clicked shut behind me, Ms. DeMarco stood up. Nancy DeMarco. Medium build, Harpo hair, and late of the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination. Empire Insurance “enjoyed” one of the worst sex-discrimination-in-promotion records in the Northeast, and Ms. DeMarco had been the one who crammed it down the company’s throat. I’d met her once across a crowded conference-room table. Aside from an Empire stenographer, she had been the only woman present. And DeMarco won.
“Mr. Cuddy,” she acknowledged.
I stopped at a leather chair, and we all sat down together. “Well,” I said, “this doesn’t seem to be my day for surprise attacks.”
Silence from them.
And from me, too.
Then Perkins: “Why are you here?”
“You must have discovered that in the process of finding out who I am.”
“Amateurish, Mr. Cuddy. That phone call, I mean.”
“Look, Mr. Perkins,” I said, “let’s stop the urinating contest. Notice I avoided ‘pissing’ out of respect for your decor. You’re one of the best in Boston at what you do. You’ve been asked to find Stephen Kinnington. So have I. He appears to have run away, so there is probably no criminal element behind the disappearance, and therefore no bad guy to tip-off. Why don’t we share information and coordinate those efforts?”
“Our client does not appreciate your involvement, Mr. Cuddy.”
“Does the judge appreciate that every hour we don’t find Stephen increases the chances that we won’t find him?”
“We will find the boy—and, as soon as this conference is over, Ms. DeMarco can resume her efforts in that direction.”
I looked over at Ms. DeMarco. She was looking at Perkins without expression.
I rose and sidled toward the door. “Mr. Perkins, I guess I can understand why you don’t want to tell me what you know. What I can’t understand is why you don’t want to find out what I know.”
I turned the knob. “Amateurish, Mr. Perkins. Or worse.”
Nine
I HAD A DRINK at P.J. Clarke’s while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I’d had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you’re-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
“I don’t like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father’s First at eight P.M. ”
I might have had some question about the voice, but not the “discriminating” tag. I wondered if she’d wear a disguise.
I dialed Eleanor Kinnington’s number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
“What have you to report?” asked my client.
“Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face.”
“Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?”
“It does,” I said, and I summarized my day for her.
Mrs. Kinnington sounded like a little girl when she spoke again. “I should have realized that your prediction about his discovering you would prove accurate. I am an old woman, Mr. Cuddy, autocratic and perhaps even cranky. Stephen is all I care about anymore. I will pay you to search for him until you advise me it’s hopeless.”
“I’ll call you again when I know more.”
“By the way, I was never contacted by this DeMarco girl regarding Stephen.”
“That’s odd. Maybe she thought it best not to disturb you.”
“Perhaps that’s what she was told to think.”
I was nodding as I hung up. I drummed my fingers on the tape machine, then dialed another number.
Valerie picked it up on the second ring.
“It’s John Cuddy,” I said.
“Oh, John, how are you doing? What have you found out?”
“Not too much. I’d like to ask you some questions about Stephen.”
“Oh, I’m ten minutes late for a tennis match now, and Marie will have
“Mr. Cuddy,” she acknowledged.
I stopped at a leather chair, and we all sat down together. “Well,” I said, “this doesn’t seem to be my day for surprise attacks.”
Silence from them.
And from me, too.
Then Perkins: “Why are you here?”
“You must have discovered that in the process of finding out who I am.”
“Amateurish, Mr. Cuddy. That phone call, I mean.”
“Look, Mr. Perkins,” I said, “let’s stop the urinating contest. Notice I avoided ‘pissing’ out of respect for your decor. You’re one of the best in Boston at what you do. You’ve been asked to find Stephen Kinnington. So have I. He appears to have run away, so there is probably no criminal element behind the disappearance, and therefore no bad guy to tip-off. Why don’t we share information and coordinate those efforts?”
“Our client does not appreciate your involvement, Mr. Cuddy.”
“Does the judge appreciate that every hour we don’t find Stephen increases the chances that we won’t find him?”
“We will find the boy—and, as soon as this conference is over, Ms. DeMarco can resume her efforts in that direction.”
I looked over at Ms. DeMarco. She was looking at Perkins without expression.
I rose and sidled toward the door. “Mr. Perkins, I guess I can understand why you don’t want to tell me what you know. What I can’t understand is why you don’t want to find out what I know.”
I turned the knob. “Amateurish, Mr. Perkins. Or worse.”
Nine
I HAD A DRINK at P.J. Clarke’s while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I’d had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you’re-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
“I don’t like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father’s First at eight P.M. ”
I might have had some question about the voice, but not the “discriminating” tag. I wondered if she’d wear a disguise.
I dialed Eleanor Kinnington’s number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
“What have you to report?” asked my client.
“Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face.”
“Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?”
“It does,” I said, and I summarized my day for her.
Mrs. Kinnington sounded like a little girl when she spoke again. “I should have realized that your prediction about his discovering you would prove accurate. I am an old woman, Mr. Cuddy, autocratic and perhaps even cranky. Stephen is all I care about anymore. I will pay you to search for him until you advise me it’s hopeless.”
“I’ll call you again when I know more.”
“By the way, I was never contacted by this DeMarco girl regarding Stephen.”
“That’s odd. Maybe she thought it best not to disturb you.”
“Perhaps that’s what she was told to think.”
I was nodding as I hung up. I drummed my fingers on the tape machine, then dialed another number.
Valerie picked it up on the second ring.
“It’s John Cuddy,” I said.
“Oh, John, how are you doing? What have you found out?”
“Not too much. I’d like to ask you some questions about Stephen.”
“Oh, I’m ten minutes late for a tennis match now, and Marie will have
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