Never Street by Loren D. Estleman

to his wrist, to show me he’d meant what he said about fifteen minutes.
    “How’s Neil been acting lately?”
    “Same as everyone in this goddamn business, jumpy. The Democrats threaten to shut down television violence, the Republicans threaten to cut public broadcasting subsidies, some little old lady in Taylor complains about her cable bill, and everyone scrambles for a parachute. If it’s security you’re after, take a civil service exam.”
    “You wouldn’t know that to see this office,” I said. “Not everything in here is fake.”
    He smiled at his reflection in a jade bowl containing erasers and paper clips on the desk. “I admit I’m a sucker for plush things. On top of that I’m supporting two ex-wives and a house in Farmington Hills. It helps to be hungry when you’re in charge of financing. God knows Neil isn’t. You’ll probably find him in a little shit theater someplace, watching The Seventh Seal for the thousandth time.”
    “Can I see his office?”
    “I’ll have Ms. Yin show you.” He reached for his intercom.
    When he was through, I thanked him for his time. We shook hands. At the door I said, “Mrs. Catalin’s brother is missing, too. His name’s Brian Elwood. Do you know him?”
    No cloudy membrane now; his eyes would cut paper. “He came to take Neil home once when his car was in the shop. I caught the little punk going through Neil’s desk while he was in the john. He said he was looking for cigarettes. I told him if I saw him around here again I’d call the police. I will, too. A thief is worse than a murderer in my book.”
    I let myself out.

Seven
    J UDY Y IN WAS WAITING for me in the hallway. She was tall for an Asian, which made her medium height by American standards, the top of her head just clearing my shoulder in three-inch heels. Her smile was cool, as might be expected. Nothing about her would bring water to a boil; around the office, anyway. I’d had some experience with these professional types.
    “Mr. Catalin’s office is this way, Mr. Walker.” She opened an arm and followed it. I followed her. She wore trim-fitting brown stirrup pants with the champagne-colored blouse, and she hadn’t anything in the pockets.
    Neil Catalin’s office was a poor working cousin of his partner’s, a third smaller and less demanding on the eye. It had a plain desk and file cabinet and a chipboard table containing a combination TV and VCR with a ten-inch screen and a stack of videotapes in plastic sleeves. A computer terminal on a stand, too, of course, but the hell with that. It wouldn’t tell me anything the rest of the office and a kid with glasses in South Bend didn’t already know. The only personal items were a smiling picture of Gay Catalin in a silver frame on the desk and a two-by-three-foot movie poster behind glass on one wall: Gilda, starring Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford.
    The painting of the red-headed bombshell dancing in a low-cut evening gown was nearly identical to the etching on the glass door leading into the reception area. That explained the name of the outfit.
    The receptionist hovered inside the door. I said, “Mr. Webb said you’d look up Vesta Mannering’s work number.”
    “Yes, I’ll do that before you leave.” She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms.
    I opened the desk drawers and found the usual desk stuff, rubber bands and pencil shavings and unremarkable contraband. The message pad by the telephone was blank. None of the titles hand-lettered on the videotape sleeves on the table meant anything to me. I poked one into the gate and turned on the TV. I watched two minutes of an infomercial for a miraculous new product that turned fresh fruit into compost.
    “One of our most successful projects,” said Ms. Yin when I turned it off. “Our client sold sixty thousand units in Metropolitan Detroit alone.”
    I tried the drawers of the file cabinet. They were locked. I made a show of giving up and looked at my watch. “Okay if I