At the ground floor, I transferred to the garage elevator and waited alone as it silently descended three levels beneath the building until the doors opened into a cement cocoon. Fluorescent lights flickered against painted fuchsia wall graphics, creating a grotesque cheeriness. Motor oil and exhaust fumes blended into a toxic perfume.
I found my car and paid at the kiosk, but it wasn’t until I eased into traffic on Century Park East that I remembered that I hadn’t confirmed a time or place for my date with Eric. I didn’t want to ignore his invitation and hurt his feelings, especially since, for some reason, he’d seemed so needy with all his talk about relationships and taking the plunge.
I was about to call him on my cell phone when it finally sank in. I closed my eyes and almost clipped a Rolls Royce that was running a red light at Olympic Boulevard. How could I have been so stupid? His warm smile. His invitation for cocktails. I knew what it was. Eric had been trying to tell me something. He wanted me back.
9
me and Eric. Eric and me. Part of me said, why not? and part of me said, been there, done that. Eric and I had already given our relationship a chance. In fact, we’d given it several chances. We just hadn’t been able to make it work. He couldn’t make me fall in love with golf or opera or keeping the toilets in our condo Ty-D-Bol-ed, but I’d failed, too. Of course, I’d never try to make anybody fall in love with housework, but I could never interest him in learning tango or in laughing at the funny dialogue I made up and whispered in his ear during performances of Götterdämmerung. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Eric. What we had was rare and wonderful. It just wasn’t that snap-crackle-pop love that you needed to hold a marriage together. In the end, I decided to let the invitation for drinks slide and hoped he would, too.
It took me forty-five minutes to get from Century City to downtown L.A., but when I arrived at work just after eleven o’clock, everything was quiet. Eugene was away from his desk. Gordon was in a meeting. Just as well. I wasn’t anxious to tell him that I didn’t have the NeuroMed documents and that I didn’t have a clue where they might be. I checked my voice mail and was surprised to find a message from Mona Polk. I was curious to know why the doctor’s widow would be calling me, so I picked up the phone and dialed her number. A heavily accented female voice answered. I asked to speak to Mona Polk.
“She no here.”
“I’m returning her call. Can you take a message?”
“Sí, sí.”
I gave the woman my name and telephone number, but I had the feeling that she wasn’t writing it down.
“Could you read that back to me, please?” I said, doing my best to enunciate.
“Momento.” She clunked down the receiver.
Several momentos ticked by before a barely audible voice came on the line.
“Ms. Sinclair, thank you for calling. Sorry about the mix-up. Elsa was trying to screen some of my calls.” Her voice had a breathy, singsong quality to it that ran the risk of becoming irritating over time. She sounded like Marilyn Monroe singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“You left a message for my husband,” she continued. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother with his calls, but I don’t think he called you back. I thought I should explain about the delay.”
Delay? Was this woman a total banana-fish? Surely Detective Kleinman had been to see her. She had to know that her husband was dead.
“What kind of delay are we talking about here?” I said.
She didn’t respond right away, so I tried the old intimidation-through-silence trick that I’d learned from the good old boys of business: I kept my mouth shut and waited. There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation before she answered.
“He’s dead, you know.”
It was an offhand remark, as if she had just gotten home from the market and realized that she’d forgotten something on her grocery list. Like: “Oh, pooh! My husband is dead.” Maybe she was in shock, or maybe she just didn’t give a rip. I tried to think of an appropriate eulogy, but I was still mad at Polk and “your husband was a real character” didn’t seem to capture the moment.
“Yes, I heard,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“He was quite fond of you, you know. He thought the two of you were alike in many ways.”
It would have been more accurate if she’d said that Polk and I admired each other’s differences. Trying to fit the doctor and me into the same mold was like trying to squeeze a Sumo wrestler into size A panty hose.
There was a pause and a breathy sigh before she continued. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. I need your advice about what to do with NeuroMed.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be leaving next week for a job in the Netherlands,” I said, “but I’m sure one of our other consultants—”
“I promise I won’t take much of your time. Can you come to my house this afternoon?” She paused and then added, “Please.”
I’ll admit I wanted to find out what she was up to. Plus, talking to her might help fill in the blanks of Polk’s last days, as well as allow me to find out if the original NeuroMed documents were at the house. On the other hand, I couldn’t give Mona Polk free advice about NeuroMed without a signed contract. Gordon was a nice guy, but he didn’t encourage his consultants to be philanthropists.
“Let me discuss it with my boss,” I said. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”
She hesitated as if unsure of herself. “All right. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I hadn’t even replaced the receiver when Venus came rushing through the door. Her round face looked flushed amid the coils of her black hair. She had on a 1940s-style suit with out-to-here shoulder pads that she thought made her look less like a pear. She bypassed her usual chair and headed right to where I was sitting at my desk. Something was wrong with this picture. Then it registered. Venus never rushed.
“Why didn’t you call me back last night?” She sounded upset and out of breath.
“Your line was busy, and then I got distracted. Why?”
“Have you checked your e-mail this morning?”
My eyes narrowed as I studied her face. It looked stormy. “Venus, what’s going on?”
“Sometimes you try my patience, girl.” She pressed the power key and waited for the computer to boot up. “Open your Listserv.”
I opened the company’s bulletin board and scanned the list of employee memos. Venus impatiently reached over my shoulder and arrowed down to one entry entitled “Project Manager Announced.”
I read the message in stunned silence. It was an office news release announcing that Richard Hastings had been selected project manager for the Juliana Health Clinic and Spa chain, headquartered in Amsterdam. It went on to say that he’d be heading a team of five consultants that would blah, blah, blah. Not only was my name not listed as the project manager, it wasn’t listed at all. There was no explanation why this replaced a similar announcement released weeks ago, naming me as team leader. No reference to all the work that I’d already done on the project. I felt as if I’d been sucker punched.
Venus’s arms were crossed. She had a poisonous look on her face. “What’s Gordon up to?”
I took a deep breath and shushed it out. “I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.” I selected the Print command and waited for a hard copy to roll out of my HP.
“Has this got something to do with that doctor?” Venus asked.
It was possible, I thought. Gordon might have seen the article in the paper about Polk’s death, but why panic? He still didn’t know the NeuroMed file was missing.
“Maybe Hastings sent it to me as some kind of sick joke?” I said.
“Nuh-uh. I got one, too. Everybody did. Not even Hastings is stupid enough to do that.”
Covington had made it known he wanted Hastings to be partner. I wondered if the firm felt pressured to put him in charge of the Juliana project to please an important client. I understood why the partners might cave in to Covington�
��s demands, but I didn’t understand why they would keep that decision from me.
“Shit,” I said. “Eugene’s going to freak out. I have to find him.”
I rushed through the doorway, followed closely by Venus, but Eugene was back, quietly sitting at his desk, looking at a framed picture of his cat, Liza. A few seconds later, he put it into a cardboard box on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I asked cautiously.
He looked up. His lips were pressed in a straight line that he tried to pawn off as a smile.
“Packing,” he said. “I’ve been fired.”
“You’ve been what?” My words came out at a decibel level OSHA would have considered hazardous. “By whom?”
He shrugged and canted his head. “Harriet in Human Resources. They’re downsizing, and I didn’t make the cut.”
Venus raised her eyebrows. She sat on the edge of Eugene’s desk and reached for a chocolate Tootsie Pop in a treat jar that hadn’t yet made it into the packing box.
“You taking this brown baby?” she asked him. “Because if you want, I can take it off your hands.”
“Venus!” I warned. “We’re having a crisis here.”
“I know it’s a crisis, girl, but obladee, obladah.”
Eugene’s breath sounded ragged. The last thing I needed was for him to panic. I grabbed Liza’s picture and set it back on his desk.
“It’s a mistake,” I said. “I’ll fix it with Gordon.”
“Thanks, Tucker,” he said, “but it won’t do any good.”
“Don’t go anywhere, either of you.” I stomped into my office, grabbed the copy of the memo from my printer, and hurried back to Eugene’s desk. “Harriet can’t fire you. That’s my job.”
“Uh-oh,” Venus said. “She’s got that ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’ look in her eye.”
Eugene frowned and poked at Venus with a rolled-up copy of Martha Stewart Living until she finally moved her butt off his desk. Public safety issues made me question the wisdom of leaving the two of them alone, but I had to talk to Gordon—now.
I felt a little shaky as I walked down the hall to his office. Something was seriously wrong. The company wouldn’t be downsizing, especially with the prospect of getting that contract from Wade Covington. Plus, it was bad form to fire my administrative assistant behind my back. Even if Eugene wasn’t all mine now, everyone knew that he would be soon.
Look before you leap. There are two sides to every story. Two wrongs don’t make a right. All the old clichés ran through my head as I tried to keep myself calm, tried to convince myself that there was a logical explanation for all this. But no mantra could temper the overwhelming sense of fear and betrayal that squeezed my insides until they hurt. Not telling me that Eugene had been downsized might have been unintentional, but not telling me I’d been replaced on the Amsterdam project was deliberate. With every step, I hoped Pookie had been wrong, that Gordon Aames hadn’t turned against me. One thing was sure: Everything depended on how I handled myself now. The day wasn’t going well, but it was early, and I was sure that I could turn it into a complete disaster if I really tried.
10
you can’t go in there. He’s in conference.” I smiled and waved at Marsha as she rose from her chair. What was she going to do, throw her body across the threshold? She was devoted to Gordon, but not that devoted.
I flung open the door and saw Gordon huddled over some papers on the conference table. Sitting next to him was Richard Hastings, wearing a suit that reeked of the annual Barney’s airport hangar sale. Hastings was in his late thirties, fastidious, and terminally trendy. There wasn’t a single hair on his head that was out of place, not a visible hangnail or a sweaty-armpit stain. I suspected even his boxer shorts sported dry-cleaner creases. He looked so slick, it was amazing he didn’t slide off his chair.
Gordon’s shirt was open at the collar, his tie loose. I wasn’t sure, but it appeared as if his bald spot had grown wider since I’d last seen him. When he saw me, he turned the paper he was holding facedown on the pile.
“Tucker,” he said, sounding perfectly friendly. “I want to talk to you, but I’m in a meeting. Why don’t you wait outside?”
“I don’t think so, Gordon. And I think you know why.”
I held up the Amsterdam memo. He exchanged a look with Hastings, who, as he rose to leave, flashed me a little smirk that I wanted to rub off his face with a floor buffer.
“You’ve read your e-mail,” Gordon said. It was somewhere between a question and a statement. “I was going to explain this morning, but you weren’t in.”
“I’m here now.”
I sat at the conference table across from him and crossed my arms and my legs. I thought about my negative body language and crossed my fingers as well. Gordon buttoned his collar and tightened the tie. His skin looked sallow.
“First of all, let’s get something straight, Tucker.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You don’t have permission to come into my office unannounced. Ever.”
“Oh, but you have permission to fire my administrative assistant unannounced? Is that the deal?”
Gordon moved to his desk, placing the papers he’d taken from the conference table on his credenza, well out of my sight.
He sat in his chair, looking calm. “He wasn’t fired. We’re downsizing administrative staff, and he’s low man on the totem pole.”
I stared at him until he looked away.
“For a guy who taught me how to bullshit,” I said, “you’re a little rusty.”
He took off his glasses and wiped them with a little chamois he pulled from his desk drawer. “This won’t get us anywhere, Tucker. Let’s call a truce. The reason I wanted to talk to you was that I met with our attorneys last night.”
I searched my range of feelings for one that fit the occasion, and finally settled on baffled, hurt, and suspicious. “Without me? Why?”
Gordon put his glasses back on and began signing some letters, finishing off his signature with a big, round flourish surrounding his name.
“You were gone all day yesterday,” he said. “I couldn’t wait any longer, and when you didn’t come in this morning—”
His wimpy excuse irritated me. “Marsha told me nothing was scheduled. She had my cell phone number. No one called.”
“Things were happening too fast,” he said. “I had to move forward, contain this mess before someone got hurt. The attorneys say it doesn’t matter that we have Polk’s signature on all those documents. He can still claim you changed that report, with or without his permission. They’re worried we’ll be inundated with lawsuits unless we can negotiate with Whitener to end this whole mess. They’re working on that, but in the meantime they want you off the front lines.”
My chest felt tight; my throat constricted as I waved the memo in front of him. “The front lines being Amsterdam?”
“We’re making inroads into the European market. The Juliana is a high-profile project. The last thing we need is to trot you out during a criminal investigation.”
“There isn’t any criminal investigation.” My words came out angry. “There’s one threatening letter from somebody who made a bad decision and wants to be compensated for it.”
Gordon stacked the signed letters neatly and screwed the cap on the pen before laying it on the desk. “We have to be careful how we handle Whitener, especially now that Polk is dead.”
“I guess you read the article in the Times.”
“No. Wade Covington called me last night.” Gordon’s lips were pinched, his jaw tight. He seemed upset now but was keeping it under control. “He wasn’t exactly impressed with your smart-ass attitude when he saw you in Polk’s office. He hinted it might cause a problem getting that bid.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “How could he even suggest that?”
“He said you threatened to bring him into this whole Polk business with the police. He was upset, and frankly, so am I.”
An angry Wade Covington wasn’t good
news. I tried to remember what I’d said to make him that way, but all I could think of was that one little remark about scuba diving. Was he humor-impaired? It was a joke.
I took a deep breath to control my growing alarm. “He must have misunderstood. I’ll call him. I’ll smooth things over—”
“That’s exactly what you will not do,” Gordon said, his voice strained. “You will not speak to Wade Covington. And forget Polk. His death is unfortunate, but we have to move on. The guy probably changed those reports himself, just like you said. The lawyers think so, too. They want to position the firm as the innocent victim.”
I paused but maintained eye contact. “You keep talking about the firm. What about me?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, Tucker. The only thing I’m interested in right now is putting this Whitener business behind us and getting back into Covington’s good graces. After he called me, I polled the partners. They’re concerned.”
“I’m concerned, too. That’s why I want to—”
He stood abruptly, clearly agitated. “Obviously, I’m not getting through to you. The partners think you’re jeopardizing the firm. They want you out.”
The muscles in my face felt heavy, and my mouth wouldn’t close. Gordon’s words buzzed around my head for what seemed like an eternity, while my eyelids blinked their way into the Guinness Book of World Records. I looked at his face. It was thin and angular and not particularly handsome, but it was the face of a man who’d been both a teacher and a friend, and that made his hostility toward me even more jarring. When I found my voice, it seemed as if it belonged to someone else.
“Out? You mean out out. Like out of the firm? Is that why I won’t need an administrative assistant? The partners are firing me? You’re the boss, Gordon. What do you want?”
False Profits Page 9
