Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

The fog swallowed Marla’s Jaguar just below the Genesee exit. I slowed my van, slugged down a little more espresso, and reconsidered. Actually, I did care. The sudden death of Victoria Lear in Idaho Springs, the problem Marla had presented at the party, the vehemence of Albert’s denials – all these had piqued my interest. But Tom would not be pleased if I angered Albert Lipscomb or anybody else in Prospect management. I’d already backed into involvement-Captain Shockley would have called it interference - in several of Tom’s investigations. The last thing I wanted was to upset Shockley by raising hackles at the venture capital firm where the captain had his retirement account. Still, with Marla’s temper so volatile and so much money at stake, I certainly didn’t want my best friend blowing a fuse at the Prospect office without me there to calm her down, did I? Of course not. I smiled, finished the last drop of the rich black espresso, and pressed the accelerator. Within moments the van was paralleling sudsy, swollen Cherry Creek.

We turned on Third Avenue and passed designer boutiques, supertrendy cafes, experimental restaurants, and a host of offices dedicated to making money to support the folks who patronized the expensive shops and eateries. After several blocks I parked in front of an elegant two-story building with square gold letters announcing the offices of Prospect Financial Partners. The modern facade of polished bloodred granite was threaded with veins of black and gold that glimmered in the clouded light.

Marla met me on the wet sidewalk. The last time I’d seen her wearing her subdued navy blue suit and double strand of pearls had been at my wedding. I felt out of place in my black pants, sweater, and old raincoat. Marla waved a dismissive hand and quickly briefed me on how she was going to handle the encounter with Albert.

“Okay,” she said, “say Albert says assays are too complicated for women to understand. Then you say he needs to explain it or I’m going to have a heart attack. Then he says he’s too busy to take time for us, so I clutch my chest – “

“No,” I advised sternly as I stepped over a mud puddle. “We wouldn’t want to precipitate the real thing.”

She defiantly shook her higgledy-piggledy hair, glanced up the street, and reluctantly reshaped her strategy. “Okay… if I ask him to show me the Kepler – ” She gripped my arm. “That car looks familiar. Isn’t that Macguire’s Subaru?”

I glanced down the packed row of parked cars. “I sure hope not.”

But it was. Even as I spoke, Macguire Perkins unfurled himself from the battered blue wagon and gave us a shy grin. “Look,” he called before we could utter a word, “I’m here to help you.” In three long strides, he was suddenly at our side. He wore a collarless, but-ton-up black shirt and black pants, the kind of outfit rock stars wear when they’re being interviewed. “You and Marla really shouldn’t try to do this alone,” he said earnestly. “I mean, I’m the one who got that assay report analyzed, and I even know somebody who works here. You know – a contact.” He ran his fingers through his perpetually damp hair. “She went to Elk Park Prep a couple of years ago. She used to be a snob, but somebody said she’s turned out kind of nice – “

I shook my head. “No, no, no. Go back to Aspen Meadow, Macguire. Please. What are we going to do, invade Albert’s office and say, ‘Hey, here we are, one client and two bodyguards!’? We just can’t – “

“Oh, sure we can,” Marla announced with another toss of her head. She linked one arm through mine and another through Macguire’s. “You can help us storm Albert’s office. And Macguire, introduce me to your friend if you see her. I love reformed snobs. There are so few of us.”

Dread filled me as we pushed through the first of two sets of heavy glass doors. I want to get this straight, I could imagine Tom saying with one sandy-colored eyebrow lifted. Without an appointment, the three of you breezed into a multimillion-dollar financial firm, one of you faked a heart attack, and then the other two crashed into the partner’s office? And I’d reply, Something like that. And he’d say, And you were surprised when they kicked you out?

“I’m here to see Albert Lipscomb,” Marla proclaimed to the receptionist. “He’s expecting me!” I assessed the dark-suited woman behind her tall rosewood desk. She seemed to be the first obstacle in a succession of battlements.

“Well, Ms. Korman, it’s good to see you,” the receptionist replied pleasantly. Her black hair was cut severely around a face painted with ultrapale makeup. After giving Marla a hundred-watt, brown-lipsticked smile, she cast a disdainful glance at Macguire and me.

“They’re with me,” Marla told her. “friends of Albert.”

The receptionist glowed again. “Well, then. Why don’t the three of you just go on back?” I guess caterers weren’t the only ones taught to suck up to the high rollers.

We followed a muted purple, green, and coral tweed carpet down a coral-painted hallway bisected with rosewood wainscoting. Phones rang; noises burbled out of open-doored offices; harried, well-dressed assistants rushed to and fro. One strikingly quiet spot, was the closed door to an office with the metal panel removed from the orangey-pink wall. The door’s gold lettering still read Victoria Lear, C.F.A., Chief Investment Officer. She’d died in Orpheus Canyon, near the mine that Marla was now questioning. I couldn’t help myself: I surreptitiously grasped the handle. As I turned the knob, I imagined Tom shaking his head. But the door was locked.

Albert Lipscomb’s secretary, a gorgeous platinum blonde who informed us her name was Lena Pescadero, wore a low-cut red dress that made Macguire’s mouth fall open. Personally, I was transfixed by her hair, which was stylishly teased into a voluminous, tangled cloud. Lena turned away from greeting us to announce matter-of-factly into the phone that Albert was in conference and would return the call at his earliest convenience.

“Albert’s expecting me,” Marla said chummily when the secretary had hung up the phone. “We mad a nine o’clock appointment over the weekend.”

Lena Pescadero raised a thread-thin eyebrow. “You did?” She made a note on a pad and tapped the computer keys to bring up Albert Lipscomb’s schedule.

“Hmm,” said Lena as she stared at the screen. “I wish someone would tell me what’s going on.”

Marla rolled her eyes at us, then turned back to Lena. “Albert’s not in conference?”

“No.”

“Well, where is he?”

“I don’t know, but he’s had a lot of calls,” Lena replied. She chewed on her lip and considered Marla thoughtfully. “What’s going on with the clients? Did Medigen’s antiviral drug get rejected by the FDA over the weekend, and nobody told me?”

Taken aback, the three of us were silent until Macguire piped up with, “Uh, I don’t think the FDA works over the weekend.”

Marla sighed. The phone on Lena’s desk buzzed again and she answered it.

“No, no, not yet, Mr. Royce,” she said. “Print out what?” She turned to the computer screen. “Okay, one moment, please.” She tapped a few keys and lowered her voice. “Excuse me, but are you all getting a lot of… No, no, I’m sorry, sir. Charts for Sam’s Soups, yes, certainly. Opportunity for margin expansion, and what was the other… oh, recurring revenue base. Yes. Right away. No, I don’t know if she was the only other one who had it in her database before she… before the… yes, sir. Just as soon as he gets here.”

I murmured to Macguire, “Let’s go look for your friend.” To Marla, I said, “We’ll be back.” Once Macguire and I were out in the hall, I said, “What’s your friend’s name? How long has she worked here at Prospect?”