I shifted in my chair. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got Bea out working on Holly Jackson’s background? There’s a temp coming in, a little blonde named Effie Something, to handle reception and secretarial. Make her feel at home, would you?...but not too at home.”
“Holly Jackson?”
“She’s the other murder victim, remember? The hooker in the motel room.”
Dan grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, don’t I feel right on top of this case about now.”
I waved it off. “It’s all right. We each need to focus on a specific area, and Bea’s been begging to get out into the field.”
“Great. She’s smart and has solid police credentials. But, Ms. Tree, she’s no Roger.”
“What I want you to do,” I said, getting up, “is hit your computer, see how many of these murders and accidents can be directly, or even indirectly, linked to Muerta Enterprises.”
Exasperated, Dan rose as well, saying, “Ms. Tree, Roger’s forgotten more about the Muertas than anybody else on this planet ever knew, us included, and—”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Dan seemed about to press on with his argument when my words finally registered and he smiled in pleasant surprise.
I gave him a schoolmarm’s pointing finger. “Get right on top of how many unfortunate ‘events’ benefited the Muertas...capeesh?”
“Capeesh!”
Chipper, Dan headed past me.
“That’s what I like about bein’ a 21st Century P.I.,” he was saying. “Ten years ago, shoe leather. Today—Google.”
“Refresh my memory, Ms. Tree,” the psychiatrist said. “This Roger—that’s Roger Freemont, your husband’s other partner?”
“That’s right,” I said. “He was Mike’s partner on the PD for a while, and one of the original partners in the Tree Agency.”
“And he’s the one who...”
“Who left the business when I took over. Yes.”
The pen scratched on paper. “I see.”
“Roger was Mike’s sarge back in Desert Storm days.”
“Yes. I recall.”
I glanced over at him. “...It hit the fan that very first Monday, after Mike’s murder....”
That was my first time seated behind Mike’s desk.
In retrospect, I wondered if that hadn’t added fuel to the fire. The day outside the window at my back was overcast, and Roger’s mood was surly.
He and Dan were seated in the clients’ chairs opposite. Bald, bespectacled Roger was in a black suit with a white shirt and a dark blue tie; he might have been a funeral director. Dan was in shades of tan from sportcoat to shirt-and-tie to shoes, as if he wanted to blend into the woodwork in this overtly masculine office.
Roger was saying, “All due respect, Mrs. Tree—”
“I prefer ‘Ms.,’ ” I said.
His eyes widened. “You choose some silly feminist, what? Affectation? Over honoring your husband?”
“No. I like the pun. Ms. Tree—mystery. Get it?”
“Cute,” Roger said, with a tiny sneer. “Almost as cute as your way of mourning. Body isn’t even cold and you’re already in Mike’s chair.”
“Well, the chair’s still warm.” My stare was pointed. “Roger, what is your problem? Besides your not liking me, and me being a dickless dick, that is.”
He shook his head. “Not a matter of liking. And I couldn’t care less what you pack between your legs. Point is, I’m a full partner in this business—one third Mike, one third Dan, one third you....”
But Dan surprised me and popped out of the woodwork to say, “Your math sucks, Roge. Ms. Tree here is also a full partner—twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five. Which with the old boss dead and his wife inheriting? Adds up to fifty percent new boss.”
I wasn’t sure I was reading Dan right. I got his eyes and asked, “Any problem with how that totals up?”
Dan shifted in his chair and sat forward. He wasn’t quite smiling. “No. You’re smart and attractive—you’ll put a great face on this business, grieving widow stepping in for her murdered husband.”
Roger, astounded, stared at the younger detective. “Is that all it is to you, Danny? Business?”
Dan shrugged. “You’re the one talking partners and percentages, Roge.”
I said, “Dan’s correct, Roger—I do hold fifty percent of this agency. You want me to buy you out, I’ll make the arrangements.”
His face stone, Roger said, “Do it then.”
I leaned forward and tried to take anything adversarial out of my tone and my expression. “Roger, I’m not asking you to leave.”
He grunted and his sneer was full-blown now. “And I’m not asking your goddamn permission. I’m senior partner here.”
Dan was giving Roger an offended sideways look. “We all started the same day, Roge.”
Roger, clearly disappointed in his young partner, leaned toward him and said, “Age and experience matter, Danny boy. Ought to, anyway.” Then his gaze swung to me. “If you vacate that chair, and turn it over to me...Miz Tree...then, well, no hard feelings.”
Coolly, I said, “The name on the door is Michael Tree.”
He snorted a laugh. “Real cute.”
He rose.
And said, “I got no desire to work for a glorified meter maid....” He paused on the way out to say, “You’ll hear from my attorney.”
He slammed the door.
Dan gave me a half-smile as he said, “Well, Roger can be kind of a prick sometimes.”
“Didn’t notice,” I said.
Then Dan’s expression turned serious as he said, “Still, that’s a bad loss, Ms. Tree. A lot of experience and knowledge just walked out that door. He’s a better a detective than either of us.”
“Point’s moot,” I said. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Something about that little scene nagged at me, Doc.”
“How so?”
“True, I’d never really gotten along all that great with Roger, but this...this seemed over the top.”
“In what way?”
“It just seemed...calculated. Even staged. I mean, looking back on it, the whole...’I’m not working for a woman’ chauvinist pig routine...I just couldn’t buy it.”
“Is that why, on the Addwatter matter, you gave in to Mr. Green, and said you would at least talk to Mr. Freemont about this particular case?”
“Yes. For a whole year, it had been bothering me, and I felt I should’ve confronted Freemont about these feelings a long time ago. Going to see him was overdue.”
The Axminster Building on Van Buren was a survivor, many of its era having been long since demolished.
The floor I walked down—past offices of wood-framed pebbled glass, my heels echoing like gunshots off black-and-white speckled marble—reminded me of everything from childhood visits to dentists and doctors to adult calls on insurance agencies and travel bureaus. Only one out of perhaps four offices was filled here on the seventh floor, so the building was in its death throes, the wrecker ball’s shadow looming.
The frosted glass said:
SUITE 714
FREEMONT INVESTIGATIONS ROGER FREEMONT, PRES. APPOINTMENT ONLY
I wasn’t down in his book, but what the hell—he probably wouldn’t have agreed to see me, anyway. I went on in.