Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

Still. He had his national TV suit on, which was a lot better than Dr. Phil’s, and his new seriously slick briefcase, and his smooth, photogenic media cool. None of it was bedrock real, but then neither were the high-priced lawyers from this firm who had bullied a naive young mother into settling for down-at-the-heels real estate as shabby security instead of real information about the most traumatic, and apparently transcendental, moment of her life.

How much you want to bet a Chicago lawyer even knew what transcendental meant?

Matt walked in, read the tiny white type on the big black plaque by the elevator, and was whooshed, ears quickly blocked, to the forty-fifth floor.

Brandon, Oakes, and McCall offered a reception suite paved in plush plum carpet and furniture upholstered in espresso-dark brown leather.

The receptionist reminded Matt of a high-priced Las Vegas call girl: tall, chic, managing to be both icy and sexy.

He ought to know, thanks to his latest unwanted adventure in the land of neon and sex for sale.

The woman’s demeanor warmed as he neared the desk. She glanced down at the appointment ledger and frowned. “Mr… . Devine? You requested an appointment with a senior partner.”

“Yes.”

A few junior female clerks were dashing in and out of the smooth wooden door beyond the receptionist’s arena that kept the uninvited out. They glanced at him, then looked again, then outright gawked.

Okay. He was getting used to these epiphanies among the female population. Maybe it was his blond Polish good looks. Maybe familiarity from his stints on The Amanda Show. Maybe it was the highlight job from his last bizarre undercover turn in Temple’s Everlasting Carnival of Crime and Detection.

Ms. Fashionista Receptionist smiled intimately at him in recognition of his high profile in the waiting room.

“You may go right in. Miss—” She hesitated before bestowing the honor on just the right one of the paralyzed paralegals. “Miss Hendrix will escort you.”

Miss Hendrix leaped forward, clutching a bouquet of legal-length manila folders to her pin-striped heart. “Certainly, Mr.—?”

“Devine.” He expected his name to generate references to his latest appearance on Chicago TV, but Miss Hendrix blinked as if confounded, then stuttered forward like a geisha on her four-inch spike heels toward the unmarked, exotic zebrawood door.

Puzzled, Matt followed. Certainly his yellow hair alone hadn’t merited this reception. But if they didn’t recognize his media ties, what else could account for this quick and cordial reception?

The office he was ushered into was the size of a racquetball court and about as welcoming.

Glass winked coldly from a ring of expensive modern prints. Leather and wood was slathered everywhere, enormous distances separating desk and chairs from facing walls of built-in bar and audio-video equipment. Beyond all this, looking like a gigantic print, was the sweep of distant gray skyscraper towers through a window-wall.

“Mr. Brandon will see you shortly,” said Miss Fluttering Legal Briefs. “Please. Be seated.”

He took one of the three tufted brown leather wing chairs placed before the desk, set the silver briefcase beside it, and commenced to wait.

“Mr. Devine!”

The voice from the doorway was both powerful and jocular.

“My wife loves your appearances on Amanda’s show. What brings you to our offices?”

So that was it. Mr. Big himself had recognized his name.

The voice advanced on him from behind, its energy bouncing off the window-wall. Matt turned in the wing chair, started to rise.

“Charles Brandon.”

His … host, it sounded like, came into view around the curl of the chair’s obscuring wing.

A chubby hand accessorized with a three-carat star sapphire ring was extended.

Matt rose to take it, then watched shock rinse all the welcome from Charles Brandon’s pink and fleshy face.

It was too late to stop the handshake. Matt kept his grip firm but not pushy. The hand he shook went limp with the surprise the face had registered first.

“Mr. Devine,” the man repeated, as if impressing the name on his memory. “You are the visiting family counselor on The Amanda Show Aren’t you?”

“Among other things, yes.” Matt studied the man, watching him juggle preconceptions.

“Well, sit down.” Brandon bustled around the desk toinstall himself on the gray leather behemoth of a chair behind it. His formerly flushed skin tones now matched the ashen hide. “Ah, as I was saying, my wife loves you. I mean, she loves your, ah, point of view, I guess. You know women, always into that relationship stuff. So. What can I do for you?”

While Matt reseated himself, reaching for the briefcase, Brandon kept talking in the way of a man who makes his living by it.

“You must forgive my surprise. You’re not what I expected.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, you know. Dr. Phil. Fat and fifty. I had no idea you were such a … handsome young fellow. No wonder my wife, eh?”

“I’ve been told I’m telegenic. That word always sounds like an exotic affliction to me.”

Brandon chuckled, his face and manner resuming their earlier bonhomie. “Clever fellow too. How’d you get into the TV shrink game?”

“I’m not a shrink. I was a Catholic priest for most of my adult life.”

“Now that surprises me. Also relieves me. Can’t have the wife too enamored of sharp young men on TV. You left, then?”

“Officially, yes, the priesthood. One doesn’t ever leave the Church, I’m told.”

“I’ve heard that same sentiment from Chicago’s most famous priest, Father Greeley. Wonderful man.”

Matt felt he had now been firmly pinned to whatever part of the bulletin board Brandon reserved for such alien life forms as celibate priests, current or former.

“What can I do for you?” Brandon repeated.

“Not for me so much as for my mother.”

“Your mother—”

“She lives here. In Chicago.”

“And you?”

“I live in Las Vegas now.”

“Las Vegas? Really? Quite the switch for you, I imagine.”

“It’s mostly a city that ordinary people live in. That’s where my syndicated radio talk show originates.”

“Syndicated. Indeed.”

Matt hated to use his media connections but they appeared to work.

“Would you like my girl to get you a cup of coffee or tea? Something stronger?”

“No. Thank you. What I’d like is for you to take a look at this … document my mother signed thirty-five years ago. Your firm drew it up.”

“An old document. Quite the mystery. Now you’ve got me curious. Let’s see it.”

Matt lifted the briefcase, unlatched it, and brought out the three-page agreement that bore his mother’s signature.

Brandon lowered his silver-haired head to the pages, skimmed the first page. Flipped the paper back over the staple in the upper-left-hand corner.

“A deed transfer. Straightforward. Your mother was given title to a two-flat.” He hit the third page, where she was required to seek no more “compensation” and to make no further “contact” with the unnamed party who had transferred ownership of the two-flat to her.

“Most … unusual.”

Matt had watched Brandon’s face fade again to gray. He’d heard people described as “going white” with shock but he’d never actually seen the phenomenon before. It was more a grim tightening of the features than actual paling, but there was no doubt that what Brandon saw in those papers disturbed him.

“An unusual deed transfer but quite binding, I’d think.” Brandon held the papers out to Matt, who didn’t take them.

“It was a compensation for my birth. Child support of a sort, if you will. My mother was very young, not even eighteen, and she signed it without legal advice.”