took a bite of sandwich and studied Kelsey while I chewed. She was my friend, but I also knew the Steele matter was not to be discussed throughout the office. The party line would be that he was taking some unexpected but unavoidable personal time to handle family matters. But I knew Kelsey would never buy that. Like me, she’d been around Woobie too long to swallow fish stories whole.
“Truth is, we still don’t know what’s happened to him, but that’s not what you’ll be hearing.”
She chuckled. “Typical.”
I put down my sandwich and wiped my messy hands on a napkin. “Please, Kelsey, go along with whatever stories are fed to the staff. It’s important.”
She looked into my face a long time —studying me, probing my brain without permission. “They have you looking into it, don’t they?”
With a sigh, I surrendered and confessed. “Yes, they do. The firm is filing a missing person report with the police. Then I’m to contact all his friends and family and see if I can turn up any information.” I took a long drink of iced tea. “The firm has a valid reason to keep this quiet. Please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“Don’t worry, pal, I won’t, but only for your sake, not Steele’s.” She picked up her sandwich. Just before taking a bite, she said, “You’re not going to end up in any danger, are you?”
“Danger? Sheesh, you’re as bad as Greg about this stuff.” But looking at Kelsey, I could see she was worried. “Trust me, Kelsey, all I’m doing is making a few calls to his gym rat buddies and talking to a few long-lost relatives. How dangerous can that be?”
Kelsey chewed and swallowed. “For a normal person, a day at the beach; for you, life-threatening.”
Instead of going back to the office after lunch, I retrieved my car from the parking garage and headed for Laguna Beach. At this morning’s meeting, I disclosed to the partners that I had a key to Steele’s home, as well as his office passwords. They asked me to take a run by his condo if no one had heard from Steele by noon. They had read my mind. Before leaving for work this morning, I had fished Steele’s key out of its hiding place with the idea of doing just that.
Steele lives in a condominium on Blue Lagoon Lane in Laguna Beach. I had never been there, but I knew the area and guessed that Steele must live almost on top of the beach.
Laguna Beach is about thirty to forty-five minutes from our office, depending on traffic; more if the freeway is tied up. Being that it was the middle of the day and not rush hour, I made it down the 73 Freeway and onto Laguna Canyon Road in good time. Laguna Canyon Road winds through a lovely rural park area, an area given to raging fires in some dry seasons, and comes out into the densely populated business district of the upscale beach town and artist enclave. Just before it reaches the web of small streets and boutiques, it passes two art areas. On the left is the location of the Sawdust Festival, which boasts over two hundred local artists during its twice-yearly art shows. On the right is the location of the Laguna Beach Festival of the Arts and home of the legendary Pageant of the Masters. My chest tightened, remembering that just a few months ago, Greg and I had attended the pageant and marveled together at the masterpieces reenacted on-stage by living, breathing subjects.
Pushing my personal grief aside, I continued, turning left onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few miles later, I turned right onto Blue Lagoon. I was not wrong; Steele did live almost on top of the beach.
I have to hand it to Steele, the man has wall-to-wall impeccable taste. Unlike his office, which is cold and austere in shades of black, white, and silver, with black-lacquered furniture, his home was warm and inviting, yet still very masculine. The flooring was travertine tile with muted area rugs in the entry and living room, and the walls were covered in textured taupe paint. In the living room was a
“Truth is, we still don’t know what’s happened to him, but that’s not what you’ll be hearing.”
She chuckled. “Typical.”
I put down my sandwich and wiped my messy hands on a napkin. “Please, Kelsey, go along with whatever stories are fed to the staff. It’s important.”
She looked into my face a long time —studying me, probing my brain without permission. “They have you looking into it, don’t they?”
With a sigh, I surrendered and confessed. “Yes, they do. The firm is filing a missing person report with the police. Then I’m to contact all his friends and family and see if I can turn up any information.” I took a long drink of iced tea. “The firm has a valid reason to keep this quiet. Please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“Don’t worry, pal, I won’t, but only for your sake, not Steele’s.” She picked up her sandwich. Just before taking a bite, she said, “You’re not going to end up in any danger, are you?”
“Danger? Sheesh, you’re as bad as Greg about this stuff.” But looking at Kelsey, I could see she was worried. “Trust me, Kelsey, all I’m doing is making a few calls to his gym rat buddies and talking to a few long-lost relatives. How dangerous can that be?”
Kelsey chewed and swallowed. “For a normal person, a day at the beach; for you, life-threatening.”
Instead of going back to the office after lunch, I retrieved my car from the parking garage and headed for Laguna Beach. At this morning’s meeting, I disclosed to the partners that I had a key to Steele’s home, as well as his office passwords. They asked me to take a run by his condo if no one had heard from Steele by noon. They had read my mind. Before leaving for work this morning, I had fished Steele’s key out of its hiding place with the idea of doing just that.
Steele lives in a condominium on Blue Lagoon Lane in Laguna Beach. I had never been there, but I knew the area and guessed that Steele must live almost on top of the beach.
Laguna Beach is about thirty to forty-five minutes from our office, depending on traffic; more if the freeway is tied up. Being that it was the middle of the day and not rush hour, I made it down the 73 Freeway and onto Laguna Canyon Road in good time. Laguna Canyon Road winds through a lovely rural park area, an area given to raging fires in some dry seasons, and comes out into the densely populated business district of the upscale beach town and artist enclave. Just before it reaches the web of small streets and boutiques, it passes two art areas. On the left is the location of the Sawdust Festival, which boasts over two hundred local artists during its twice-yearly art shows. On the right is the location of the Laguna Beach Festival of the Arts and home of the legendary Pageant of the Masters. My chest tightened, remembering that just a few months ago, Greg and I had attended the pageant and marveled together at the masterpieces reenacted on-stage by living, breathing subjects.
Pushing my personal grief aside, I continued, turning left onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few miles later, I turned right onto Blue Lagoon. I was not wrong; Steele did live almost on top of the beach.
I have to hand it to Steele, the man has wall-to-wall impeccable taste. Unlike his office, which is cold and austere in shades of black, white, and silver, with black-lacquered furniture, his home was warm and inviting, yet still very masculine. The flooring was travertine tile with muted area rugs in the entry and living room, and the walls were covered in textured taupe paint. In the living room was a
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