voice was throaty and female. I had reached the Newcomb residence.
Chapter 10
There were three Newcombs listed in the phone book—a Bill, a Carla and a J.P. Carla’s number matched the one I’d dialed, but it was one of those listings with no address. I’d taken a step forward, only to run smack into a brick wall. I cursed my luck, double-checked the phone number, and tried to figure out what ploy I could use to convince Carla to give me her address. Then I thought of Nick Logan, a friend from law school whose specialty is brick walls.
Early on, Nick spent a couple of years with a major downtown law firm, then jumped ship to follow his first love, computers. He still maintains a small legal practice heavily weighted with pro bono cases, but he derives most of his income (and his pleasure) from his work as an information broker. I’ve always been impressed with the term, but Nick tells me it’s just a fancy name for computer snoop. Of course, I find that impressive, too.
Nick answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey babe,” he said, “don’t tell me you’ve got your nose to the grindstone at this hour.”
“I’m not at the office. Not even in San Francisco.” I explained about my father’s death and my trip home to sort things out. “But it wouldn’t be unusual to find the firm’s associates still toiling away at this hour,” I told him.
“Not anymore. From what I hear things have really gone to hell in a hand basket over there.”
“They’ve put off taking on any new partners, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, and they’ve also put off giving raises and bonuses.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Bonuses had always been a significant part of our compensation.
“I had lunch with Sara. She says everybody’s pretty bummed out.”
Sara Stewart was an associate a couple of years behind me. She’s also an on-again-off-again girl friend of Nick’s. I’d introduced them years back. I’ve tried to stay out of their way since, so I didn’t pursue the lunch angle, but it was the only heartening sliver of news he’d handed me.
“Terrific,” I said gloomily. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“So don’t.” Nick’s been telling me for years I’m making myself old for nothing.
“At the moment, I don’t have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice, babe. But you didn’t call me for spiritual advice, did you?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to get an address for me.”
He chuckled. “I figured it was something like that.”
I gave him Carla’s name and number, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he could. Then I sat and stared at the blank page I’d pilfered from Eddie’s office. Was Carla his companion on those nights he’d claimed to be staying at the tavern? Was she somehow tied in with the ten thousand? There weren’t many women who would lend that kind of money to a married lover. Not willingly anyway, and not without some pretty steep assurances. What about the tavern buy-out and Eddie’s self-proclaimed need for legal advice? Was any of it connected or was I simply chasing my tail?
I had questions. Lots of them. But I was short on answers, and there wasn’t a whole lot more I could do about it right then. I didn’t want to sit and brood about my future at Goldman & Latham either, so I decided to tackle my father’s desk, a chore I’d been putting off all week.
My father believed in the open drawer system of record keeping. His desk was an old fashioned oak roll-top, and every nook, cranny, cubbyhole and drawer was stuffed to overflowing. Bills, announcements, coupons, credit can receipts, empty match boxes—they were all jumbled in there together. There was clearly going to be no central record of what he owed or owned. He’d gotten along just fine, but the probate process required hard data, exact figures, and inordinate attention to detail. All three were in short supply. In order to come up with a schedule of assets and
Chapter 10
There were three Newcombs listed in the phone book—a Bill, a Carla and a J.P. Carla’s number matched the one I’d dialed, but it was one of those listings with no address. I’d taken a step forward, only to run smack into a brick wall. I cursed my luck, double-checked the phone number, and tried to figure out what ploy I could use to convince Carla to give me her address. Then I thought of Nick Logan, a friend from law school whose specialty is brick walls.
Early on, Nick spent a couple of years with a major downtown law firm, then jumped ship to follow his first love, computers. He still maintains a small legal practice heavily weighted with pro bono cases, but he derives most of his income (and his pleasure) from his work as an information broker. I’ve always been impressed with the term, but Nick tells me it’s just a fancy name for computer snoop. Of course, I find that impressive, too.
Nick answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey babe,” he said, “don’t tell me you’ve got your nose to the grindstone at this hour.”
“I’m not at the office. Not even in San Francisco.” I explained about my father’s death and my trip home to sort things out. “But it wouldn’t be unusual to find the firm’s associates still toiling away at this hour,” I told him.
“Not anymore. From what I hear things have really gone to hell in a hand basket over there.”
“They’ve put off taking on any new partners, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, and they’ve also put off giving raises and bonuses.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Bonuses had always been a significant part of our compensation.
“I had lunch with Sara. She says everybody’s pretty bummed out.”
Sara Stewart was an associate a couple of years behind me. She’s also an on-again-off-again girl friend of Nick’s. I’d introduced them years back. I’ve tried to stay out of their way since, so I didn’t pursue the lunch angle, but it was the only heartening sliver of news he’d handed me.
“Terrific,” I said gloomily. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“So don’t.” Nick’s been telling me for years I’m making myself old for nothing.
“At the moment, I don’t have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice, babe. But you didn’t call me for spiritual advice, did you?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to get an address for me.”
He chuckled. “I figured it was something like that.”
I gave him Carla’s name and number, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he could. Then I sat and stared at the blank page I’d pilfered from Eddie’s office. Was Carla his companion on those nights he’d claimed to be staying at the tavern? Was she somehow tied in with the ten thousand? There weren’t many women who would lend that kind of money to a married lover. Not willingly anyway, and not without some pretty steep assurances. What about the tavern buy-out and Eddie’s self-proclaimed need for legal advice? Was any of it connected or was I simply chasing my tail?
I had questions. Lots of them. But I was short on answers, and there wasn’t a whole lot more I could do about it right then. I didn’t want to sit and brood about my future at Goldman & Latham either, so I decided to tackle my father’s desk, a chore I’d been putting off all week.
My father believed in the open drawer system of record keeping. His desk was an old fashioned oak roll-top, and every nook, cranny, cubbyhole and drawer was stuffed to overflowing. Bills, announcements, coupons, credit can receipts, empty match boxes—they were all jumbled in there together. There was clearly going to be no central record of what he owed or owned. He’d gotten along just fine, but the probate process required hard data, exact figures, and inordinate attention to detail. All three were in short supply. In order to come up with a schedule of assets and
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