Flame Out by M. P. Cooley Page B

outstanding warrant?”
    â€œNeither,” I said. “We’re here to see Dan Jaleda.”
    The woman took her hands off her keyboard. “Dan?”
    â€œI think you and I spoke this morning.” I held out my hand. “I’m Officer June Lyons with the Hopewell Falls police department, and this is Hale Bascom, with the FBI. You mentioned he’d be in this afternoon.”
    â€œI’m Ashley,” she said. “And this morning? Not me. I was running some paperwork to the notary.” She paused. “We’re not supposed to give out Dan’s schedule.”
    I had the sense I was getting someone fired. “We explained we were the police and it was important.”
    Her eyes traveled up Hale’s body, eventually reaching his face. “FBI-level important?”
    â€œAgent Bascom is on loan to us for this investigation.”
    â€œLet me try to track Dan down.” She motioned to fabric-covered folding chairs in the corner. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
    I heard her leave a message for her boss, and then she dialed a work site, using her pencil so as not to damage her long burgundy-tipped nails. She called two more numbers and put down the phone.
    â€œAll three sites say he’s ‘just left.’” She sighed, her inability to find him a personal failing. “He’s been the boss for twenty years now, but he spends half his time at sites.”
    â€œKeeps things running smoothly,” Hale said. “Good thing in a boss. We’ll sit here entertaining ourselves. Don’t let us disturb you.”
    She went back to typing, but slowly, keeping half an eye on us. I didn’t mind waiting. Catching him off guard might be our only chance of interviewing him without his wife, Deirdre Lawler. Deirdre was both Bernie’s sister and his lawyer, and she could make my life difficult in any number of ways, cutting off this interview, or worse, keeping me from seeing Bernie. I didn’t want her here, but I also didn’t want to conduct this interview with her in the room.
    I slipped out to the hallway and called the hospital about our burn victim: no change. When I returned, I found Hale tapping away on his BlackBerry, so I spent my time reading through my notes. A few guys came in and out requesting paychecks and paperwork, and with them Ashley was easygoing, calling them “hon” and quizzing them on their plans for the weekend. Having finished reading my notes, I cast around for something to do. A table in front of us displayed a magazine from four and five years back, when Gwyneth Paltrow was still with her husband and Lindsay Lohan was in trouble with the law, which could be any time in the last decade. The rest of the office was designed to look low rent, but I sensed it was intentional. The industryawards lining the walls—almost twenty by my count—undid the “aw shucks” atmosphere.
    Dan Jaleda entered talking. “Yeah. I get it. But the bond issue won’t carry us over, and they have severely underestimated the cost per square foot on that HVAC system.” He stood in front of the desk. He wore the men’s business-casual uniform—khakis and a blue button-down shirt, and his gray hair had a crease where he had been wearing a hard hat. He picked up the mail and began to flip through as he spoke, giving us a brief nod even as he reamed out the person on the other end of the phone.
    â€œI’ve laid this out for you. Multiple times. This was not included in your bid instructions, and we can’t be held to those cost estimates.” He never raised his voice, but his sharp clipped tones made clear that the other person’s opinion was invalid. “You send out an RFP asking for a hot dog, and then get mad when a steak isn’t delivered. Join us in reality anytime you’d like.” He listened. “Get back to me by six or this deal is off.”
    He hung up without saying