James Keverne was still out to lunch, even though it was after two o’clock. Feasting with his secretary, maybe; the only person in his office was a harried-looking paralegal. Yes, he was due back at some point, but she wasn’t sure just when. Yes, she would give him my card and ask him to call me as soon as it was convenient. Yes, she would tell him it concerned a client of his and a two-year-old restraining order.
I drove from his office to mine. Three messages: Joe DeFalco, one of Dean Purchase’s secretaries, Barney Rivera. DeFalco wanted to know how things were going with Kay Runyon; and why didn’t we get together for a drink tonight, he had a funny story to tell me about Eberhardt. To hell with him and to hell with his funny story. Purchase’s secretary said Mr. Purchase would be free from 3:45 to 4:00 this afternoon and would see me then in his office; if that was convenient, would I please call back to confirm? I thought about it, asking myself again if I really needed to talk to Dean Purchase. The answer was the same as before. After all, he was willing to give me fifteen minutes of his valuable time, wasn’t he? I called his secretary back and confirmed.
Barney Rivera is Great Western Insurance’s chief claims adjustor and, like DeFalco, an old poker buddy. When a job comes up that requires investigative work, Barney as often as not calls me first — Great Western, as is the case with most small insurance companies, doesn’t have enough need or funds to employ a staff investigator. I called him as soon as I was done with Purchase’s secretary. When Barney dangles a bone you take it quick; his bosses demand fast service and there were any number of other free-lance detectives waiting in line to give it to them. Eberhardt, for one.
The job he had to offer was routine: A married couple wanted to insure each other’s life for $250,000, with a double-indemnity clause for accidental death, and Great Western wanted to make sure there were no ulterior motives involved before they sold the policy. I said I’d handle it and Barney gave me the particulars. Then he said, “You been burning the midnight oil lately, huh? Lot of night work?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Neglecting Kerry, though, right?”
“She’s the one neglecting me,” I said.
“Yeah? Been doing a lot of night work herself, has she?”
“Now that she’s creative director at Bates and Carpenter.”
“Some night work’s more creative than other kinds.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I ought to know,” he said slyly. “Night work’s my specialty.”
“You going to start bragging again?” Rivera is a roly-poly little bugger with a passion for peppermints and an inexplicable attraction for the maternal type of woman. He seldom lacks for female companionship; to hear him tell it he’s the Warren Beatty of the insurance racket. “It’s too early in the day for tales of lust and perversion.”
“You think so? Well, I happened to be squiring a sweet young thing last night and she’s the kind that likes to be plied with dinner, drinks, and a little nightlife before she’s ready to do the nasty. One of the places we stopped in was Henry the Eighth’s, over on Clay, about ten o’clock.”
“So?”
“Who did I see there but your lady love.”
“So?”
“She wasn’t alone. She was with a gentleman.”
Barney has his share of faults and one of them is a mildly sadistic sense of humor. One of the other regulars at our monthly poker game had dubbed him Barney the Needle. “I repeat — so?”
“Doesn’t bother you, huh?”
“Why should it? She was with one of her clients.”
“Didn’t look like a business meeting to me. Looked like hanky-panky. They were snuggled up in a booth, drinking wine and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes.”
“Oh, Christ, Barney, cut it out, will you?”
“Saw her kiss him once, right on the mouth,” he said. “Now that’s what I call creative directing.”
He’d succeeded in rankling me. “All right, that’s enough.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“I think you’re full of crap, that’s what I think.”
“Could be, but I saw what I saw. And she didn’t see me. Too busy with the, ah, client.”
“Shut up, Barney.”
“You want to know what he looked like?”
“No. I told you—”
“About her age, handsome, little silver at the temples. Complete opposite of you. Slender, for one thing. Well dressed, for another — the GQ type.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Trouble in paradise, paisan’?”
I hung up on him. Sat there for about ten seconds, not thinking anything, not feeling anything. Then I said, “Bullshit,” aloud. And picked up the receiver again and called Bates and Carpenter. Usually I put my calls there through the switchboard and Kerry’s secretary, so as not to disturb her if she’s busy; this time I rang her private number.
She was in and she was busy; she sounded as frazzled and preoccupied as she had yesterday. “You caught me at a bad time,” she said. “I’ll call you back a little later—”
“I won’t keep you long, babe,” I said. “I just wanted to know if we can get together tonight. I really need to see you.”
“Oh...” And a little silence. And: “Not tonight. I just can’t. I’ve got to do some more work on the Blessing account.”
“That the account you were working on last night?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Granny’s Bakeries?”
“I passed the buck. It was either that or shove Granny Bridger out a window.”
“How late did you work?”
“Until about ten.”
“Missed your pro-choice meeting, then.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do after you left the office?”
“What do you think? I went straight home to bed.”
“Kerry, listen—”
“I really do have to go,” she said. “Talk to you later, okay?”
And she was gone and I sat there, holding the dead phone, listening to the after-echoes of her voice and to the dull, heavy beat of my heart.
Chapter 10
Not Kerry, damn it. Not Kerry!
I didn’t want to believe it... and yet she’d lied to me. She wasn’t a liar, hadn’t once told me an untruth in all the years we’d been together; I was sure of that. Our relationship was built on trust as well as love. So why should she lie to me now unless she had something to hide, something like an affair with another man?
Barney Rivera wasn’t a liar either. A bastard with a malicious streak, but not a liar. If he said he’d seen her with a man at Henry the Eighth’s at ten o’clock last night, then he’d seen her. If he said they’d been snuggling in a booth, drinking wine and gazing into each other’s eyes, then they had been. If he said Kerry had kissed the man on the mouth, then she had.
Trouble in paradise, paisan’?
I slammed my fist down on the desk, did it again — hard blows that made things jump and run and tumble to the floor. The ceramic mug of Jimmy Carter that I kept my pens and pencils in shattered. My hand began to sting, to hurt all the way up to the elbow; I stared at the red mark along the edge of my palm.
And the anger went out of me as suddenly as it had come, was replaced by a dull anxiety.
Stupid, hitting the desk that way. What if I’d broken my damn hand along with Jimmy Carter? I got down on my knees and picked up the shards and the pens and pencils and other items I’d dislodged. Shards into the wastebasket, other stuff back on the desktop.