Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

“This isn’t bad,” I said. “I mean, sure, there’s not the nostalgia of our office with the stadium seats, but other than that it’s pretty decent.”

“Maybe we should consider relocating,” Joe said.

“Maybe.”

The secretary finished her conversation, hit a button on the phone to disconnect her headset, and looked up at us once again.

“I apologize for the wait,” she said. “Do you gentlemen have an appointment?”

“No,” Joe said. “We were hoping to make a quick drop-in. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I see. And whom do you wish to drop in on?”

“Jeremiah Hubbard,” Joe said.

She gave us a gentle, polite smile. It was the kind of smile you might give a four-year-old if he said he wanted to fly an airplane. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Hubbard does not accept any meetings without an appointment. He’s an exceptionally busy man.”

“Oh, come on,” I said, “he must get tired of counting all that money. He’d probably love the diversion.”

“Mr. Hubbard will only accept diversions if they make an appointment beforehand,” the secretary said, keeping her smile. She had a great mouth-full but not overly prominent lips, and nice white teeth.

I laughed. “Well, could you at least ask him? I think he might be more inclined to talk to us than you’d guess. Tell him we’re here to talk about Wayne Weston.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Weston’s story had been all over the news for days, and the use of his name was probably going to raise quite a few eyebrows. I supposed I’d have to get used to it.

“Wayne Weston,” she said. “I see. One moment, please.”

She hit a few more buttons on the phone and turned her head slightly, then spoke softly for a few seconds and disconnected again. “Mr. Hubbard will be happy to meet with you,” she announced. “Follow me, please.”

I looked at Joe, and now I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t expected it would be quite that easy. The secretary stepped out from behind the desk and led us down another corridor, and I watched the movement of her hips and legs under the pretty-but-professional blue dress she was wearing. She seemed to be putting a little extra motion into the hips. I attempted to kid myself into believing it was for my benefit.

We passed a few doors and then the hall ended in a set of double doors with no nameplate. This would be Hubbard’s office. Only he would warrant double doors, and only he would be important enough not to require a nameplate. She pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside, ushering us through.

I walked past her and into an office that came closer to taking my breath away than any office should. It wasn’t as spacious as I’d expected, but it was still large enough for a game of touch football. The furniture was more of the burgundy leather and dark walnut, and the room was tastefully decorated, but it was the window that occupied all my attention. A tall span of glass shaped like the top half of an oval looked out on the city below us, and the view was amazing. I could see the War Memorial fountain thirty-two floors below, the sun making it sparkle. I wanted to walk over to the window and look down, spend a few minutes admiring the sights, but then Jeremiah Hubbard rose from behind his massive walnut desk and it was clear we were no longer supposed to find the view the most impressive thing in the room.

“Gentlemen,” he said, walking around the desk and offering his hand as the secretary shut the door softly behind us.

Hubbard stood tall in a navy blue suit, his spine rigid, his shoulders back, and his chin held up a bit, but I could tell that beneath the carefully tailored clothes his upper body was softer and pudgier than most people would guess. His hair was something else-a collection of gentle, perfectly contoured white curls that reminded me of a well-trimmed version of a colonial powdered wig. The skin of his face was pressed tight against the bone, his lips narrow and drawn, pulling back a bit at the corners as if his face were stretched just a little too tight. Plastic surgery, probably, designed to keep him from developing a double chin in his advancing years. He wasn’t a strikingly handsome man, but his bearing of complete and total assurance-the confidence that showed in his eyes and in every movement-would set him apart in a crowd.

“Lincoln Perry,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. My partner, Joe Pritchard.”

He nodded without speaking and shook Joe’s hand, then pivoted smoothly on his heel and returned to his desk. He settled into the big executive’s chair with a paternal sigh, and I had the feeling we were about to be chastised for daring to barge into his office and waste his precious time. Time, as they say, is money, and Jeremiah Hubbard loved his money.

“Well,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk, “what’s on your minds?”

Joe looked at me, and I nodded for him to go ahead with it. “We’d like to speak with you about Wayne Weston,” he said.

Hubbard ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips and frowned. “Would this be the same Weston who has dominated local news coverage recently?”

“The very one,” Joe said.

Hubbard nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair and stared at us. After about ten seconds of silence he raised his eyebrows and rolled his hand slightly, telling Joe to continue.

“Did you know Mr. Weston?” Joe asked.

“Why is that a matter of your concern?”

“We have reason to believe he was working for you, Mr. Hubbard,” Joe said. “We were hoping you could tell us a little about that.”

“Why do you think he was working for me?”

“Because he recently cashed five checks from companies affiliated with you, and executives at these companies claim to have no association with the man.”

“Many companies are affiliated with me, Mr. Pritchard.”

“I understand that, sir. What I’m asking you is whether you ever employed Wayne Weston,” Joe said bluntly.

Hubbard laid his hands on the desk, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward. “If I had employed an individual like Mr. Weston, it would seem to be for a confidential and possibly sensitive matter, wouldn’t it?”

“We have no intention of prying into your personal affairs. However, we have been asked to investigate the possibility that Mr. Weston was murdered, and to do that effectively we must look into his recent cases. Any information pertaining to you will be kept confidential,” Joe told him. “We just need to know what he was working on.”

“Who employed you for this?”

“Weston’s father.”

Hubbard’s face changed slightly at that. It was an almost imperceptible relaxation-a slight lessening of his scowl, an easing of the creases in his face. The news seemed to reassure him, though. I wondered who he thought we might be working for, and why he preferred to hear it was Wayne Weston’s father.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m afraid I simply can’t be of any help to you.”

Joe nodded. “We respect that decision, Mr. Hubbard. However, I do want to be sure you’re aware that we’re going to have to pursue this angle, regardless of your cooperation.”

The scowl that had lessened when Joe told him we were working for John Weston returned now.

“How much will you make from this case?” he asked. “How much money will you earn for harassing me and my associates?”

Joe frowned. “We have no intention of harassing anyone, sir. But we’ve been hired to look into Wayne Weston’s recent dealings, and if it appears those dealings involved you, then we’ll have to look into them.”

“How much money?” Hubbard repeated.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “That depends how long we’re on the case. Why does it matter?”