I drove to my office and rode the L into the Loop, getting off at Wells and Lake, near the Chicago River. My ex-husband’s firm occupied seventeen floors of the Grommet Building, one of those glass towers that make you think of Darth Vader—the glass fa?ade was black and all you could see was the reflection of the skyline and the clouds, not any signs of life within.
Crawford, Mead had changed offices since the end of my marriage; this was my first trip to their new headquarters. When I got off at the elevator at the fifty-second floor, I was glad I’d taken the trouble to pick up my dress, do makeup, and so on. I felt cool and professional, as if I belonged in a space that proclaimed, We bill at a thousand dollars an hour and we’re proud of it.
The reception area, decorated in soft greens and golds, had several tasteful pieces of sculpture strewn about, while the two women behind the marble counter were as glossy as the glass on the building.
I handed my card to one of the receptionists. No, I agreed, or perhaps stipulated, I didn’t have an appointment, but Mr. Yarborough and I were old friends; I had a quick question for him.
Dick was in a meeting, naturally enough, but I had to wait only twenty minutes before he strolled into the reception area. His greeting was unenthusiastic. “I have five minutes, Vic. Try not to blow me up in that length of time.”
I put my fingers on his jacket sleeve and batted my eyelashes. “Why, Richard Yarborough, what a thing to say after all we’ve meant to each other.”
The receptionists looked at each other, eyes widening: my arrival was adding a little excitement to the workday.
Dick’s mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. “It’s because of what we’ve meant to each other. What do you want?”
“Information about Miles Wuchnik.”
“Miles Wuchnik? Who is—oh, the vampire killer’s victim. I don’t know anything about the guy, sorry.”
He slid his shirt cuff up to check the time. His watch was impressive, covered with gold dials and a revolving star map. Maybe the millennium gen have given up watches because they tell time on their cell phones, but nothing says “I’m important” quite like a handmade timepiece.
“He worked for you, Dick. He was one of your firm’s investigators. Surely that was on your ‘important news affecting Crawford clients’ report when you logged on last Monday morning.”
Dick turned to the receptionists. “Celeste, look up Wuchnik—spell it for me, Vic.”
He could have said please, but it was too late to teach him now.
Celeste shook her head. “Mr. Yarborough, I checked when I heard he was dead. He was freelance, mostly working on projects for Eloise Napier, but sometimes for Mr. Ormond.”
Dick turned back to me. “If I say we don’t know anything, you’ll just hack into my firm’s computers, or disguise yourself as an electrician and break into our vault, so let’s settle this now. Celeste, get Ms. Napier and Mr. Ormond to meet us in conference room J for ten minutes.”
Dick had Celeste escort me to conference room J, another tribute to the firm’s billable hours. Webcams were mounted at several stations around the table for ease of teleconferencing, a flat-screen TV took the place of old-fashioned dry-erase boards, and a large oil painting of a woodland scene dominated the facing wall.
The room overlooked the Chicago River. Dick followed me in as I was watching the drawbridges go up for a sailboat. He offered me a drink from a collection on a wood trolley in a corner. In fact, he was more solicitous than I ever remembered him being during our marriage, a fact that made me eye him thoughtfully.
“You remember Leydon Ashford?” I asked, sipping a glass of grapefruit juice.
“That’s right: you two were tight in law school. Sewall and I have worked on civic committees together; she hasn’t aged well.”
“Sewall didn’t look too good when I saw him last week,” I said. “His sister had just been carted off to the hospital with her head bashed in, and all he cared about was his car keys.”
Dick hadn’t heard about Leydon’s accident. He was appropriately shocked but added, “The two of you brought out the worst in me when you were together. It wouldn’t surprise me if you threw Sewall off balance.”
“Who brings out the best in you?” I asked.
The question startled him, but he was saved from answering by the arrival of his colleagues. Eloise Napier, very blond, with a good coating of cosmetics covering any signs of age, held out a hand heavily weighted by gold bracelets. More gold at her ears and throat, and the wheat-colored suit in slubbed rayon, made her look like a giant daffodil. Only her eyes, a cold, shrewd hazel, belied the appearance of a Gold Coast lady who lunched. I noticed she sported one of those jeweled American flags topped by an ear of corn worn by Helen Kendrick supporters.