so?”
“Among other things, she was frightened,” Maggie Mills said.
“I know. Do you think she came to you because she was scared?”
Maggie Mills shook her head briskly.
“She came to me because her ego couldn’t take it,” Maggie Mills said. “She couldn’t stand being fired.”
“Did you gather she was afraid of her boss?”
“I didn’t gather anything,” Maggie Mills said. “She didn’t speak of it. But I have been in business for a long time, and I can recognize a frightened woman.”
“You have any reason to think she was suicidal?” I said.
“The police asked me the same thing,” Maggie Mills said. “And I’ll answer you the same thing I answered them. I’m an attorney, not a psychiatrist. I don’t know what someone is like when they are suicidal. But it seems odd to me, personally, that she would hire a lawyer and then kill herself.”
“At least until the bill came.”
“The death of a young woman should not evoke levity,” she said.
“One of my failings,” I said, “is finding levity where it doesn’t belong.”
“What is your interest in the case?”
“It may be pertinent to another case I’m working on,” I said.
“Do you have any other interest?”
“She came to me and told me she was scared and I reassured her.”
“And you are now reconsidering that?”
“It would have been nice if I’d done something useful.”
Maggie Mills studied me for a time. “So her death is not solely an occasion for levity.”
“Not solely,” I said.
“I didn’t help her either,” Maggie Mills said.
I nodded.
“It seems that both of us might have failed her.”
“Seems possible,” I said.
“It is my intention to continue to look into the gender discrimination matter,” Maggie Mills said.
“Even though your client is dead.”
“The crime didn’t die with her,” Maggie Mills said. “If either of us discovers anything, perhaps we could share it.”
“I’m already employed by Cone Oakes,” I said.
“This is not a professional matter,” Maggie Mills said. “This is personal.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.” CHAPTER THIRTY It was Marvin Conroy’s turn. No one at the bank knew where he was. His ferocious-looking secretary knew only that he wasn’t there. She had no idea where he was. On my way out I picked up a copy of the bank’s annual report and took it with me. I found it difficult to believe that no one at the bank knew where the CEO was, so I went and sat in my car across the street and looked at the report. In the front was a big picture of Nathan Smith and, on the facing page, a big picture of Marvin Conroy. He looked as if someone had advertised for an actor who looked like a chief executive. Square jaw, receding hair, clear eyes that looked right through the camera lens. I put the report aside with Conroy’s picture up, and waited.
At 2:15 he came out of the bank and walked down First Street, toward the Cambridge Galleria, a big shopping center that backed up onto the old canal. This part of Cambridge wasn’t one where a lot of people walked, and I had to let him get pretty far ahead of me to keep from being obvious. But Conroy wasn’t looking for a tail. He was a big guy with a good tan and an athletic stride. He was balder than his picture indicated, but he made no attempt to conceal the fact, wearing his hair very short. It looked like he went to a good barber.
He went into the Galleria with me behind him and walked straight to the food court. He stood in line for a meatball sandwich and a large Coke, and when he got it took it to an empty table. It was a standard shopping-center food hall with maybe fifteen fast food outlets surrounding an open area full of small tables. The patrons were mostly adolescent kids, as was the service staff.
I’d been hoping we’d end up at an elegant club that catered to CEO’S. But experienced detectives are flexible. I bought a cup of coffee and went over and sat down at his table with him. He
“Among other things, she was frightened,” Maggie Mills said.
“I know. Do you think she came to you because she was scared?”
Maggie Mills shook her head briskly.
“She came to me because her ego couldn’t take it,” Maggie Mills said. “She couldn’t stand being fired.”
“Did you gather she was afraid of her boss?”
“I didn’t gather anything,” Maggie Mills said. “She didn’t speak of it. But I have been in business for a long time, and I can recognize a frightened woman.”
“You have any reason to think she was suicidal?” I said.
“The police asked me the same thing,” Maggie Mills said. “And I’ll answer you the same thing I answered them. I’m an attorney, not a psychiatrist. I don’t know what someone is like when they are suicidal. But it seems odd to me, personally, that she would hire a lawyer and then kill herself.”
“At least until the bill came.”
“The death of a young woman should not evoke levity,” she said.
“One of my failings,” I said, “is finding levity where it doesn’t belong.”
“What is your interest in the case?”
“It may be pertinent to another case I’m working on,” I said.
“Do you have any other interest?”
“She came to me and told me she was scared and I reassured her.”
“And you are now reconsidering that?”
“It would have been nice if I’d done something useful.”
Maggie Mills studied me for a time. “So her death is not solely an occasion for levity.”
“Not solely,” I said.
“I didn’t help her either,” Maggie Mills said.
I nodded.
“It seems that both of us might have failed her.”
“Seems possible,” I said.
“It is my intention to continue to look into the gender discrimination matter,” Maggie Mills said.
“Even though your client is dead.”
“The crime didn’t die with her,” Maggie Mills said. “If either of us discovers anything, perhaps we could share it.”
“I’m already employed by Cone Oakes,” I said.
“This is not a professional matter,” Maggie Mills said. “This is personal.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.” CHAPTER THIRTY It was Marvin Conroy’s turn. No one at the bank knew where he was. His ferocious-looking secretary knew only that he wasn’t there. She had no idea where he was. On my way out I picked up a copy of the bank’s annual report and took it with me. I found it difficult to believe that no one at the bank knew where the CEO was, so I went and sat in my car across the street and looked at the report. In the front was a big picture of Nathan Smith and, on the facing page, a big picture of Marvin Conroy. He looked as if someone had advertised for an actor who looked like a chief executive. Square jaw, receding hair, clear eyes that looked right through the camera lens. I put the report aside with Conroy’s picture up, and waited.
At 2:15 he came out of the bank and walked down First Street, toward the Cambridge Galleria, a big shopping center that backed up onto the old canal. This part of Cambridge wasn’t one where a lot of people walked, and I had to let him get pretty far ahead of me to keep from being obvious. But Conroy wasn’t looking for a tail. He was a big guy with a good tan and an athletic stride. He was balder than his picture indicated, but he made no attempt to conceal the fact, wearing his hair very short. It looked like he went to a good barber.
He went into the Galleria with me behind him and walked straight to the food court. He stood in line for a meatball sandwich and a large Coke, and when he got it took it to an empty table. It was a standard shopping-center food hall with maybe fifteen fast food outlets surrounding an open area full of small tables. The patrons were mostly adolescent kids, as was the service staff.
I’d been hoping we’d end up at an elegant club that catered to CEO’S. But experienced detectives are flexible. I bought a cup of coffee and went over and sat down at his table with him. He
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