“Murder.”
“...Murder. In that time, we’ve accomplished so much.”
“ ‘Examine the past, understand it, then leave it behind...and move on.’ Great advice, Doctor. But as a detective I spend at least as much time in the past as in the present.”
“The nature of your business.”
“And yours.”
“And mine. Go ahead, Ms. Tree. Start wherever you like.”
“We’ll make it last week. That’s not really the beginning, Doc...more like the middle.” I glanced sideways at him. “I’m going to be jumping around some. Think you can keep up?”
“I think so.”
“Didn’t mean to patronize you, Doc. It’s just—you may have heard your share of wild things in this office in your time. But I’ll bet you double or nothing your bill that this is going to top ‘em all.”
“Ms. Tree, I believe you.”
“No bet?”
“No bet. Please. Begin.”
TWO
A year ago or so—about a month before his death—my husband Mike had moved the Tree Agency into new, nice, modern digs in a venerable, recently remodeled high-rise on Michigan Avenue that meant even our relatively modest space required a monthly king’s ransom.
This was probably what had my young partner, Dan Green, upset with me.
End of the workday, almost six, we both stepped out of our respective offices, which were side by side. He tagged along as I headed out, moving down the aisle between vacant cubicles, four on either side. Their inhabitants hadn’t gone home for the day—they didn’t have inhabitants.
Dan was edging up on thirty, blond and boyish with a wispy mustache that he thought made him look older (it didn’t) but only served to suggest he was gay (he wasn’t). He wore a brown-and-white pinstripe shirt, tan khakis, brown Italian loafers, and a look of consternation. I was in a gray wool Ralph Lauren blazer, cream-color silk blouse and black slacks and ankle boots, pretending not to notice how worked up he was.
“Look, Ms. Tree,” he was saying in his earnest second tenor, “we gotta make some changes. We’re stuck in the mud here and our wheels aren’t even turnin’.”
“Nicely put,” I said, making him work to keep up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but nicely put.”
He gestured to a nearby empty cubicle. “Look at these chairs with no asses in ‘em! You know what the boss had in mind—expansion! And what have you done about it? Nothing!”
I stopped abruptly, which threw Dan a little, as he kept going for a second, before backing up to face me and regain his composure.
My arms were folded, my head tilted, just a little, my eyes not blinking. “Current caseload is easily covered by our staff of three. If anything, we should be seeking smaller quarters...and I’m the boss.”
He huffed a sigh. “Our ‘staff of three’ includes Bea, who’s just a glorified goddamn receptionist!...No offense, Bea.”
Bea, up at her reception desk, a sexy sentry in a V-neck blue-and-white polka-dot dress, glanced back at us with a blank expression that spoke volumes. “None taken.”
About twenty-six, Asian, and as cute as a box of kittens, Bea Vang had formerly been on the Chicago PD, four years, and was now a licensed private investigator herself.
Dan gave Bea a strained smile, then returned his gaze to me, frowning. “When you took over after Mike’s murder? No P.I. in this town ever got better media than you did. No P.I. anywhere ever did. And the agency got a boost.”
“Yeah,” I said dryly. “Great career move on my husband’s part.”
“All I’m saying is, we need to step up our staff. We haven’t even replaced Roger yet.”
“Haven’t needed to.”
“No, because we haven’t done what Mike intended, maximize what we’re up to. But all you wanna take on are lost causes and unsolved murder cases.”
I shrugged. “Media loves it.”
“Well, I don’t. Particularly since we aren’t taking advantage of any of this good publicity. We need paying cases, Ms. Tree, and more of ‘em. Domestics are the bread and butter of any—”
I shook my head. “No divorce work. It’s undignified.”
“So is standing in the government cheese line!... You know how we ought to fill Roger Freemont’s old office?”
“No. How.”
“With Roger Freemont. You need to call him.”
“That prick?” I started walking again. “Not in this lifetime.”
He tagged along. “He was Mike’s partner, too.”
“The bastard quit. When we needed him most.”
Dan’s hand found my arm—not roughly, but enough to stop me. I gave him a look, which should have withered him, but didn’t.
“Kiss and make up with him, boss.” He let go of my arm but his eyes held onto mine. “We can use Roger—he has smarts and contacts and can generate business.”
I drew in a breath. I let it out.
Dan sighed. “Just think about it, okay?...Anything else for me today?”
“No.”
“Okay then. See you tomorrow.”
He stopped by the door to get his dark-brown leather jacket from the closet, slipped it on and took one last look back my way and repeated, “Just think about it,” and went out.
I was next to Bea at her reception desk now. “What do you think? Is he right?”
Her big brown eyes gazed up at me. “Yeah, he is.”
“Really?”
“I am pretty much a glorified receptionist....Why do I have a license-to-carry again?”
I didn’t answer her, thoughts generated by Dan’s complaints leaving no room for hers.
So she gave it up, asking, “You want your messages? A couple of people have been trying pretty hard to get you.”
“They’ll keep till tomorrow. Night, Bea.”
“Good night, Ms. Tree.”
I took my dark blue trenchcoat from the closet and, juggling with my purse, slipped it on and slipped on out.
I’d barely exited when I all but bumped into Bernie Levine, our attorney, a dark-haired, sharp-eyed little man in a tailored black suit and a silver silk tie, a combo that hadn’t cost him any more than our monthly office rent.
“Ms. Tree! Thank God I caught you.”
Normally Bernie is so low-key and self-composed as to be invisible. But right now he was on edge—that was plain in his expression of wild-eyed relief.
“Well, I’m flattered, Bernie. But haven’t you heard of cell phones? Big breakthrough.”
“I’ve been trying yours. And I left half a dozen messages with your receptionist.”
“Damn. Sorry. Turned off my cell during a meeting, forgot to turn it back on, and I’m afraid I just blew my messages off—do we need to step back inside?”
“No, no time for that. You come with me and I’ll explain.”
I shrugged, gave myself over to Bernie’s urgency.
Bernard A. Levine was a man I rarely said no to—as the town’s preeminent criminal attorney, he provided the Tree Agency a good share of its clients and, on occasion, defended our actions, in his service and our own.
Soon I was in the rider’s seat of Bernie’s silver Mercedes, watching my lawyer friend sit forward as if he’d woken up to find himself in the midst of a NASCAR race, not in paralyzed rush hour traffic in the Loop. This time of year, darkness descended around four-thirty and it might well have been mid-night—which, as long and hard as my day had been, was exactly what it felt like.