JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home (12 page)

I looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Pratt shook her head, and her hair tumbled free of the clip and fell around her shoulders. She didn’t seem to mind.

“I’d been at Pace a year and a half when my mom got sick. Breast cancer— very aggressive. It’s just the two of us, and she’s out on the Island, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I go into Greg’s office one morning and tell him about it— and that I might need some time off— and he just looks at me and nods and basically doesn’t say shit. Great, I think, real supportive. One more thing to worry about.

“That afternoon, he calls me back in his office. He hands me a slip of paper with an address and a time on it. Tells me my mom has an appointment the next day at Sloan-Kettering with the top breast cancer guy, and he’s made arrangements with Bobby Loyette about us using the corporate apartment if my mom needs to stay in the city for treatments.

“I was blown away. I just sat there, not knowing what to say. Greg didn’t seem to expect me to say anything. Hell, he barely looked at me the whole time he was telling me this stuff. I sat there, and he sent some e-mails, and after a while we started talking about Intel’s valuation.” Pratt picked up the bottle again and looked at it, but put it down without drinking.

“He’s fucked up, like a lot of people are.” She paused and stared at me. I wasn’t going to argue with her. “But he’s a decent guy too.” Pratt leaned back and worked her fingers through her thick hair. Her clip fell to the ground and she stooped to get it. She steadied herself on the table on the way up and laughed. “Christ, four beers on an empty stomach. You got me shitfaced.”

I nodded. “You want dinner? My treat.”

She looked at me and straightened her glasses. “And then what, you going to take advantage of me?”

I shook my head and laughed. “No more than I have already.” I signaled the waitress, who brought two menus.

“Why not? You married or something?” Pratt blushed even as she asked the question.

I smiled. “Or something.”

She nodded and looked over the menu.

The waitress came again and Pratt ordered a burger and a Coke; I had the vegetarian chili. Pratt was quiet, and I thought that embarrassment and worry might be setting in. I didn’t want her dwelling on it.

“I heard he had a lively meeting with Turpin the day he left,” I said.

Pratt smiled. “Lively— that’s a nice term for it. Any more lively, and we would’ve called the cops.”

“Any idea what it was about?”

“The same old thing, I’m sure: the lawsuits. That’s what Greg and Tampon always argue about.”

“Tampon?”

Pratt colored again. “That’s what Greg calls him. It’s kind of caught on.”

“I can imagine. What about the lawsuits do they argue over?”

“Fight or flight, Greg calls it: fight it out in court or settle. Greg is all about fighting.”

“And Turpin wants to settle?”

Pratt nodded. “That’s what they brought him in to do.”

“Who are they?”

“Management. They brought Tampon in five, six months ago—to clear the air, they said— so we could focus on other things. Apparently that meant settle the cases quickly, quietly, and as cheaply as possible.”

“Greg disagrees with that strategy?”

Pratt snorted. “It makes him crazy. He says they aren’t giving him an opportunity to clear his name and that they’re selling him out. Greg is not the most trusting guy in the world to begin with, and this plays right into his paranoia.”

“I gather he doesn’t have that market cornered, though.”

Pratt gave me a quizzical look. “You mean Turpin?”

I nodded. “If his attitude is anything to go by, Pace management seems pretty nervous about Danes.”

“Between the arguments and the rumors about another look-see from the regulators— and now with Greg being gone— yeah, I guess they’re tense.”

“Should they be?”

“About Greg turning on them or something?” I nodded, and Pratt’s brow furrowed. “I’d like to say no, but the truth is— I don’t know. Greg is paranoid, and he never, ever leaves his ass uncovered. He’s definitely not a guy I would play musical chairs with— not without a lot of padding. But … I don’t know.”

The waitress brought our food. Pratt took a desperate swallow of her Coke and a bite of her burger. Juice ran down her chin, and I handed her a napkin. I took a spoonful of vegetable chili. It tasted like old succotash, soaked in Tabasco. I pushed it aside.

“You’ve said Greg can be difficult”— Pratt snorted—“is there anyone he was particularly difficult with? Anyone holding a grudge?”

She shook her head. “He’s difficult with everyone.” She chewed some more of her burger. “But someone holding a grudge? Nobody jumps out, unless you count the people suing him.”

“Who else is he close to, besides you?”

Pratt wiped her hands on her napkin and pulled her hair back and was quiet for a while. She shook her head slowly.

“I don’t really know. I know he loves his kid— Billy— as much as he loves anybody. He may not know what to make of him half the time, but he loves him. Besides that?” She shrugged.

“No other family?”

“There’s the ex, if she counts. They still talk— about the kid, mostly— and she still pisses him off. And I think he has a brother or stepbrother who got himself in trouble a few years back— somewhere out in Jersey, I think. A reporter picked up on it, and it was five minutes of embarrassment for Greg.”

“How about his friends?”

“There’s some guy he goes to hear music with, up in the country someplace. I don’t know his name, though.” She thought some more and hesitated. “And … there was Sovitch.”

“Linda Sovitch? From Market Minds?” Pratt nodded. “They’re friends?”

“They used to be— when Greg was on the show all the time. I’m not sure how friendly they are now; he wasn’t happy when the guest spots dried up. But I know Greg had lunch with her— right before his last session with Tampon.”

I finished my ginger ale and crunched on an ice cube and thought. “Did he ever talk about leaving?” I asked.

“Leaving Pace? We talked about it a lot— especially lately— about going out on our own, setting up a research company. One of the things that drove him nuts about settling the lawsuits was he thought it would screw that up— screw up his reputation and his earning power. Screw them up more, I guess.”

“You would do it— go into business with him?”

She nodded vigorously. “For an equity stake? You bet I would. Nothing like that is coming my way at Pace.”

“You’re not in line for Greg’s job if he walks?”

Pratt made a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? I’m fine to keep the seat warm while Greg’s away, but when it comes time to fill his spot permanently, they’ll bring a name in from outside— assuming they want to keep a research department at all. If Greg leaves, I’ve got to make plans, one way or another.” She fiddled with the pile of slaw on her plate and looked at me. She wasn’t as light-headed now, and worry was coming back into her eyes. I didn’t have long.

“Do you remember what he said in his voice mail— when he told you he was taking vacation?”

She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message— something like I’m out of here for three weeks— starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”

“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing— about why he left when he did?”

She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things— the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon— and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.

“Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”

“As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”

“He ever do anything like this before— just take unscheduled vacation time?”

Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”

“But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”

Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”

“Are you worried about him?”

Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.

7

It was a long run— two miles up, six miles around, and two miles back home— and I was right in the middle of it, at the north end of Central Park, on the steep climb up one side of Great Hill. It was five-fifteen, just past dawn, and the thin clouds that had brought showers overnight had begun to fray. The pavement was still wet and traffic was light: a few cabs, a few black cars, an aggressive peloton of racing bikes, and some other solitary runners, cocooned in thoughts and breath. I leaned into the hill and tried not to gasp. My own thoughts turned to Nina Sachs and her family.

It had been close to ten last night when I’d walked from Clark Street down Old Fulton to Water Street. Brooklyn was cooler, and the breeze off the river had sent a chill through me. Lights were burning in Sachs’s loft and also at street level, in the I-2 Galeria de Arte, Brooklyn branch. I stood at the big glass door and looked inside.

It was a huge space, as large as Sachs’s loft, with bleached wood floors and a wall of sidewalk-to-ceiling windows. The other walls were white, and a dense constellation of lights hung from the ceiling. Also hanging— from ceiling-mounted tracks— was a platoon of room dividers, movable walls of various widths presently arranged to divide the gallery into three exhibition bays. In the foreground, about ten yards inside the door, was a long mahogany counter, chest high and elaborately paneled.

There were people in the gallery, a skinny young woman with bleached hair, camo pants, and a T-shirt that let her midriff peek through, and an even skinnier young man with shiny blue bellbottoms and a steel ball through his nose. They were sealing and hauling wooden crates with impressive speed and skill. There were two opened wine bottles on the long counter, and three glasses, and an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette. I heard music through the glass— something thudding and techno.

Ines Icasa came through a door at the back of the gallery. Her hair was pulled back and she paused in mid-stride when she saw me. She was perfectly still for a moment, and then she moved again, walking to the counter, plucking her cigarette from the ashtray, and waving me in.

I pushed open the heavy door. The music got louder and I felt the bass in my gut. I smelled tobacco and sawdust and wood polish. The skinny people looked up from their crates and eyed me speculatively. Ines called me over.

“żQué tal? Just passing through the neighborhood, detective, or are you shopping for some art?” I smiled. Ines took a deep hit off her cigarette and reached for a wineglass. She poured some red wine, showed me the bottle, and raised her nice eyebrows. I shook my head. Ines frowned melodramatically and poured herself some more. I heard a noise from the end of the counter, and a foot, wearing something like a bowling shoe, slid into view. I walked over and looked down. It was Billy.

He was sitting on the floor on a huge paisley pillow, his back against the end of the counter. There were earphones on his head that snaked off to a sleek MP3 player hooked to his belt, and there was a spiral notebook and a thick text—Trigonometry: An Introduction— open in his lap. He raised his head and looked at me, blankly at first and then with recognition, but without discernable interest. He had a pencil in his teeth and a bottle of Sprite at his side. He was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt again, but he’d swapped the Talking Heads lyric for a blowup of a Dr. Strange comic book cover. I raised a hand in greeting. Billy looked at me for a while and nodded minutely. I pointed at his shirt.

“Master of the Mystic Arts,” I said. “One of my favorites— though he’s no Batman, of course.”

Billy winced theatrically and let the pencil fall into his lap. “Batman’s a pussy,” he said softly, and turned again to his book.

I laughed. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

“He is working, detective, and he is very focused,” Ines said. She put a hand on my arm and led me back down the counter. “Are you sure I cannot get you something? Something stronger than wine, perhaps.” I shook my head. There was a moist sheen to the smooth skin of her face, and her big almond eyes were gleaming.

“Trig’s advanced for a twelve-year-old, isn’t it?” I asked. “It seems to me I studied it in high school.”

Ines smiled proudly and nodded. “Guillermo has always been many years advanced in maths. He takes most of his classes in the upper school.” She glanced at the skinny man and woman, who had gone back to sliding wooden crates around. “We are packing up the last of an exhibition,” Ines said. “Iguacu, we called it— the work of five painters from the Paraná region of Brazil. They are very talented, and the show was well received.”

“I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I will add you to our mailing list. You will never have to miss another.” She drank some more wine. Her glass was nearly empty.

“Nina upstairs?” I asked.

“She is expecting you,” Ines said.

“Then I’d better not keep her waiting.” Ines nodded, and I started for the door. Halfway there I stopped and turned back to her. “You have any thoughts on where he might be?” Ines looked at me. She shook her head slowly and blew out a cloud of smoke.

Upstairs, Nina Sachs was still working. I’d rung twice and waited several minutes for her to answer. She wore a paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, and she was barefoot. She had a smoke in one hand and a paintbrush in the other and her hazel eyes were jumpy, but she’d smiled when she opened the door.

“Back here,” she said, and walked quickly across the loft to her studio. The place was a mess again, as if Ines had never cleaned it, and the smell was back. I followed Nina’s smoke trail to her easel. Her little stereo was pounding out The Subdudes.