Which was magnificent. Deep oak library paneling on all walls. Furniture that retained the rich hues of the woodwork. Snuffboxes, porcelain figurines, and other European objets d’art were scattered throughout the office. Tasteful framed paintings, mostly Old Master-style oils, lined the wall above Sanguine’s desk. The adjoining wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling. All hardback, mostly leather-bound volumes. The man who worked in this office was either a cultural connoisseur of the highest order, or wanted others to believe he was.
In one corner, on the bottom shelf of a cabinet to the left of Sanguine’s desk, Ben spotted a display of Native American artifacts. Kachina dolls, tom-toms, turquoise jewelry. A tribute to his ancestry? Ben wondered. A tribute tucked away in a quiet corner in a room otherwise devoted to a celebration of European excellence. A curious man.
Sanguine was poring over a stack of papers on his desk. Ben made a quiet, coughing noise. Sanguine looked up.
“Ah, Ben, you’re here.” He stood and extended his hand. “I didn’t hear you come in. I get absorbed in the work sometimes.” Discounting the noisy hubbub of the Raven party, Ben was hearing Sanguine’s voice for the first time. It was a voice like still water, steady, even, strong, and without predictable inflection.
Sanguine gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “I was examining a new franchise contract.”
Fascinating, Ben thought. “I see,” he said.
Sanguine sat in his chair and leaned back comfortably. “So what can I do for you? Let me tell you up front, Ben, anything I can do to help out … Jonathan’s widow, I’m going to do. Jonathan was a loyal, hard-working executive who helped build this operation from the ground up and, to be frank, I admired him. What’s more, I respected him, and I believe he respected me. I wish I had more like Jonathan.”
Ben watched the man as he talked. There was something slightly askew, something about the man, and his office, and the whole situation. Something didn’t seem right, even more than Sanguine’s not remembering Bertha’s name.
“Well, Mr. Sanguine,” Ben said, clearing his throat, “as you know, I was asked to help Adams with his attempted adoption of the foundling girl, Emily. In fact, I interviewed him on the day he was killed.”
“Yes. It’s a tragedy. An honest-to-God tragedy.”
Ben continued his story. He told Sanguine about the interview and explained why he thought it was important to find Emily’s parents, if possible.
“I’m convinced that this adoption matter and the murder are connected in some bizarre way,” Ben concluded. “Adams intimated that he might be able to find Emily’s parents. It was very important to him. I don’t think he would have done anything else until he accomplished whatever it was he planned to do. And I don’t think he would have finished that without talking to me.”
Sanguine remained silent throughout Ben’s narrative. Silent face, steady eyes, still water. “The only thing I don’t understand, Ben,” he said, his fingers pressed against one another, “is what I can do.”
“Do you have any idea what Mr. Adams was going to do?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Let me call someone in.” He pushed a button on his desk telephone. “Darryl, could you step in for a moment?”
A moment later, a middle-sized man, balding, with thinning black hair on either side of his head, stepped obediently into the office. “You wanted to see me, Joe?”
“Yes, I did. Benjamin Kincaid, this is Darryl Tidwell, my personal secretary. Vice versa.” They shook hands. Tidwell wore an apricot shirt with a muted floral tie. Ben judged him to be in his late forties or early fifties.
“Darryl is also my vice president in charge of management and all-around right-hand man. I hate to admit it, but I just don’t have time to pay attention to all the minor details anymore. I have to focus on the big picture, and I’m lucky if I have time to do that. That’s where Darryl comes in: He’s the detail man.”
Sanguine briefed Tidwell on their conversation in short, clipped sentences. “Do you have any idea what Jonathan might have been referring to, Darryl?”
“I can’t imagine,” he answered. He tapped his clipboard against his free hand. “We talked quite often. I knew about his finding that little girl. In fact, when he told me he was worried about the DHS hearing, I came to Joe and asked if we couldn’t get someone in legal working on this.”
“We like to help out our employees whenever we can,” Sanguine interjected. “After all, if you can’t help some people along the way, what’s the point of it all?” He waved his hand across his office, as if offering a definition of it all.
Tidwell continued. “But I never heard anything that indicated that John knew who the kid’s parents were. Quite the opposite, in fact. If he knew something, I think he would have told me.”
Sanguine checked his watch. “I’m sorry to rush this along, Ben, but I have to take White Lightning—that’s my Lear—to Dallas right away. Big powwow at the Southwestern division office.”
“Well, I don’t have much else to ask,” Ben said. “I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.”
“Not at all.”
Ben rose to his feet. “One other thing, Mr. Sanguine. Do you suppose I could look through Mr. Adams’s office? I know it seems unlikely, but who knows, I might find something that would give us a clue to what happened.”
Sanguine took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Well, I don’t think we can allow that, Ben, as I’m sure you’ll understand. For one thing, the police have already sent a man to search the office, and afterward, he sealed it up. You know, locked the door and stretched that yellow tape across it. I don’t think they want anyone disturbing things in there. Furthermore, his poor widow hasn’t had a chance to go through his effects yet, and I think she ought to have the first go at it, don’t you? Could be belongings of a personal nature there, who knows?”
He walked around the desk and patted Ben on the shoulder. “If we do hear anything or find anything that could be of use to you, though, we’ll let you know, won’t we, Darryl?”
“You bet.”
“Of course we will. Now, I’ve got a jet to catch. Darryl, would you see this conscientious young man out?”
Ben and Tidwell walked down the hallway toward the elevator. “He’ll be back from Dallas tomorrow morning,” Tidwell said. “It’s a much more important meeting than he let on, so if he seems preoccupied …” He let the sentence trail off, then changed the subject. “So, you’re really a lawyer?”
“Yup. Really. Got a diploma and everything.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest … It’s just that you look so young. Hey, here’s a joke for you. What do you need when you’ve got a lawyer up to his neck in sand?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said, suppressing a sigh. “What?”
“More sand!” Tidwell laughed heartily at his own joke. “Pretty good, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’ve got more. Why don’t sharks attack lawyers?”
“I give up. Why?”
“Professional courtesy.” He erupted into laughter again.
Ben realized that he didn’t even know what his hourly billing rate was, but whatever it was, he was going to double it for time spent listening to lawyer jokes.
Tidwell wiped his eyes. “Oh, wow. Those are great. Hey, I hope you don’t take it personally.”
“Of course not.”
They reached the elevator. Ben punched the button and, after a moment, stepped inside.
“Let me assure, you, Ben, if I find out anything that might assist you in this adoption matter, I won’t hesitate a second before calling you.”