"If I remember correctly, Saint Paul's… I mean–"
"No, it's okay. That's not really pertinent," he apologizes. "I just have no other questions, I guess. I don't have a lot to go on."
"Listen, I just…" I start softly, tactfully. "I just want to help."
"I understand," he says.
Another long pause. He marks something down but it doesn't seem important.
"Anything else you can tell me about Owen?" he asks, sounding almost timid.
I think about it, then feebly announce, "We were both seven in 1969."
Kimball smiles. "So was I."
Pretending to be interested in the case, I ask, "Do you have any witnesses or fingerprints–"
He cuts me off, tiredly. "Well, there's a message on his answering machine saying he went to London."
"Well," I ask then, hopefully, "maybe he did, huh?"
"His girlfriend doesn't think so," Kimball says tonelessly.
Without even beginning to understand, I imagine, what a speck Paul Owen was in the overall enormity of things.
"But…" I stop. "Has anyone seen him in London?"
Kimball looks at his book, flips over a page and then, looking back at me, says, "Actually, yes."
"Hmmm," I say.
"Well, I've had a hard time getting an accurate verification," he admits. "A… Stephen Hughes says he saw him at a restaurant there, but I checked it out and what happened is, he mistook a Hubert Ainsworth for Paul, so…"
"Oh," I say.
"Do you remember where you were on the night of Paul's appearance?" He checks his book. "Which was on the twenty-fourth of June?"
"Gosh… I guess…" I think about it. "I was probably returning videotapes." I open my desk drawer, take out my datebook and looking through December announce, "I had a date with a girl named Veronica…" I'm completely lying, totally making this up.
"Wait," he says, confused, looking at his book. "That's . . not what I've got."
My thigh muscles tense. "What?"
"That's not the information I've received," he says.
"Well…" I'm suddenly confused and scared, the Nuprin bitter in my-stomach. "I… Wait… What information have you received?"
"Let's see…" He flips through his pad, finds something. "That you were with–"
"Wait." I laugh. "I could be wrong…" My spine feels damp.
"Well…" He stops. "When was the last time you were with Paul Owen?" he asks.
"We had" – oh my god, Bateman, think up something – "gone to a new musical that just opened, called… Oh Africa, Brave Africa." I gulp. "It was… a laugh riot… and that's about it. I think we had dinner at Orso's… no, Petaluma. No, Orso's."
I stop. "The… last time I physically saw him was… at an automated teller. I can't remember which… just one that was near, um, Nell's."
"But the night he disappeared?" Kimball asks.
"I'm not really sure," I say.
"I think maybe you've got your dates mixed up," he says, glancing at his book.
"But how?" I ask. "Where do you place Paul that night?"
"According to his datebook, and this was verified by his secretary, he had dinner with… Marcus Halberstam," he says.
"And?" I ask.
"I've questioned him."
"Marcus?"
"Yes. And he denies it," Kimball says. "Though at first he couldn't be sure."
"But Marcus denied it?"
"Yes."
"Well, does Marcus have an alibi?" I have a heightened receptivity to his answers now.
"Yes."
Pause.
"He does?" I ask. "You're sure?"
"I checked it out; " he says with an odd smile. "It's clean."
Pause.
"Now where were you?" He laughs.
I laugh too, though I'm not sure why. "Where was Marcus?" I'm almost giggling.
Kimball keeps smiling as he looks me over. "He wasn't with Paul Owen," he says enigmatically.
"So who was he with?" I'm laughing still, but I'm also very dizzy.
Kimball opens his book and for the first time gives me a slightly hostile look. "He was at Atlantis with Craig McDermott, Frederick Dibble, Harry Newman, George Butner and" – Kimball pauses, then looks up – "you."
In this office right now I am thinking about how long it would take a corpse to disintegrate right in this office. In this office these are the things I fantasize about while dreaming: Eating ribs at Red, Hot and Blue in Washington, D.C. If I should switch shampoos. What really is the best dry beer? Is Bill Robinson an overrated designer? What's wrong with IBM? Ultimate luxury. Is the term "playing hardball" an adverb? The fragile peace of Assisi. Electric light. The epitome of luxury. Of ultimate luxury. The bastard's wearing the same damn Armani linen suit I've got on. How easy it would be to scare the living wits out of this fucking guy. Kimball is utterly unaware of how truly vacant I am. There is no evidence of animate life in this office, yet still he takes notes. By the time you finish reading this sentence, a Boeing jetliner will take off or land somewhere in the world. I would like a Pilsner Urquell.
"Oh right," I say. "Of course… We had wanted Paul Owen to come," I say, nodding my head as if just realizing something. "But he said he had plans…" Then, lamely, "I guess I had dinner with Victoria the… following night."
"Listen, like I said, I was just hired by Meredith." He sighs, closing his book.
Tentatively, I ask, "Did you know that Meredith Powell is dating Brock Thompson?"
He shrugs, sighs. "I don't know about that. All I know is that Paul Owen owes her supposedly a lot of money."
"Oh?" I say, nodding. "Really?"
"Personally," he says, confiding, "I think the guy went a little nutso. Split town for a while. Maybe he did go to London. Sightseeing. Drinking. Whatever. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he'll turn up sooner or later."
I nod slowly, hoping to look suitably bewildered.
"Was he involved at all, do you think, in, say, occultism or Satan worship?" Kimball asks seriously.
"Er, what?"
"I know it sounds like a lame question but an New Jersey last month – I don't, know if you've heard about this, but a young stockbroker was recently arrested and charged with murdering a young Chicano girl and performing voodoo rituals with, well, various body parts–"
"Yikes!" I exclaim.
"And I mean…" He smiles sheepishly again. "Have you heard anything about this?"
"Did the guy deny doing it?" I ask, tingling.
"Right." Kimball nods.
"That was an interesting case," I manage to say.
"Even though the guy says he's innocent he still thinks he's Inca, the bird god, or something," Kimball says, scrunching his features up.
We both laugh out loud about this.
"No," I finally say. "Paul wasn't into that. He followed a balanced diet and–"
"Yeah, I know, and was into that whole Yale thing," Kimball finishes tiredly.
There is a long pause that, I think, might be the longest one so far.
"Have you consulted a psychic?" I ask.
"No." He shakes his head in a way that suggests he's considered it. Oh who cares?
"Had his apartment been burglarized?" I ask.
"No, it actually hadn't," he says. "Toiletries were missing. A suit was gone. So was some luggage. That's it."
"Do you suspect foul play?"
"Can't say," he says. "But like I told you, I wouldn't be surprised if he's just hiding out someplace."
"I mean no one's dealing with the homicide squad yet or anything, right?" I ask.
"No, not yet. As I said, we're not sure. But…" He stops, looks dejected. "Basically no one has seen or heard anything."
"That's so typical, isn't it?" I ask.
"It's just strange," he agrees, staring out the window, lost. "One day someone's walking around, going to work, alive, and then…" Kimball stops, fails to complete the sentence.
"Nothing," I sigh, nodding.
"People just… disappear," he says.
"The earth just opens up and swallows people," I say, somewhat sadly, checking my Rolex.