“Barry Bosco?”
“Very good. You are keeping your eyes open. Yes, Barry Bosco. He’s taken a rather personal interest in the murder of his inamorata. I don’t think his legal firm will be happy about this if it continues beyond the end of this month. He’s a clever lawyer and all, but no Greenspan or John J. Malone. You might do worse than trying to have a word with him yourself.”
“I’ll remember the suggestion.” The smile Rankin gave me was dismissive. His eyes returned to other things. Just to bug him, I said, “I read a paperback biography about Dermot Keogh over the weekend.”
“Enterprising. What did you think?”
“It was a fast job, not very good. Looked like it was a collection of write-ups and reviews from the papers.”
“That’s exactly what it was, Mr. Cooperman.”
“I’d give another thought about writing your own book on him.”
“Mind your business, Mr. Cooperman.”
Sally came out of the office to meet me when she smelled the aging victuals I was carrying.
“Your senses are in terrific tune. Good morning. I’m afraid that the Danish has become cold and soggy and the coffee cold with a cardboard aftertaste.”
“I’m well acquainted with both. Which are mine?”
“I was waylaid by Philip Rankin down the hall.”
“Yes, he poked his wobbly chin in here too. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. Music can’t win a bigger piece of Entertainment than it already has. Maybe it’s just habit.”
“Any further word from our chief?”
“She’s in La Jolla, meeting with Winkler from Warners.”
“I thought that Warners was in L.A.?”
“Right now, if you ask me, Warners is wherever Winkler is. He has a house on Camino de la Costa. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”
“You’ve tried out his pool?”
“No such luck. I remember typing the address on an envelope. But I can imagine the Pacific across the street whispering to them as they contemplate those three outstanding series that he has yet to deliver for our fall line-up.”
“Has Ted Thornhill been in touch with her?”
“Not yet. He’s still at the message-leaving stage.”
“So the department is still in one piece. The moving vans haven’t arrived.”
“As of this moment, but the day is young. Here, let me get you a napkin before you get cherry jam on your other cheek as well.” Sally jumped up and with a few wellchoreographed motions delivered a few paper napkins to my sticky fingers.
We munched in silence for a few minutes, during which time I gave her the once-over: her seams were straight, her eyes unlined, her makeup minimal. She’d had a good night, and Gordon was leaving her alone. Good. I hadn’t even thought of my black eye this morning. It must be doing well too.
“Sally, do you happen to know what Barry Bosco’s specialty is at Raymond Devlin’s office?”
“Mostly putting deals together, I think. He put together the Reliance Cable deal with Northeastern. He was in charge of the legal side of Global’s acquisition of anchorman Garth Walsh’s contract from CBS. Remember that? He was Mr. Devlin’s right hand in putting the Dermot Keogh Hall project together. He had to keep an eye on his boss, who is the executor of Keogh’s estate.”
“Ah, yes, as one of the senior executives in the big boardroom keeps saying, ‘Justice must not only be done but be seen to be done.’”
“Oh, him. He never saw any justice around here. And he was one of the founders. Anyway, these days it only must seem to be done.”
“Sally, is there any way of getting a peek at Dermot Keogh’s will? The Keogh Concert Hall is being set up under the will, isn’t it? Is there a copy around?”
“Sure. It’s attached to the file. I’ll put it on your desk. We only had to have the pertinent sections, but I think they sent the whole thing from-Oh, that reminds me, I have to send the matted copies of the contracts over to Devlin’s office by courier. Raymond Devlin likes his trophies framed.” Sally stretched to find a piece of pink paper on which she scribbled a note to herself.
“I can take care of that. I was on my way in that direction anyway,” I fibbed. “And I’ve been looking for an excuse to butt my nose in there.”
“Wear your sunglasses. All that chrome and glass is too much for the normal unprepared human eye.”
“I’ll remember. Barry Bosco is still handling the Dermot Keogh Hall stuff, right?” Sally nodded, and I said, “See you later.” I collected the wrapped bundle of matted contracts and put them under my arm. Downstairs, the security people were of two minds about whether I should be allowed to leave the premises with a parcel. While they were arguing, one of them remembered that it was time for an eleven-o’clock coffee break. I slipped out before they did.
* * *
The offices of Devlin and Devlin occupied a full floor and were situated in a tower that cast a long shadow over Bay Street. The green copper roof of the Old City Hall could be seen from the reception area, which also showed painted portraits of Mr. Charles Devlin and Mr. Raymond Devlin. The senior partner was pictured in vigorous middle age, wearing his gown and tabs. A notice on the wall beside the portrait told me additionally that he had been referred indefinitely to some higher court beyond the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court of Canada. Raymond Devlin, lucky stiff, was left with the whole shebang, aided and abetted by two dozen juniors who had not yet got their names insinuated into the partnership’s legal and official style and form. When I’d attracted the interest of the receptionist, I asked to see Mr. Bosco. I gave my name when asked and said that I was from Vanessa Moss’s office at NTC. When this information was repeated into the phone, I was requested to take a seat. I was on my way to do this when I caught my still-blackish eye in the chrome-and-glass space divider that shielded the entrance into the sancta that lay beyond. With very little movement on my part, I could change my reflection into a funhouse distortion of myself. I was occupied in this way when I was summoned into the inner chambers.
Barry Bosco sat behind a huge glass-topped desk and lent me five fingers without doing great damage to my right hand. It wasn’t a boneless handshake, but with work it could get there. My first impression of him was that he looked like a private schoolboy. It might have been the haircut, no clipper marks, and his rosy, unmarked face. He was tall, willowy even, with a big head that gave the impression of being concave. I tried to see where the impression came from: a big chin and a pronounced forehead without much nose to speak of. The eyes, partly hidden by round glasses, were blue. I couldn’t read them as either warm or icy, yet. He’d cultivated that. Naturally, he didn’t look anything like the Orillia photograph.
“I’m Ben Cooperman, working with Vanessa Moss at NTC,” I explained, as though the receptionist hadn’t already filled him in. I handed over the package with the signed contracts inside.
“That’s good of you to drop by with this. I could have got the messenger service.” Having said that, he now felt that he had to offer me coffee, which would lift my personal service out of the class of paid go-between. He tried to make small talk, but not with much skill. He examined his watch only once before the coffee arrived. “I hope you take your coffee unabridged. I didn’t think to ask if you’d prefer decaffeinated.” I assured him that I took my vices at full strength.
He asked about NTC’s plans for the official press conference and reception scheduled for Wednesday. I told him what I remembered and admitted that Vanessa was out of town.
“You’re Vanessa’s executive assistant, isn’t that right?”