"No, I'm sorry," he says, genuinely apologetic. "I should've made an appointment." Gesturing toward the cordless phone I'm placing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, "Was that, uh, anything important?"
"Oh that?" I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into my chair. 'Just mulling over business problems. Examining opportunities... Exchanging rumors... Spreading gossip." We both laugh. The ice breaks.
"Hi," he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. "I'm Donald Kimball."
"Hi. Pat Bateman." I take it, squeezing it firmly. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm sorry," he says, "to barge in on you like this, but I was supposed to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and... well, you're here, so..." He smiles, shrugs. "I know how busy you guys can get." He averts his eyes from the three copies of Sports Illustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with the Walkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slip them into the desk's top drawer along with the still-running Walkman.
"So," I start, trying to come off as friendly and conversational as possible. "What's the topic of discussion?"
"Well," he starts. "I've been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen."
I nod thoughtfully before asking, "You're not with the FBI or anything, are you?"
"No, no," he says. "Nothing like that. I'm just a private investigator."
"Ah, I see... Yes." I nod again, still not relieved. "Paul's disappearance... Yes."
"So it's nothing that official," he confides. "I just have some basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself - "
"Coffee?" I ask suddenly.
As if unsure, he says, "No, I'm okay."
"Perrier? San Pellegrino?" I offer.
"No, I'm okay," he says again, opening a small black notebook he's taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen.
I buzz Jean.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Jean can you bring Mr..." I stop, look up.
He looks up too. "Kimball."
"...Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle - "
"Oh no, I'm okay," he protests.
"It's no problem," I tell him.
I get the feeling he's trying not to stare at me strangely. He turns back to his notebook and writes something down, then crosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and she places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glass tumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful, worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles and nods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently, I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping my hands together, sitting up. "Well, what's the topic of discussion?" I say again.
"The disappearance of Paul Owen," he says, reminding me.
"Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about the disappearance or anything..." I pause, then try to laugh. "Not on Page Six at least."
Kimball smiles politely. "I think his family wants this kept quiet."
"Understandable." I nod at the untouched glass and bottle, and then look up at him. "Lime?"
"No, really," he says. "I'm okay."
"You sure?" I ask. "I can always get you a lime."
He pauses briefly, then says, "Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own files, okay?"
"Shoot," I say.
"How old are you?" he asks.
'Twenty-seven," I say. "I'll be twenty-eight in October."
"Where did you go to school?" He scribbles something in his book.
"Harvard," I tell him. "Then Harvard Business School."
"Your address?" he asks, looking only at his book.
"Fifty-five West Eighty-first Street," I say. "The American Gardens Building."
"Nice." He looks up, impressed. "Very nice."
"Thanks." I smile, flattered.
"Doesn't Tom Cruise live there?" he asks.
"Yup." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Suddenly I have to close my eyes tightly.
I hear him speak. "Pardon me, but are you okay?"
Opening my eyes, both of them tearing, I say, "Why do you ask?"
"You seem... nervous."
I reach into a drawer in my desk and bring out a bottle of aspirin.
"Nuprin?" I offer.
