AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The phone clicks off and I hear the window yank open. It wrenches with a creak the way a medieval tomb would. The keys fall down, landing right into my hand.
10
Pierce White’s office placard bears only three words beneath his name: Assistant Regional Manager.
The company Pierce works for has a large complex in downtown Saint Ansgar but White’s office is located in a satellite building ten miles north. From the outside, the single-story building is non-descript, the way business parks that don’t rely on foot traffic are: neutral earth tones, subtle landscaping, glass and store front signs designed to label as opposed to advertise.
I walk up to the receptionist and say: “Pierce White?”
She looks up from her Hollywood gossip rag and says, “Who? Me?”
“Which way to his office, sweetheart?”
She looks to her left and stammers. I just start walking that way. Corner office. Vertical blinds opened behind floor-to-ceiling windows that flank his closed door. Pierce White, Assistant Regional Manager.
I knock. See him through the glass. He stirs. Looks up. Perplexed. Thinks about not answering his door.
Pierce White: white guy, spends time at the gym but he’s not hard. That much is obvious by how absolutely beautiful his hands are. Dark, thick hair. Fat black slashes for eyebrows. Wire-rimmed glasses that say, Hey, I’m studious.
I stare at him. His eyes dart away. I knock again; a ram on a castle door. A picture falls from his inside wall. Two heads poke out of cubicles. He gets the message. Stands. Spends a long moment behind his desk, weighing options. Finally he subconsciously adjusts his tie one-handed and comes around the desk. Opens the door.
“Yes, Mister ...?” He adjusts his glasses with his left hand. Shiny wedding ring on the third finger.
“Boy, you bounced back after Brandy Medco.” Shove past him. Tour the office space. Smells like Pledge and Old Spice. I whistle and pretend I’m impressed. Weasels like him always bounce back.
“Excuse me, but I don’t know what—”
I turn and square up to him. Imposing. “When was the last time you spoke with Delilah Boothe?”
“Who do you think you are just barging in here—”
“My name is Richard Dean Buckner. I’m a detective looking for Ms. Boothe. Now answer me.”
“Hold on a minute now, do I need my lawyer?”
“Will he take an ass-beating for you?”
“I—uhhh...no.” Leary. Guarding now. His body language shows he’s afraid. Good. He leans back, half-cowering over his desk. Making distance.
“Then I don’t see what help he would be to you.”
He straightens up. Tries to be big. It doesn’t make him any manlier.
New angle: “Married again?” I point to his hand. “Moved on past Janet?”
“How do you know my ex-wife?”
“I am looking for the woman that caused Janet White to revert back to her maiden name. Richley, right? Janet Richley?”
Sweating now. Looks about.
“When was the last time you saw Delilah Boothe?”
Calm. Too calm: “I haven’t seen Delilah in quite some time.”
“You blew up after she squawked about your affair at the wrong water cooler?”
Straightens his tie again. Red rises in his neck and ears at the mention of his old catastrophe. Then: “I was justifiably angry when the girl I was sport-fucking told every blabber mouth in the office of Brandy Medco that one day she and I would be married. I never said I cared for her, let alone love her. Let alone marry her. Whatever delusions that split-tail conjured up while I was wasting time with her...they’re her own business. But, she made them my problem.
