logical assumption is the company won’t be there long. Marble or granite, though, and that shows permanence. This company was here twenty years ago, and still would be in a hundred years. He was sure of that.
Tony went inside. The lobby and reception area on the third floor, where the sign on the first floor said the marketing director’s office was, reminded Tony of one of those influential law BOOM TOWN 83
firms with a hundred lawyers working for Microsoft. Marble walls. Columns. Stone floors. Again, permanence.
An older woman, who still tried her best to look young, sat at an oak desk, a phone notched between her ear and shoulder as she flipped through an appointment book. She was dressed top to bottom in gray wool. Under her blazer was a white satin blouse.
Tony stood patiently waiting for her to get off the phone, gazing at the water colors on the wall. Someone had studied the French impressionists. Finally the woman hung up.
“May I help you, sir?” she said. Her voice had a Tootsie quality, only perhaps a bit more masculine than Dustin Hoffman.
“Yes. I’m Tony Caruso. Here to see Mr. James Burton.”
She checked her appointment book, even though Tony was sure she knew he wasn’t on it.
“Mr. Burton has an appointment in ten minutes,” she said.
He thought quickly. “What about Frank Peroni?”
Her eyes shot up at him. Surprised. That’s what he’d hoped for.
James Burton’s office was probably as impressive as the reception area. Would have been, if Burton hadn’t covered his desk and credenza with mounds of papers that must have taken a small forest to produce.
Burton himself was a tall, stout man in his mid-forties. His remaining hair was a blond gray mix, slicked back, trying to cover bare spots. He wore a fine domestic suit with enough mate-rial to make two suits of normal size. His tiny round spectacles could have been a matching pair of the ones Dawn Sanders wore.
Burton stood and shook Tony’s hand. Firm. Businesslike.
Tony took a seat in a leather chair that seemed to invite him to stay there forever.
He told the lock man he was a private investigator representing a credit company looking for Frank Peroni. It was as good a lie as any.
“I’m afraid Frank no longer works for us,” Burton said, adjusting his glasses even though they didn’t need it.
Tony pulled out a small notebook, flipped through a few pages, 84
TREVOR SCOTT
and stopped on a page where he had scribbled a few notes. It was really his grocery list from when he had first gotten to the condo in Bend.
“Says here he’s an account representative,” Tony said, using the fancy term for a lock and hardware salesman.
“Was, Mr. Caruso. As I’ve said, he’s no longer with us.”
Tony turned a page in his notebook and shook his head. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him?”
The man shook his head and his jowls stopped shaking a few seconds after his chin.
“We sent him to Bend over two weeks ago,” Burton said. “He never came back.”
This conversation was taking a dive in a hurry. But Tony had had a little time to think about what would concern two Portland detectives in a simple missing person, that could have been merely a man who didn’t want to be found. So he bluffed.
“Something else is missing from the company besides Frank Peroni,” Tony said. Accused actually.
Burton’s reaction was incredible. Would have gotten a D in high school drama for that performance.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Burton said.
Bullshit! That’s what Tony wanted to say. Instead, he said,
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Burton hoisted his body up and rolled toward the door. He opened the door and turned toward Tony. “Our conversation is over, Mr. Caruso.”
Tony got up and headed out, but stopped right in front of Burton, his finger pointing at the guy’s sternum. “You want to get what’s yours, you should have talked with me.”
Tony took off and went to the elevator.
Tony went inside. The lobby and reception area on the third floor, where the sign on the first floor said the marketing director’s office was, reminded Tony of one of those influential law BOOM TOWN 83
firms with a hundred lawyers working for Microsoft. Marble walls. Columns. Stone floors. Again, permanence.
An older woman, who still tried her best to look young, sat at an oak desk, a phone notched between her ear and shoulder as she flipped through an appointment book. She was dressed top to bottom in gray wool. Under her blazer was a white satin blouse.
Tony stood patiently waiting for her to get off the phone, gazing at the water colors on the wall. Someone had studied the French impressionists. Finally the woman hung up.
“May I help you, sir?” she said. Her voice had a Tootsie quality, only perhaps a bit more masculine than Dustin Hoffman.
“Yes. I’m Tony Caruso. Here to see Mr. James Burton.”
She checked her appointment book, even though Tony was sure she knew he wasn’t on it.
“Mr. Burton has an appointment in ten minutes,” she said.
He thought quickly. “What about Frank Peroni?”
Her eyes shot up at him. Surprised. That’s what he’d hoped for.
James Burton’s office was probably as impressive as the reception area. Would have been, if Burton hadn’t covered his desk and credenza with mounds of papers that must have taken a small forest to produce.
Burton himself was a tall, stout man in his mid-forties. His remaining hair was a blond gray mix, slicked back, trying to cover bare spots. He wore a fine domestic suit with enough mate-rial to make two suits of normal size. His tiny round spectacles could have been a matching pair of the ones Dawn Sanders wore.
Burton stood and shook Tony’s hand. Firm. Businesslike.
Tony took a seat in a leather chair that seemed to invite him to stay there forever.
He told the lock man he was a private investigator representing a credit company looking for Frank Peroni. It was as good a lie as any.
“I’m afraid Frank no longer works for us,” Burton said, adjusting his glasses even though they didn’t need it.
Tony pulled out a small notebook, flipped through a few pages, 84
TREVOR SCOTT
and stopped on a page where he had scribbled a few notes. It was really his grocery list from when he had first gotten to the condo in Bend.
“Says here he’s an account representative,” Tony said, using the fancy term for a lock and hardware salesman.
“Was, Mr. Caruso. As I’ve said, he’s no longer with us.”
Tony turned a page in his notebook and shook his head. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him?”
The man shook his head and his jowls stopped shaking a few seconds after his chin.
“We sent him to Bend over two weeks ago,” Burton said. “He never came back.”
This conversation was taking a dive in a hurry. But Tony had had a little time to think about what would concern two Portland detectives in a simple missing person, that could have been merely a man who didn’t want to be found. So he bluffed.
“Something else is missing from the company besides Frank Peroni,” Tony said. Accused actually.
Burton’s reaction was incredible. Would have gotten a D in high school drama for that performance.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Burton said.
Bullshit! That’s what Tony wanted to say. Instead, he said,
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Burton hoisted his body up and rolled toward the door. He opened the door and turned toward Tony. “Our conversation is over, Mr. Caruso.”
Tony got up and headed out, but stopped right in front of Burton, his finger pointing at the guy’s sternum. “You want to get what’s yours, you should have talked with me.”
Tony took off and went to the elevator.
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