Brian Haig - PrivateSector

He glanced up. “Oh… it’s you.”

“I thought I’d stop by and say no hard feelings.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“My sentiments exactly.” We exchanged brief yet meaningful glances of mutual hatred. “Cy told you I’m back with the firm?”

“He told me.”

“That all the charges have been dropped?”

“I heard.”

“That I’m allowed to roam the halls at will, turn on computers, and so on?”

“I heard. And I’ll be watching you, Drummond.”

And I’ll be watching you, too. I leaned against his desk. “Hey, Hal, a question I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you recall my friend Lisa Morrow?”

“What about her?”

“Well, I have this really oddball theory that-oh, hell, you don’t want to hear it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, okay. I know this going to sound funny… weird, really. .. but, okay, here it is. I think her murder had to do with her work here.”

“You’re so full of shit. Try listening to the news. That serial killer got her.”

I leaned closer. “See, Hal, what I think is that the serial killer is a phony. He’s actually a hit man sent to get Lisa.”

He looked me dead in the eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“I didn’t even know her,” he insisted. But his piggy eyes did get a little piggier.

“But she knew you.”

“It’s a big firm, Drummond. Are you accusing me of something?”

I chuckled. “Gee… Hal, you’re a hard guy to have a friendly chat with.”

“Think you’re a smart guy, don’t you?”

“It is a heavy burden having an IQ of 200. Am I letting it show?”

“You done, Drummond?”

“Definitely not with you.”

I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked out. The two guys in the outer office were still staring into their computer monitors as I passed.

I got a cup of coffee and then returned to my luxurious office. In fact, I had just flipped on my computer when there was a light knock. Sally Westin stuck her head in, saying, “I hope I’m not bothering you. Elizabeth told me you came in.”

“Not at all. How are you doing?”

“Fine.” She smiled and entered. “Tired and overworked.”

“The wages of sin.”

She shuffled her feet. “Uh, Barry asked me to stop by as soon as you got in.” She held up a black notebook and added, “The Morris Networks audit… your signature…”

She walked across the floor and laid the notebook in front of me. I flipped it open and reached into my pocket for a pen.

Sally said, “We’ve been hearing disturbing rumors.”

“Nasty ones, I hope.”

“Something about you assaulting Barry, or Barry assaulting you?”

“Ridiculous. We’re thinking of getting married. Anything else?”

“That you were having problems with the audit.”

“More nonsense. It was such fun, I just signed up for a CPA night course.”

“I mean, the accuracy of the audit. You’re sure you’re okay with it?”

“Would I sign it if I wasn’t?”

She pulled up a chair and asked, “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” A moment passed, then she said, “Listen, Sean, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

I finished signing the audit and glanced up. Sally looked like crap-saddlebags under her eyes, droopy-lidded, limp-haired. Excessive ambition is hard to hide, even with makeup.

“What makes you think that?”

“I know you think I’m stuffy, driven, and uptight.”

“You?” I smiled and she smiled back. I suggested, “You know, you might give thought to maybe jumping naked out of a cake at the firm Christmas party.”

She chuckled. “Would it get me a partnership?”

“You’ll get invitations to more parties.”

She grew serious again and said, “You need friends in this firm. I’ve been remiss. I was supposed to be watching out for you.” She stared at the floor. “I didn’t do a very good job.”

“I’m a tough patient. We’ll both try harder.”

She stood and collected the notebook. “I am your friend, Sean. Remember that. Confide in me. If you have problems, call me.”

“I will. Thanks.”

I checked my e-mail. A long line of firm correspondence was queued up, administrative crap, summaries of important cases-so many e-mails, in fact, that it took nearly five minutes to delete it all. Feeling better, I tackled my phone messages. Since there were none, that didn’t take long.

It was late afternoon, and having not slept for two days, I decided that Act Two had wound down, and I shut down the computer and left.

At the reception area, Elizabeth asked, “Sneaking out a bit early, aren’t we, Major?”

“Shhhh.” I pointed at Hal’s monitor and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody.”

She giggled. I leaned on her desk. “Elizabeth, how long did you say you’ve worked here?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Like it?”

“What I like is the paycheck’s not too rubbery.”

“Good point. Uh… what about Hal? When did he get here?”

“Two, possibly three years ago.”

“I see.”

“Do what I do… about Hal, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“Simply pretend he doesn’t exist.”

I laughed and turned toward the elevator. Then another thought struck me. I turned back around and asked Elizabeth, “When I came in, did you notify Sally I was here?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Yes. And don’t ever forget to do it again.”

She laughed again. Why didn’t anybody take me seriously?

I parked in the underground garage beside the Madison Hotel, entered the lobby, and headed straight to my suite on the third floor, which happened to be right beside Janet’s suite, and the suites next door and across the hall were all filled with security stooges to safeguard our health and welfare. In fact, our hallway was like an armed camp, with security cameras, motion detectors, and enough explosives that I hoped nobody lit a match.

The Madison, incidentally, was not really a bad joint to hide out in until our killer was found. It’s a five-star inn, outfitted with all the luxury stuff-nice rooms, great restaurants, and so forth. Thank God the FBI wasn’t in charge of this show, or we’d be holed up in some dive out on Route 1, eating stale pizza, and the piped-in cable would be modified so we only got Lifestyle Network. The CIA, you have to understand, has a totally different take on these things. It helps to have classified budgets, which are the nearest thing to a blank check from Uncle Sam. Also, there’s a big cultural gap between the FBI and CIA, like the difference between an adult Scout den and a Machiavelli fan club, which is maybe why they don’t like or trust each other very much, and maybe why they don’t share things very well.

Anyway, I had just entered my room when there was a knock on my door. It was Janet, and she said, “You’re back early.”

“The early bird gets the drink.”

“Buy me a drink, too.”

So I dutifully went to the minibar, got a beer for her and a scotch for me. She got herself a chair by the window. And, well, here we were, all alone and together.

I really did need this drink.

She asked me, “How did it go?”

“Fine. They’re happy I signed the audit and happy I dropped the suit against them. In fact, I was getting high fives from everybody for fleecing Morris for seventy million. They’re thinking of offering me a partnership.”

“So they bought it?”

“Yes. Cy said I’m off the Morris account, though. Jessica apparently called him and said I’m not a nice person.”

“Too bad. They’re such nice people.”

“Also, the money’s in my bank. And I’m serious about you getting half. After the ten-day lock, I’ll arrange it.”