Watching her bright and smiling morning face—open, innocent, trusting—Bill felt a quick constriction in his chest. How utterly vulnerable she was. How helpless. How dependent and needful of his care and protection.
He watched Ivy half turn at the big double doors, smile and wave him a kiss, then enter the school building. He waited a few seconds to make sure she was safely inside before giving the cabdriver his office address. Bill knew Hoover wouldn’t be there this morning. Now that he had made his move, had his foot in their door, his Sherlock Holmes days were over, Bill thought with a grim smile. Exit Hercule Poirot.
The cab skidded slightly as it took the sharp left down Fifty-seventh Street and barely missed sideswiping a standing bus. Bill hardly registered the event. His mind was on Hoover.
He’d talk to Harry. Harry would know. Harry was his link to all legal remedies. Meanwhile, there was one wheel he could put into motion: The part about Hoover’s child’s death occurring at the precise moment of Ivy’s birth could be checked out. Either Pittsburgh or Harrisburg newspapers would have covered the accident, if true, or the state police would have a report on file. He’d ask Darlene to start checking immediately.
By the time the cab deposited Bill outside the sterile black monolith that contained his office he was like a boxer waiting for the bell to sound—primed, tense, and ready for action.
The first punishing jolt occurred just outside his office when Don Goetz signaled to him from the opposite end of the hallway and slowly approached wearing the face of doom.
“Jack Belaver had a coronary last night,” he glumly informed Bill.
“How is he?” Bill stammered, quickly evaluating the myriad significances of this stunning piece of news.
“He’ll live, they say. But he’ll be out of action three months, at least.”
Jack Belaver was senior vice president at Simmons and handled its largest accounts, the most impressive being Carleton Industries, a diversified giant whose corporate fingers reached into every nook and cranny of the electronics industry. Its account represented a tidy two and a half million per annum to Simmons. Its yearly sales convention would start this coming Thursday on the beach at Waikiki. Jack Belaver played a key role in prepping and staging the sales show. Simmons could ill afford to lose Jack at this critical juncture.
“The old man would like to see you,” Don said in the same subdued voice.
Sure, Bill thought, knowing damn well why.
“Okay,” he said aloud, and entered his office, whereupon he received his second jolt of the morning.
Sitting at Darlene’s desk was a sec-temp replacement, a swarthy girl with stubby figure and eyes that were slightly crossed behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. Darlene, she told him nasally, was at home with the flu. Wow! He was really fielding them this morning.
Her name was Abby, and she couldn’t quite get the drift of what Bill was asking her to do—couldn’t understand what newspapers he wanted contacted and what accident he wanted verified.
Bill made legible notes on a yellow legal pad and hoped.
Stepping out of Pel Simmons’ office an hour later, Bill had the hunched-over, totally drained look of a man carrying a hod of bricks. Not only had Pel asked him to sub for Jack Belaver on the Hawaiian adventure, but he had instructed him to stop off in Seattle on the way back and look in on another of Jack’s accounts, DeVille Shipping, which was making funny noises of late.
“Sorry to load this on you, Bill, but with a backstop like Don, you’re the only man who’s sparable.”
“Sure, Pel,” Bill said. “I’ll plan to leave on Friday.”
“Make it Thursday. You’ll need the time there to brief up.”
Back in his own office, his message sheet told him that Hoover had called twice during his absence. Sinking wearily into the Eames recliner, Bill heaved a sigh of profound hopelessness and softly uttered, “Shit.” A box of paper clips was close at hand. Singly and with studied deliberation, he extracted them one by one and shied them across at the Motherwell, aiming at the black deltoid shape in the center. Of all the rotten luck. Of all the rotten times to be leaving town. How would he break the news to Janice? She was in semishock as it was. Oh, by the way, honey, I’m going to Hawaii for a week, how does that grab ya? Probably send her over the edge.…
Unless! Unless!
Yes, why the hell not? They’d all go. They could take Ivy out of school for a week and fly to Hawaii as a family. The trip would do them all good. He’d be on the company’s expense account. They could manage the rest of the money. It would, of course, be unique, a man in his position, taking his wife and child on a ball-buster of this kind, but hell! The alternative of leaving them alone and unguarded.…
His spirits buoyed by pleasant thoughts of sun, surf, and safety for all of them, Bill quickly rose and walked across to the Motherwell, reclaiming the paper clips scattered over the sofa and floor. When Abby stuck her head into the room, she found Bill down on his knees, picking “things” out of the carpet.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “but I flashed.…”
“What is it?” Bill said sternly.
“Mr. Hoover is on the line.”
“I’m at a meeting and won’t be back till late this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait,” Bill ordered, as she was about to duck out. “What about the Pittsburgh newspapers?”
“They’re checking. They’ll call back later, collect.”
“Okay. Call Mr. Harold Yates, that’s Y-A-T-E-S, you’ll find it in the Rolodex, and ask him if he’s free for lunch.”
“Yes, sir.” Abby gulped and disappeared.
Harry, as it turned out, was in court and wouldn’t be able to see Bill until three o’clock, please confirm. Bill did, then put in a call to Janice through the Des Artistes house line. Janice answered after a great number of rings, and Bill listened as Dominick announced him.
“Anything new there?” Bill asked.
“No,” Janice said.
“Any phone calls?”
“A couple, on the other line. But I didn’t answer them.”
“Good.”
Bill was about to tell her of their impending trip to Hawaii when Janice suddenly remembered: “A package came.”
“A what?”
“A package. Mario brought it up a few minutes after the mail. It was delivered by hand.”
“Well, what’s in it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.”
Bill paused a moment, then quietly asked, “Why not, Janice?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid.”
“All right.” Bill softly sighed. “Why don’t you open it now?”
“Just a minute.”
The light on Bill’s number two line flashed, then stopped, remaining alight, as Abby took the call at her desk. In a moment, it went dark. Hoover again, Bill surmised, knowing that Abby would hardly have hung up that quickly were it anyone else.
The sound of paper tearing preceded Janice’s voice. “It’s books. Four of them.”
“Who from?”
“I suppose from Mr. Hoover. They seem to be religious books. Very old. One is called The Annotated Koran. Then there’s the Upanishads—I don’t know if I’m pronouncing it right—A Modern Translation. There’s also a diary.”
“Is there a letter? A note or something?”
“There’s an envelope in Dialogues on Metem … psychosis, by J. G. von Herder.…” Again the sound of paper tearing as Janice opened the envelope. “It’s from Hoover, a list of page references for each book, handwritten and signed, ‘Sincerely yours, E. Hoover.’”