like to speak with a Darren McDonnell - if in fact he still works here.”
“Oh, he comes here everyday,” she said with a devilish smirk. “If what he does behind closed doors can be classified as work however, is quite debatable.” She gave me a wink. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it?” she added. “Who should I say is here to see him?”
“Steve Cassidy. I’m a private investigator.”
“Did his wife hire you?”
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, wanting to make sure I’d heard her correctly.
“His wife - Anne,” she stated emphatically. “It wouldn’t be the first time you know.”
“First time for what?”
“Just what kind of investigator are you anyway?”
“I do mostly insurance work.”
“No marital cases?” “Not often.”
“Too bad,” she said as if suddenly disgusted with me and my trade. “Anne deserves better you know.”
Before I could agree with her she was dialing an extension on her console and then relayed my request to Mr. McDonnell’s secretary.
“No, Betty, he’s not working for Anne,” she said looking up at me with a smile on her face. She then terminated the line, handed me a visitor’s pass and pointed to a nearby set of elevators.
“Go up to the top floor and turn to the left. Betty - Mr. McDonnell’s assistant - will meet you there.”
“Thanks,” I said, walking away from the desk. As I waited for the elevators to return to ground zero, I caught the receptionist eyeing me. “By the way,” I said, turning to face her. “How long have Darren and Betty been getting it on?”
She let out a motherly sigh. “About three months. Every Friday afternoon at the Pantages Hotel.”
The elevator doors opened and I stepped in. Just as the doors closed I heard her say, “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“It’ll be our little secret,” I called back through the metal doors, not sure and not really caring if she’d heard me.
A few moments later, I stepped out onto the tenth floor and was immediately greeted by Betty, a beautiful young black woman who reminded me of Halle Berry. Not only did she look like a model, but the blue dress she was wearing clung so tightly to her shapely curves, I could have sworn it had been painted on. I resisted the overwhelming temptation to find out if it was dry or not.
Anne McDonnell should be worried, I thought. Very worried.
As we strolled down the hallway engaged in small talk, I attempted to do the impossible and keep my eyes from wandering across her body. But while I was doing this, I was surprised - and also a bit flattered - to realize that she too was finding it hard to keep her eyes focused on my face.
For a fleeting second I thought, Darren McDonnell should be worried. Very worried.
“You don’t look like a P.I.,” she said, bursting my ego driven fantasy like a soap bubble.
“Is that a good or bad thing?” I queried.
“Neither good nor bad, I guess,” she stated dismissively, clearing up nothing. “Mr. McDonnell is very busy. Can I ask the purpose of your visit? You know - to help speed things up.”
“Well for the record, I just want to ask your boss about a man named Barry Jones. They used to work together.”
Her face suddenly looked worried, as she tried to place the name. “Is this Mr. Jones in some kind of trouble?” she ventured.
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out,” I replied, clearing up nothing. Sensing she wasn’t going to get any more information out of me, Betty turned and briefly entered the doors to our left.
“Mr. McDonnell will see you now,” she said upon her return.
“Thank you,” I replied as I walked into her lover’s inner sanctum.
On first sight I took an instant dislike to the man.
Darren McDonnell was perhaps forty-seven, with a medium build and a face more than just his mother could love. His posture was perfect, yet stiff - as if he’d been trained by the military how to stand erect. And I guessed his clothes alone - the tailored grey Brook Brothers suit, starched white shirt and high polished black loafers - together probably cost a couple of grand. Or the equivalent take home pay I was going to make from this one file.
It wasn’t just how Darren McDonnell presented himself that made me leery. It was the man’s overpowering aura of self-importance. He simply oozed the stuff.
I knew everything about the man before we even exchanged the usual salutations. When working on a domestic violence task force a few years back, I’d interviewed men identical to McDonnell over and over again - each one seemingly oblivious to the fact that slapping their wife upside the head was a crime. Even when being questioned, these mavericks of big business believed they were somehow above the law. Unfortunately, due to the quick work of their divorce lawyers, in the end no charges were ever laid. No courts were convened and no harm to their precious old boys’ reputations came to fruition. I’m not trying to imply Darren McDonnell is a wife beater - just that he fits the profile.
To a tee.
“Steve, right?” he said striding across the room toward me, his hand outstretched.
“Yes, Steve Cassidy,” I replied, reluctantly shaking his hand. “I’m here about Barry Jones - a former colleague of yours.”
McDonnell shook his head as he offered me a big cushy seat in front of his enormous cherry wood desk.
“Pity about Barry. He had his whole life ahead of him.”
“You speak in the past tense,” I said, hoping to get back to my van as soon as possible.
“The man’s dead, isn’t he?” McDonnell countered.
“That’s one explanation for his prolonged absence.”
I watched for McDonnell’s reaction to the possibility Jones could still be alive, but Mr. Smooth didn’t as much as blink at the news.
“Well if he’s still breathing and you find him, say ‘Hey’ from me.”
“So the prospect of Mr. Jones vanishing of his own free will doesn’t surprise you?”
“Let me put it this way, Mr. Cassidy,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m from the old school that believes if you don’t find a body - you can’t confirm a death. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule,” he was quick to add. “Like where enough circumstantial evidence exists that proves 99 out of 100 times that a person is dead. But in Barry’s case . . .”
“There’s no body.”
“Not only that, there’s no
