“Oh, my. Did you have an appointment with him?”
“Nope. I spent the morning trying to get through on the phone and thought it would be easier to come in person. I’ll talk to his secretary, though; what I need doesn’t require his personal attention.”
“Oh, my,” she repeated helplessly, shaking her feathered curls. “Well, maybe you’d better talk to Catherine. If you’ll have a seat I’ll page her for you. What did you say your name was?”
Catherine Gentry was Freeman’s secretary. Since she hadn’t been answering his phone I didn’t know that she would answer a page. The receptionist’s manner made it clear that something was wrong with Freeman, but it seemed hopeless to get her to tell me anything. I handed her one of my cards and went over to the russet armchairs underneath the Ferraghan. When Dick started at the firm fourteen years ago he’d told me, awed, that the rug was insured for fifty thousand dollars. I suppose it was now worth three or four times that, but Dick’s awe had probably diminished commensurately.
After I’d waited ten minutes, thumbing through the Wall Street Journal and back copies of Newsweek, a thickset young woman came out, whispered something to the receptionist, and came over to me.
“Are you Ms. Warshawski?” She made a credible stab at my last name. “I’m Vivian Copley. I’m one of the paralegals—I’ve done a lot of work for Mr. Carter recently. What did you need to see him about?”
“It’s certainly something you could help me with, but is something wrong with Freeman? I haven’t talked to him for a few weeks.”
She put a hand over her mouth and giggled nervously. “Oh, dear. I hate… I don’t know if we’re supposed… but it’ll probably be in the papers anyway.”
“What?” I demanded sharply. I was getting tired of the helpless fluttering of the office staff.
“He announced his resignation from the firm on Friday. They asked him to pack up on the spot. Catherine’s here today taking care of his files, but she’ll be gone tomorrow. We’re redirecting his clients to other partners, so if you tell me what you needed to see him about we can figure out who the best person to help you would be.”
I studied my nails for a moment, wondering whether to ask for Dick or Todd Pichea. The effect would be electric, but what would I gain from it?
I got up. “Freeman’s been handling my affairs for so many years I wouldn’t feel comfortable working with anyone else. Why don’t you just take me back to Catherine?”
She twisted a strand of hair around a finger. “We’re really not supposed to—”
I smiled firmly. “Why don’t you just take me to Catherine?”
“I think I need to talk to my boss about it first.” She whisked back inside the doors that led to the firm’s offices.
I waited about thirty seconds and followed her. Since I’d never been here before I didn’t know where Freeman’s office might lie. I picked the right-hand corridor at random and walked through the ankle-deep carpet, poking my head into offices and conference rooms. I passed lots of myrmidons laden down with files and computer printouts, but none who knew anything about Freeman Carter.
Crawford, Mead was renting four floors of the building. I came at one point to a private stairwell connecting the floors on the inside. Like the rest of the place it was heavily coated in wood and plush. It seemed weird to me—you buy space in the most modern of glass towers, and then cover it with wood and velvet to make it seem like an ancient courthouse.
When I got to the second floor I finally found an assistant somebody who could direct me to Freeman’s office. The general interdict on giving information to clients apparently had only been issued to the frontline troops. Freeman was—had been—at the far end of the floor we were on. I followed the woman’s directions with only a few missteps and finally found Catherine Gentry stuffing files into packing boxes.
“Vic!” She dropped what she was holding and wiped her hands on her jeans. I’d never seen her out of the severely tailored clothes she thought necessary for her job, or with her hair falling in wisps around her face. I wouldn’t have recognized her on the street.
“Catherine! What’s going on here? They act like Freeman ran off with the company pension fund.”
“They’re acting like the scumbags I always knew they were. I can’t tell you how happy I am that we’re out of this cockroach pit. I don’t even mind having to do all this packing on my own. Well, hardly mind, anyway. Were you on Freeman’s calendar? I thought I caught everyone.” Catherine had grown up in Jackson, Mississippi, and she’d never made any effort to accommodate her accent to the Yankees around her.