Suicide Season (8 page)

I began entering the names and initials of the visited and the visitors into my computer, coding each one with a recall number and programming the machine to seek first the sequence and then the frequency of the visits. Here, too, a vague pattern began to emerge. The in-office lists showed an increasing number of meetings with “Don” which started with one in February and then became nine in the two weeks before Haas’s death. A number of random singles filled in a lot of space, and several short names or initials had consistent meetings, usually one every week or two. The afternoon list, those where Haas apparently left the office, were less indicative of a pattern. Even the golf times were scattered, and I was left with a long list of single meetings, a shorter one of a lot of meetings, and the shortest list of all—those names and initials he met with only three or four times at the most.

I ran the display one more time, then ordered a printout and, while the machine chattered rapidly to itself, telephoned McAllister’s assistant once more.

“Mr. Haas’s secretary? Carrie Busey. Yes, she’s still with us.”

I dialed the number given and identified myself.

“Miss Busey, you were Mr. Haas’s secretary?”

The voice came back without nervousness or surprise. “I was.”

“I have some questions about a few items that have come up concerning his daily office routines, and I wondered if I could take you to lunch and pick your brain.”

“We’re not supposed to discuss company business, Mr. Kirk.”

“I understand. But as I said, I have clearance—you may verify that with Mr. McAllister’s office. And what I’m interested in is not so much the company’s business as his. Who the meetings were with, what some of the rather cryptic entries in his appointment book might be, what you might remember about some of the people he saw.”

“I suppose that’s harmless enough.” The cool voice added, “Though I will, of course, ask for written approval from Mr. McAllister’s office.”

“Of course.” Written approval. She knew how to protect herself in the corporate jungle. “How about tomorrow at Gianelli’s?”

The voice warmed a bit. “That sounds very nice.”

“Is eleven thirty too early? We can get a quiet table then.”

“I can manage.”

Bunch, closing the door on the last of the conversation, raised his eyebrows. “Gianelli’s? What’s this one look like?”

I hung up. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You’re taking her to a place like that and you don’t know?”

“It’s Haas’s secretary. I wanted to impress her a little.”

“That’s more than a little. How come you get to take broads to Gianelli’s and the best I get is Wendy’s?”

“Oh, now, Bunch—you wouldn’t enjoy it. You’d have to wear shoes, and you know what that does to the hair between your toes.”

“Right. Silly me to forget. Here.” He tossed a thick envelope on the desk and set a small stack of tape boxes beside it. “This envelope’s the printout on the AeroLabs bid; I think we got a good chance with it. The tapes are everything you wanted on Haas—all the conversations, pickups, whatever we had on file. You name it, I put it all in chronological order on these.”

I showed him the printout from my computer. “This is a list of his official contacts for six months prior to his death.”

“And you want correlations with what we already have?”

“If it can be done. And if you think it’s worth the time.”

Bunch got that little frown which always came when he puzzled out a new twist for his machines to struggle with. For all that he liked to act the hairy and unwashed cowboy, he had a magical skill with electronic devices, and he always enjoyed a new challenge. “Let me think about it a little. Maybe I can rig something up.”

Dialing again, I waited five or six rings before the telephone was answered by a child’s voice. “The Haas residence.”

“May I speak to Mrs. Haas?”

“Who’s calling, please?” It sounded like the boy’s thin voice—Austin, Jr.

“Devlin Kirk.”

“Just a minute, please.”

The phone went blank, then was picked up and the woman said “Hello.” I heard the click of the extension as it hung up. “This is Devlin, Margaret. I’d like to know if you still have the envelope of personal effects from your husband’s desk. I understand it was mailed to you last October.”

“I think so—I’m sure I do.”

“Can I come over and pick it up?”

“The children and I were just leaving. I promised them the afternoon at the zoo.” She offered, “We should be back around six or seven. After dinner at McDonald’s.”

“I’ll be by about seven. I may have to ask you a few things about some of the items. A lot of the abbreviations and phrases don’t make much sense to a stranger reading them.”

“All right. But perhaps you should come a bit later then. After the children are in bed. Say around eight thirty?”

“Better yet, if you can arrange for a sitter, I can arrange for a quiet place to have a drink and something to eat. You’ll need it after a day at the zoo.”

When she finally replied, I could hear the surprise lingering in her voice. “That does sound good.”

“At seven, then.”

I hung up and Bunch, shaking his head, caught my eye. “So it’s ‘Margaret’ now? Lunch with Haas’s secretary, dinner with his widow. Devlin, you’re moving right into the man’s life.”

“It’s a client, Bunch. Business.”

“And I know what kind of business. Devlin Kirk, the widow’s comforter. You have absolutely no shame, my lad. It’s the only redeeming virtue I’ve ever found in you.”

“Well I try not to pay my debts and I’m never on time.”

“True, there may be hope for you yet.” He gathered up the printout of Haas’s lists of appointments. “Run yourself another one of these. I’ll take this home and see what I can come up with. Susan sends her regards. Though if she heard you lining up all those women, she wouldn’t bother.”

“She’d start analyzing it.”

“She analyzes everyone but me, Devlin. She just can’t help herself.”

“And you can’t be analyzed?”

“That’s what she says—I’m too integrated. An indivisible mass.”

“In other words, a blockhead.”

“No, an elemental force of irreducible masculinity.” The elemental force quivered the landing as it went downstairs, and I began listening to the old tapes relate their fragmented account of a life whose end I already knew.

M
ARGARET MET ME
at the door. She wore a skirt and jacket of muted plaid and a cashmere sweater that set off her eyes and emphasized the softness underneath. She seemed more girlish than when I saw her in the office, and certainly far less strained and tense, and as I stared, a tinge of color came to her cheeks, an echo of that vulnerability I had seen so nakedly the night her husband shot himself. “Is this all right? I wasn’t certain what to wear.”

“You look very nice.”

“Thank you.” The color deepened. “It’s the first time I’ve been out since the funeral. But it’s all right, isn’t it? This is a business meeting, after all.”

“Of course it’s all right.” I asked about the visit to the zoo and listened while I drove as she detailed what the children saw and did and said. It interested her, certainly, and it was good to hear the animation in her voice and to see her gradually lean back against the seat, tired from the effort but now relaxing and satisfied with the knowledge that she had given her children a day they would remember with pleasure.

“I’m boring you. Nothing’s so boring as hearing a mother talk about her children.”

“I’m not bored—I like kids.” Which was true, and in fact I’ve occasionally wondered lately what kind of society we have when a statement like that has to be offered as an apology. It should be a given: an adult likes kids because they’re the future, the continuity of life. But maybe that was the problem: kids did represent human life, a thing that so many adults were increasingly careless about—their own as well as others’. “I remember the elephants from when I was a kid. How they loomed up there against the sky and yet moved so smoothly and big and carefully as if they were afraid of stepping on me. It was always kind of surprising to look up that big gray hairy side and see an eye stare back at me.”

We told other things that we remembered from childhood in the way that one memory will lead to another, and by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, she was laughing. It was a very nice laugh, one that didn’t get used enough, and one I enjoyed watching as well as hearing.

I’d chosen a restaurant close to the Belcaro compound, and we arrived just before the evening’s rush. After ordering a glass of wine, we took our time with the menu.

She sipped and glanced around the tables slowly filling with diners. “Austin and I used to come here often.”

I have to admit to a little twinge way down deep, very like something Bunch would laugh at as jealousy. But there was no reason for it, and I told myself it was only the normal distaste any man feels at being a surrogate for another. “So what do you recommend?”

We talked a bit about the menu and favorite dishes and other restaurants we’d enjoyed, and by the time the waiter, breezy and familiar, took our orders and the request from the wine list, the conversation had drifted over to likes and dislikes in books and theater.

“Before I forget—” She handed me a brown mailing envelope that bulged at one end with a wad of loose contents. It had been opened and resealed with tape. “I’m not sure what’s in it. I looked inside when it came, and when I saw what it was I didn’t feel like going through it. And then I just forgot about it.”

“Thanks. I’ll get it back to you in a few days.”

“Do you think it might help?”

“I don’t know. It’s more information than I had earlier. But even if he was guilty, I doubt that he would have made any contacts with Aegis from his office. Let alone put anything in writing. Still, it’s best to look at all of it.”

“I hope … Well, we’ll see what you come up with.”

I had a good idea what she hoped, and I hoped so too. “Maybe you can help me unravel his appointment book. I brought a list of initials and first names that I don’t recognize. Do any of them mean anything to you?”

She studied the sheet of paper and I studied her: the clean, delicate lines of her profile, her unconscious grace of movement, the classical delicacy of her slender neck, her shiny, black hair swinging loosely against her cheeks as she bent over the paper. “This one—Bob—that’s probably Bob Schwartz.” She looked up to meet my eyes gazing at her and the dark of her pupils widened suddenly. “What’s the matter?”

“Not a thing. I was just admiring you.”

“Oh.” She quickly turned back to the list and said, “Thank you.” Then, in a different voice, “Ron Stewart. He’s a land-use planner. I remember Austin had to meet with him a lot.”

“Working for the city?”

“No. The company. They were laying out the Columbine project and I remember that Austin was worried about the size of the lots. Ron wanted them smaller so there would be more to market and the cost of service units could be cut. Austin was pushing for larger sections that would offer a little more for the money and make a more attractive overall design.”

“That decision would come pretty early in the project, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s the only issue I remember them arguing over. The later meetings were on more routine things: the layout of services, drainage, commons areas.” A crispness came into her tone when she spoke of her husband’s business.

“You know a lot about it.”

“Austin and I often talked about the job. Sometimes I was able to make a helpful suggestion.” Her fork absently pushed against the fish. “I miss that. A lot of things I expected to feel—and I have. But I’m surprised at how much I miss sharing Austin’s work, even only what he brought home.” She smiled quietly. “God knows, I love my children, and I know how much they need me. Especially now. But I think I’ve just discovered that I’ve been increasingly bored.” Those green eyes met mine again. “I don’t know whether to thank you for that or not.”

“Margaret, darling, you look simply wonderful!”

A fashionably thin blonde leaned over the table to peck at Margaret’s cheek.

“Elaine—good to see you. How’s Jerry?”

“Oh, same as ever—you know Jerry.” She gestured behind her. “He’s over there now. We weren’t sure it was you.” She smiled at me, and Margaret made the introductions. “Please don’t stand up—oh my! Maybe you should; you’re a big one, aren’t you?” She glanced knowingly at Margaret. “Well, I just wanted to apologize for not having dropped by since—ah—the funeral. But it seems like only yesterday—I mean time goes by so quickly, doesn’t it, darling? It’s so nice to see you out and enjoying yourself, dear.”

“Mr. Kirk is—”

“In securities. I’m trying to convince Mrs. Haas to make some safe investments with her settlement.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. One can’t be too safe, can one? We simply must get together for lunch, Margaret.” She smiled widely once more at both of us before picking her way back to a table where, through the dimness, a man’s vague face smiled our way and a hand lifted briefly.

“He works for McAllister, too?”

“Jerry Ewald. He’s an architect in the design section. He was on the Lake Center project. We used to see a lot of them before Austin died.”

“And nothing since.”

She sipped her wine. “That’s one of the things I expected. I read somewhere that a widow becomes an outcast. At least they don’t practice suttee.”

“Maybe not physically. But I suspect I’ve provided an item for the gossip mill. I apologize—I didn’t think of that when I chose this restaurant.”

“Nor should you have. And there’s no reason to feel guilty, is there?”

“Of course not.”

She identified a few more names and several sets of initials, among them the J.E. of Jerry Ewald sitting across the room, and I made notes beside the entries. Although, by the time the meal ended, most of the references still remained blank, there was at least something to get started with.

The ride back through the evening streets was a quick one and for the most part silent, though not uncomfortable. At the door, Margaret sounded sincere when she said she’d had a very nice time. “It was good to talk to an adult for a change. And to laugh at something besides the children’s jokes.”