Death on a High Floor by Charles Rosenberg

.?”
    “Yes, he made careful note of it when you two imbeciles let him in here.”
    Jenna just glowered at him, and I could tell she wanted to hit him. But he was right. We had been imbeciles.
    “What about the security cameras in the lobby?” I asked.
    “According to Spritz they were reported ‘out-of-order’ sometime late on Thursday. Supposedly. They were to be repaired on Monday morning.”
    Oscar got up, clearly getting ready to leave. “I think I need to talk to this Apacha woman. Have you got her home number, Jenna?”
    “Yeah. Somewhere they gave everybody a list of how to reach the security people day and night. I’ll have to find it.”
    “Why don’t you call me with it?”
    “Can I just e-mail it to you?”
    “I don’t have a computer.”
    “What’s your cell number, then?”
    “I don’t have one of those, either.”
    “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got your regular number. I’ll call you with it.”
    “Good.” He stood up and left.
    I got up, too, and said, “Jenna, I think it’s time to go home. Maybe we can even do it without hearing more bad news on our way out.”
    “Yeah, let’s go,” she said.
    She got up and started to head for the door. And almost fell over. Fortunately, I was right next to her and managed to catch her before she went down.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, and collapsed back into the couch.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “Not really. I threw up right before our meeting with Oscar. I still don’t feel very good.”
    “Do you have the flu?”
    “Uh, yes, I guess so.”
    I eyed her. I could have sworn that she had hesitated before answering me. I hoped to God she wasn’t hiding something awful. The year before, a young associate had died of brain cancer. It had all started with his throwing up. But I didn’t press her.
    “Okay, Jenna. Why don’t you sit for a few more minutes. I’ll check with Gwen about my phone calls, and then we can try again. Do you want us to get you something? A Coke, maybe? That can calm your stomach.”
    “No, I’ll be okay. I just need to gather myself.”
    “Okay.”
    I walked out to Gwen’s desk. She got up and came around to me, holding a small pad on which she had obviously written a list of names.
    “Mr. Tarza, you’ve gotten seventeen phone calls. Do you want all of them?”
    “No. Just tell me the important ones.”
    “Okay. Your former wife keeps calling. She says she’s being hounded by the National Enquirer . Says she doesn’t want to talk to them. But it sounds like she’s going to if you don’t call her back.” She paused. “I never did like her.”
    “I’ll call her. I promise. Who else who’s important?”
    “Your daughter. She called again about needing airfare.”
    “Call her and tell her my lawyer doesn’t want her to come back right now.” It’s always great to blame things on your lawyer.
    “Anyone else?”
    “Peter Penosco. He seems annoyed, too. Complained you didn’t return his call of yesterday. And someone named Serappo Prodiglia. He called four times. Says he knows you.” She hesitated. “Is there really someone with that name?”
    “Yes.”
    Gwen said nothing. She was clearly waiting for me to tell her who Serappo Prodiglia was.
    “He’s a rare coin dealer.”
    “I’ve never heard of him before,” she said.
    It was a reproach of sorts. Why hadn’t I ever mentioned him to her? That was the unspoken question. Gwen had once explained to me that having a top secretary was like being married. She had to know everyone you knew and where you were going and what you did when you got there. Otherwise, she had explained, it would be embarrassing for her.
    “I haven’t talked to him in more than ten years.”
    “I was here ten years ago.” She paused. “He refused to give me his contact information. I’ll just get it from you later, I guess.” She huffed back behind her desk.
    I went to call Peter Penosco. Jenna was still sitting on the couch, although she looked a bit less