A Fine Mess

Chapter 22

Gil Petchorik sat in his office, chewing the paint off a pencil as he tapped data into his computer. A drooping Prayer plant on the corner of the desk—a touch of house and garden by his secretary— bounced in time with his hunt and peck rhythm. In the outer office the frustrated decorator and all round company engine, fielded calls from reporters and industry watchdogs as well as the usual bevy of corporate crime ghouls, all begging for information on their client, Brian Cathcart. Gil paused, spitting fragments from his mouth and listened for a moment as she deftly disposed of each with a polite brevity one could only dream of possessing and shook his head in admiration.

Brian was almost manic in his insistence that he had nothing to do with the tapes, which, if he was to be believed, left only one conclusion—they were faked. How to prove that was Gil's current dilemma and he was drafting rough scenarios that he could use as his version of the big blackboard, which his secretary wouldn't permit to clutter the office. How to prove...

"Line one, Pet," she called, breaking his concentration. She was the only person who used the contraction of his surname as a form of address. She said it was her right as his personal assistant and hardest worker in the two-person office; the emphasis on personal was usually followed with a broad wink.

"Petchorik here."

"You rang, Master?" The lazy voice eased down the line into Gil's ear and he leaned back in his chair, smiling.

"My favourite P.I. Thanks for the quick response." He pictured the caller with fondness and not a little wishful lust.

"I usually like to drag it out a bit, but for you, Gil... well just for you."

"Right. Listen, have you got some free time to give me a hand?"

"Just a hand?"

He sat forward and rubbed his forehead. This was the only woman who could turn any and every remark into a sexual connotation. "Jarlayne, this is serious, okay?"

"Never any doubt, Gil. What do you need?"

Twenty minutes later, Jarlayne Brighton, P.I., highly successful, super confident and uncontested man-eater, was fully briefed and given her assignment and Gil was back roughing out scenarios.

"Lunch time, Pet, going out?" Deborah Weiss leaned on the doorframe, buttoning the cuff of her blouse. "Your pad is clear until four-fifteen, that personal injury guy who's wife crowned him with a paint can?"

"I've gotta lose that case somehow. This thing with Brian is going to take every minute I can spare." He gave her a helpless look. Her short dark hair feathered about a wide forehead, dusting the finely trimmed eyebrows that arched over her solid blue eyes. Deborah's eyes always stopped people when they first met her. It was like looking at pieces of cobalt backlit with a gold light.

"I'll speak to his wife," Deborah soothed. "Explain to her that guys don't know squat about colour selection. See if she won't back off."

"I can't believe she's claiming mental anguish over a can of paint, look at what the poor guy suffered for cryin' out loud."

"Yeah, yeah. Poor guy. So what about lunch?" She ran her thumbs around the waist of her skirt, smoothing her blouse.

"Can you wait ten while I print some of this out? I want your opinion and more of your perspicacious input."

"Perspicacious! Ooooh, sounds like a long lunch."

"Just a long word, Deb, too much to do in a short time."

"Daley's all right?"

"Sure."

"I'll call and save a table- maybe a booth would be better, eh?"

"Yeah, room to spread this stuff out. By the way, Jarlayne is on the case. Open a billing file will you and work out a budget for her."

Deb huffed and pushed off the frame, spinning and walking back into her office. Gil could hear her mutter Jarlayne's name and smiled to himself knowing both women, while liking and respecting one another, seemed to create sparks when they were in close quarters.

Daley's was a throwback diner with Formica tables and vinyl upholstery. The ceiling was pressed tin painted white and yellowed from years of smoke and grease that also found its way into the baseboard corners and around the edges of the booths, darkening the already dull mastic tiles. Forties style posters, curling at the corners, of apple-cheeked soda jerks in white caps, waving ice cream scoops, adorned the cracked stucco walls between the Venetian blind covered windows. The big feature of Daley's was the number of miracle dishes that came off the griddle. On some days people lined the sidewalk hoping to get in before their lunch hour was over. In the end, most settled for a brown bag take-out.

Regulars like Gil and Deborah rarely had trouble getting seats and today was no different. In the corner of the L-shaped room, a prime booth, they huddled together over Gil's printouts, sneaking fries and onion rings off each other's plate while they talked.

"I have to believe him, Deb. You didn't see him, he almost gets hysterical when any mention of the tapes comes up."

"That could be a case of severe guilts."

"Nah, not Brian, I've known this guy a long time and corny as it sounds, he's a straight shooter."

"So it's self defense... or manslaughter." She sucked the breading off a slice of onion and munched the exposed flesh with a little moan. "God these are good."

Gil licked his lips and dragged his eyes away from her mouth. "Self defense I can go with but only if I can squash the tapes."

"Well there's a damn good motive there," she remarked, pointing to one of his printouts showing the breakdown of company shares. "Maybe the wife did do some manipulating somehow."

"Christ if only. I've listened to them over and over. They're authentic. Even the cops ran them through their system and gave them a genuine seal of approval." He swallowed some coffee, made a face and waved to the waitress. "It just doesn't make sense. I spoke to the corporate lawyer, a Myles Forbin, and the other management type, whatshisname, Delacourte, they both allowed as how Brian was contacting Moira exclusively about her shares. They were all for this merger business and agreed that because of the relationship he should be the one to work on her."

"Pet, if they're real it does make sense and your friend is guilty." Gil shook his head and frowned at the papers, biting the skin on his lower lip.

"Let's hope Jarlayne can come up with something."

Deb sat back and picked up her Coke, sipping thoughtfully. "What about those other guys, Forbin and Tenniscourt?"

"Delacourte. Peter Delacourte. He's the financial guy. Forbin's the lawyer."

She slurped another onion ring. "So what about them? They have shares, right? Any joy in looking at those two?"

"For what?"

"Motive, Gil. Maybe one of those guys is in cahoots with the wife."

"Well, it's unlikely but we'll soon know anyway."

"You already considered looking into the wife, didn't you?"

"Just logic, Deb. If Brian's telling the truth then Moira Weston must be involved somehow." He saw her mouth turn down and he shifted sideways in the seat. "Jarlayne does stuff like this better than anybody, you know that. Your insight is right on and I rely on it... a lot but let's let a pro do what a pro does."

"It's going to cost you a hunk of banana cream pie." She interrupted with a daring jut of a cute chin.

"Already this case is losing me money!"