Page 30 of Fade Out
That theme continued when the door opened and I was on the fourth floor. The space in front of me was an open hodge-podge of mismatched desks from the fifties and sixties. Some of them had CRTs on them, a few still had typewriters, many were bare. I stepped into the room and looked around. There were a couple of writers around, busily working, none of them were Gloria. To my right were some offices with glass walls. I craned my neck to see if I could find her.
“I’m over here,” said a voice behind me. I turned around and Gloria was standing in the doorway of another glass office on the opposite side of the room. She was tall and slender; wearing a navy jacket, pleated white skirt, nautically-themed shell (semaphores) and a showy pair of navy-and-white Spectators. I had the feeling she’d bought the shoes first and worked her way up. Her hair was very blond, and blown out and moussed so it made her head look twice as big.
“Hello Gloria,” I said.
She looked me up and down like I was a stain on her favorite blouse and walked back into her office. I followed her. Her desk was French provincial, either something she’d bought herself or something she’d demanded. Behind her was an antique credenza which held dozens of framed photos of her with local and national celebrities. Above that, in an elaborate gilt frame, a rather realistic portrait of her deceased husband, Earl Silver. It was a good enough likeness that I almost said hello.
“You know I was tempted not to let you up here,” she said. “Am I going to regret this?”
I closed the door and sat down in her very comfortable guest chair. “I’ve been arrested for murdering Rita Lindquist. I’m out on bail. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It was on page three.”
“Good God, you don’t think I actually read the dreck we print? If it’s not in theNew York TimesI know nothing about it.”
Somehow I doubted that. Taking the file I’d been carrying out from under my arm, I said, “There are a few names I’d like to ask you about.”
“You realize I don’t know everyone in Chicago. Though I’m sure it seems like I do.”
“Richard Crisp.”
She left a short pause. “Richard is on the board at the opera. He’s a well-respected businessman. Very charming. Well, very rich, and that’s considered charming.”
“Anthony Papalopolus.”
“He owns that Greek restaurant in Old Town. Zorba’s. I made the mistake of mentioning it once in the column. Now he calls every week hoping I’ll mention it again.”
“Elliot and Diane Buckman.”
“The Buckmans are personal friends. What does this have to do with your killing Rita Lindquist?”
“I didn’t kill Rita. In fact, I don’t even think she’s dead.”
“Well, that’s not very nice of you. Teasing me with the idea the bitch might be dead.” Her voice was a combination of venom and sugar. “How could they arrest you for the murder of someone still alive?”
“They found a corpse in a box outside my office. No hands, no head.”
She visibly shivered and stared at me for a long moment. From her desk, she picked up a glass paperweight. There were several more nearby. I guessed she must collect them.
“As interesting as that is, I don’t see what it has to do with 618 North Wells.”
“I didn’t mention 618 North Wells.”
“Yes, I know. I thought I’d save some time. The people you asked about are all on the board. I’m guessing you want information on the rest of the board?”
“I do.”
“How tiresome.”
“Arturo Luna.”
She paused again. I thought she might throw one of the paperweights at me. That didn’t stop me from saying, “I’m beginning to understand your relationship with Rita.”
“What does that mean?”
“I talked to an old friend this morning. He used to be on the job. He told me that Gunner Lindquist had a long history of blackmailing people. I have a feeling the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“You think Rita has been blackmailing me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I’m saying IknowRita has been blackmailing you.”
