“Tell her my name. Michael Tree?”
His eyes narrowed. Something was registering inside the lightly freckled skull.
“I’m sorry,” he insisted, and he thought I didn’t see him reach under the desk and press something.
I leaned in, invading his space a little; he smelled at least as good as I did. “Would you do me one small favor? Give her my card before you turn me over to security, would you?”
And I handed him a nine millimeter bullet.
His blue eyes showed white all around as he regarded the object in his palm as if it were radioactive. “Is...is this supposed to be a joke?”
“Ask your boss,” I said. “Maybe she’ll explain it to you.”
He rose.
Gave me a pointing gesture that meant “stay put” —brave boy—and came around from behind his little L-shaped world and ducked in through a black, unmarked door, disappearing.
I went over to the door, open a crack, and listened. What I heard echoed a little, as if the man and woman speaking were on the other side of a lake.
“A woman out there insists on seeing you,” the secretary was saying. “I told her that’s impossible without an appointment. But she’s...”
A silken, almost purring alto responded: “You can’t handle a single unannounced visitor, Dennis? How are you earning those six figures again?”
“She seems sure you’ll want to see her—Michael Tree?”
Silence.
“And,” the redhead continued, “she said to give you her ‘card.’ ”
“Well?”
I smiled to myself as, on the other side of that door, the personal assistant was no doubt passing my bullet on to his boss.
“Droll,” she said. “Very droll.”
“I’ve already summoned security. Question is, should I call 911 as well?”
Like any other respectable company in a crisis would do....
“Hold security in your outer area when they arrive.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime...show her in.”
I returned to my position at the desk and allowed Dennis to come out and nod with a smile that even he didn’t believe. He ushered me just inside and discreetly exited, closing the door at my back.
Dominique Muerta’s inner office was three times the size of mine, though it had in common a certain masculinity in the dark-wood paneling and furnishings. The ceiling was high, stolen from the floor above, and the parquet floor seemed endless.
At my left was a massive fireplace with an elaborate gilt-framed oil painting of her late father looming over it and everything else, the tall, slender don standing with arms folded, very dignified, attired in a white suit and white tie—all that was lacking was the midget yelling, “Da plane! Da plane!”
To my right was a huge window onto the gray and blue landscape of the Chicago River and the buildings beyond. At the rear was a conference area not unlike my own, with couches and well-stuffed leather chairs (though these were white) around a coffee table, perched on another deco-design area rug.
Dominique Muerta herself sat behind a mahogany desk not unlike mine, but this one was about the size of a sideways BMW, with a flat screen and piles of papers and folders and printouts, not terribly neat, clearly the work area of someone with multiple irons in God-knew-how-many fires.
Impeccable in severe though stylish business attire—gray suit, black silk blouse, by some European designer whose work I could neither recognize nor afford—she was a beautiful woman, no question of it, slender and yet strong and so pretty that the mannish severity of her no-doubt-expensive short hairdo took nothing away. The thin lips were a bright red and the almond-shaped eyes were as richly, deeply mahogany as the desk, softened with a touch of lavender eye shadow.
“Michael Tree,” she said, and smiled as she rose.
I was moving toward her across the parquet floor, footsteps echoing a little, as she came around from behind the desk and met me halfway, extending a graceful hand.
As we shook, she said, “This is a long overdue meeting. We have so much in common.”
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
She gestured to the area of couches and chairs, and took me politely by the arm and walked me over. She did not offer to take, or have taken, my trenchcoat and I left it on, as well as my gloves, purse on its strap over my shoulder.
Indicating the glass coffee table, on which rested a bowl of bottled waters on ice, she said, “Sit, sit.... Cappuccino? Water?...I can have hot or iced tea or regular coffee or a soft drink—”
“No,” I said, sitting on the nearest couch. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”
Dominique sat on the white leather chair across the glass table. Her thin lips formed a razor-edge smile as she opened her hand to display the bullet in her palm.
“Interesting business card,” she said. An eyebrow arched. “Did you mean to scare me, or just get my attention?”
Dominique set the bullet on the coffee table, straight up, as if placing a miniature in a collector’s set. It made a little klik on the glass.
“When I want your attention,” I said with my own smile, “it’ll be traveling faster.”
Her face went blank—didn’t harden exactly. Just lost all expression.
Then she said, “There is no reason, Michael....May I call you Michael?”
“Why not?” I sat back, folded my arms, crossed my legs. “We have so much in common.”
“Michael,” she said, sitting forward, “we need not be adversaries. My late father...and your late husband...” She shrugged somberly. “...they’ve had their war.”
“And that war’s over?”
She nodded, once. “For some time.”
“Question is,” I said, “was my husband a casualty?”
She drew in a breath. Let it out slowly. “My understanding is that Mike Tree’s death was related to an arrest he’d made, once upon a time, of some...” She made a dismissive gesture. “...lowlife scum.”
I ignored that. “What relationship does Muerta Enterprises have—”
“Muerta Enterprises International,” she corrected gently.
“What relationship is there between Muerta Enterprises International and Addwatter Accounting Incorporated?”
She gave me a tiny shrug. “They’re the top firm in town. And we use them. Why, does that surprise you?”
“Did Richard Addwatter’s death ‘surprise’ you... Dominique?”
She shook her head sadly. “Terrible shock. I understand, from what I see in the media, that his wife is as much a victim in this tragedy as he is.”
I managed not to laugh. “Very insightful, Dominique. One never knows when some unexpected... event...out of left field? Can blindside you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t grasp your meaning, Michael.”
“My meaning...my point...is this.” I gestured rather grandly. “If behind all of this polished steel and glass is an entertainment conglomerate involved in corrupting our nation’s youth with hip hop and bad movies and stupid television shows, you and I are cool. No problem.”
“Really.”
I smiled on one side of my face. “If, on the other hand, the woman behind the curtain is peddling prostitution, illegal gambling, drug trafficking and other nasty criminal fun and games...you and I will tangle our pretty asses.”
My hostess’s expression and manner turned colder than the ice in the water-bottle bowl. She leaned forward and pushed a button on the underside of the coffee table.
“We’re done here,” she said. Not purring.
Dominique remained seated as I heard the door open behind me.
Two men—both over six feet, both well over two hundred pounds, and attired in identical sharp dark suits and ties, with short military haircuts—entered. The one in front had a round face with features too small for it, and his cohort had a square-ish head and ordinary features; together they made a peculiar geometry.