor. In fact, I’d love to interview you. I could do a feature on your life.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s not very exciting.”
“Nonsense. It’ll be great. May I sit down?”
I waved at a seat. He ordered a coffee and a bagel. I noticed how extremely bony he was. His Adam’s apple looked like an orange swallowed whole. “I’d like to contrast living here with living in Hollywood. It must have been tremendously interesting.” He pulled out a little tape-recorder and balanced it on the table. He switched it on. “It will only take a few minutes …”
