phone she sounded genuinely upset. “Chip was a nice man.” She paused. “But maybe you’ll have better luck convincing your clients to accept our offer. They’re not going to win, and this is a time sink for our client.”
“I didn’t know there had been a settlement offer.”
“Oh, several. The current one is more than generous.”
“I’m just now digging into this. I’ll have to unearth it.”
“I’ll e-mail the latest offer to you so you can at least see it, and fax over a hard copy,” Peggy offered.
“Okay. I’m meeting with my clients this week. I’ll let you know what they say.”
“When do you want to reschedule the deposition?”
“How about three weeks. The twenty-eighth?” I suggested. I heard the quick click of the keys on a computer keyboard.
“Sorry, that won’t work for me. I’ve got a trial and it’s scheduled to last a month.” There was silence and more keyboard clicks. “Actually, right after Labor Day would be my first opportunity.”
Oh God, Mr. Gelb, don’t die, I thought, but I agreed. There wasn’t any other choice.
“Okay, then. September seventh?”
“Sounds good.” More clicks. “I’ll let the court reporter know. I look forward to meeting you, Linnet.”
“Same here.”
I went back to scrounging through the boxes. I found something that wasn’t part of the Abercrombie case, a real estate dispute about the placement of a fence separating two backyards in Queens. Whoopie. I also unearthed a dispute with a contractor over the remodel of a bathroom in a condo in Yonkers. Double whoop.
My computer chimed, announcing a new e-mail had arrived. It was from Peggy, and the settlement offer was attached. I opened the file and looked at the amount. Four million. Not bad for a shit case.
I returned to the boxes and found a stack of pink phone messages for Chip, all of which had come in yesterday while I was out of the office. I riffled through the pile like a card dealer in Atlantic City, just to get a sense of the names. Eleven of the messages were from a Syd Finkelstein.
It was now early evening. I was getting hungry and thought I’d done enough for my first day back. I eyed the last box, and decided to just dig through the final five inches to see if anything interesting turned up.
Apparently, whoever had packed up Chip’s office had just thrown things into boxes, because in among the papers pertaining to Abercrombie I found a file marked May Divorce . I opened it, read the first few statements in Elizabeth May’s Petition for Divorce, jumped out of my chair, and let out a shout of excitement. I hastily sat back down, withering under the glares from my fellow associates. Well, to hell with them.
I had hit pay dirt.
* * *
Even though it was eight o’clock there was a light shining through the frosted, bumpy glass of the office door. Stenciled on the glass were the words John O’Shea, Private Investigator. There was something so forties and Sam Spade about the old brownstone building, the corner office, the old-fashioned door and lettering. O’Shea might deny it, but he was as flamboyant as his Álfar brethren in playing a role.
I knocked, and the lilting tenor invited me, “Come on in, it’s unlocked.”
I did, and found O’Shea sitting behind a desk in shirtsleeves, tie askew, wearing a shoulder rig. The butt of a gun thrust out of the holster.
“Ms. Ellery, isn’t it?” he said. He eyed the folder I was carrying.
“You have a good memory,” I said.
“You’re a little hard to forget, seeing as how your picture is plastered all over the papers.” I blushed, and he laughed. He came around from behind the desk and led me over to a battered old leather sofa. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I may have a lead on who killed Chip.” I handed him the file.
“Okay, and you’re telling me and not the police … why?”
“Because it involves a case, and I’ve already gotten spanked for giving information about
“I didn’t know there had been a settlement offer.”
“Oh, several. The current one is more than generous.”
“I’m just now digging into this. I’ll have to unearth it.”
“I’ll e-mail the latest offer to you so you can at least see it, and fax over a hard copy,” Peggy offered.
“Okay. I’m meeting with my clients this week. I’ll let you know what they say.”
“When do you want to reschedule the deposition?”
“How about three weeks. The twenty-eighth?” I suggested. I heard the quick click of the keys on a computer keyboard.
“Sorry, that won’t work for me. I’ve got a trial and it’s scheduled to last a month.” There was silence and more keyboard clicks. “Actually, right after Labor Day would be my first opportunity.”
Oh God, Mr. Gelb, don’t die, I thought, but I agreed. There wasn’t any other choice.
“Okay, then. September seventh?”
“Sounds good.” More clicks. “I’ll let the court reporter know. I look forward to meeting you, Linnet.”
“Same here.”
I went back to scrounging through the boxes. I found something that wasn’t part of the Abercrombie case, a real estate dispute about the placement of a fence separating two backyards in Queens. Whoopie. I also unearthed a dispute with a contractor over the remodel of a bathroom in a condo in Yonkers. Double whoop.
My computer chimed, announcing a new e-mail had arrived. It was from Peggy, and the settlement offer was attached. I opened the file and looked at the amount. Four million. Not bad for a shit case.
I returned to the boxes and found a stack of pink phone messages for Chip, all of which had come in yesterday while I was out of the office. I riffled through the pile like a card dealer in Atlantic City, just to get a sense of the names. Eleven of the messages were from a Syd Finkelstein.
It was now early evening. I was getting hungry and thought I’d done enough for my first day back. I eyed the last box, and decided to just dig through the final five inches to see if anything interesting turned up.
Apparently, whoever had packed up Chip’s office had just thrown things into boxes, because in among the papers pertaining to Abercrombie I found a file marked May Divorce . I opened it, read the first few statements in Elizabeth May’s Petition for Divorce, jumped out of my chair, and let out a shout of excitement. I hastily sat back down, withering under the glares from my fellow associates. Well, to hell with them.
I had hit pay dirt.
* * *
Even though it was eight o’clock there was a light shining through the frosted, bumpy glass of the office door. Stenciled on the glass were the words John O’Shea, Private Investigator. There was something so forties and Sam Spade about the old brownstone building, the corner office, the old-fashioned door and lettering. O’Shea might deny it, but he was as flamboyant as his Álfar brethren in playing a role.
I knocked, and the lilting tenor invited me, “Come on in, it’s unlocked.”
I did, and found O’Shea sitting behind a desk in shirtsleeves, tie askew, wearing a shoulder rig. The butt of a gun thrust out of the holster.
“Ms. Ellery, isn’t it?” he said. He eyed the folder I was carrying.
“You have a good memory,” I said.
“You’re a little hard to forget, seeing as how your picture is plastered all over the papers.” I blushed, and he laughed. He came around from behind the desk and led me over to a battered old leather sofa. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I may have a lead on who killed Chip.” I handed him the file.
“Okay, and you’re telling me and not the police … why?”
“Because it involves a case, and I’ve already gotten spanked for giving information about
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