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Authors: Jane Haddam
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agent and with 15 percent of this you can afford to take me to Lutece for dinner. How’s that?”
“Images called,” Dana said.
I sighed. “I tried,” I said. “I really did. But I haven’t had any sleep and I look lousy in the Images style and I don’t understand if I have to go on television why I can’t just—”
“You can’t,” Dana said. “I told you when we started. If you want to go this route, you have to keep in shape, you have to look the part, you have to play by the rules. If you want to be famous, McKenna, you have to look famous.”
“Everybody famous has to look like everybody else famous?”
“Maybe Images was the wrong place,” Dana said. “But we’ve tried you with Estee Lauder and Merle Norman and Elizabeth Arden and even Mary Kay, for God’s sake. You managed to get yourself thrown out of Mary Kay.”
“I’ve got to go over to AST,” I said, getting into my jacket. “Someone in PR wants to talk promotion on the paper.”
The buzzer went off on Dana’s desk. She picked up the receiver, listened for a minute, then hung up. “Damn Phoebe Damereaux,” she said. “There’s a cop in Reception waiting to talk to me.”
Radd Stassen was not a cop. He was, as he put it, “a private.” The challenge was to discover a private what. Radd Stassen had thirty-two expensively capped teeth, tinted contact lenses that made his eyes look rabbit pink, and tiny embroidered emblems sewn onto all his clothes. His hair was slicked back and sleek, like a lounge lizard’s in a silent movie. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to give an impression of energy.
He was carrying an outsized manila envelope. He patted it fondly, sat down without waiting to be asked, and crossed his legs at the knees.
“I represent Jane Minetti Brady,” he said. “We’re going to call you as a witness in a civil suit.”
On the other side of the desk, Dana shifted in her chair, frowned, tapped her forehead. She didn’t know what was in her office, which meant she couldn’t decide if I should be there.
Radd Stassen decided for her. He put his face very close to mine, squinted, and nodded emphatically. “The blonde,” he said. “I’ve got notes about a blonde.” He took an untidy mess of papers from the manila envelope and shuffled through them. “Pat Campbell,” he said.
“Patience,” I said. “Patience Campbell McKenna.”
“Same thing,” he said.
I did not know what to do with someone who thought “Pat Campbell” and “Patience Campbell McKenna” were the same thing. I hunkered down into my coat, warding off the cold that was more a function of fatigue than room temperature. I was falling asleep. If Dana and Radd Stassen got into something surreal, I could pass out in my chair.
One look at Dana’s face should have told me that no matter how surrealistic Radd Stassen might be as a person, his mission was anything but. She was suddenly very alert, erect and rigid in her swivel chair, eyes forward, frown plastered from one side of her jaw to the other. She looked the way she looks when someone mentions money in contract negotiations.
“I haven’t come for information,” Radd Stassen said. “We’ve got information.”
“What have you come for?” Dana asked him. “Doughnuts?”
Radd Stassen smiled. It amounted to a neck-tightening grimace and a shimmer of teeth.
“We already know you act as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady,” he said.
“Bob Brown acts as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady,” Dana said. “Would you like his number?”
“You act as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as”—Radd Stassen checked his papers—“Melissa Crowell.” He put the papers on his knees and patted the edges of the stack, pretending to straighten them. “It’s in your capacity as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as Melissa Crowell that we’re going to call you in the civil suit. Jane Minetti Brady has a certain amount of interest in Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as
“Images called,” Dana said.
I sighed. “I tried,” I said. “I really did. But I haven’t had any sleep and I look lousy in the Images style and I don’t understand if I have to go on television why I can’t just—”
“You can’t,” Dana said. “I told you when we started. If you want to go this route, you have to keep in shape, you have to look the part, you have to play by the rules. If you want to be famous, McKenna, you have to look famous.”
“Everybody famous has to look like everybody else famous?”
“Maybe Images was the wrong place,” Dana said. “But we’ve tried you with Estee Lauder and Merle Norman and Elizabeth Arden and even Mary Kay, for God’s sake. You managed to get yourself thrown out of Mary Kay.”
“I’ve got to go over to AST,” I said, getting into my jacket. “Someone in PR wants to talk promotion on the paper.”
The buzzer went off on Dana’s desk. She picked up the receiver, listened for a minute, then hung up. “Damn Phoebe Damereaux,” she said. “There’s a cop in Reception waiting to talk to me.”
Radd Stassen was not a cop. He was, as he put it, “a private.” The challenge was to discover a private what. Radd Stassen had thirty-two expensively capped teeth, tinted contact lenses that made his eyes look rabbit pink, and tiny embroidered emblems sewn onto all his clothes. His hair was slicked back and sleek, like a lounge lizard’s in a silent movie. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to give an impression of energy.
He was carrying an outsized manila envelope. He patted it fondly, sat down without waiting to be asked, and crossed his legs at the knees.
“I represent Jane Minetti Brady,” he said. “We’re going to call you as a witness in a civil suit.”
On the other side of the desk, Dana shifted in her chair, frowned, tapped her forehead. She didn’t know what was in her office, which meant she couldn’t decide if I should be there.
Radd Stassen decided for her. He put his face very close to mine, squinted, and nodded emphatically. “The blonde,” he said. “I’ve got notes about a blonde.” He took an untidy mess of papers from the manila envelope and shuffled through them. “Pat Campbell,” he said.
“Patience,” I said. “Patience Campbell McKenna.”
“Same thing,” he said.
I did not know what to do with someone who thought “Pat Campbell” and “Patience Campbell McKenna” were the same thing. I hunkered down into my coat, warding off the cold that was more a function of fatigue than room temperature. I was falling asleep. If Dana and Radd Stassen got into something surreal, I could pass out in my chair.
One look at Dana’s face should have told me that no matter how surrealistic Radd Stassen might be as a person, his mission was anything but. She was suddenly very alert, erect and rigid in her swivel chair, eyes forward, frown plastered from one side of her jaw to the other. She looked the way she looks when someone mentions money in contract negotiations.
“I haven’t come for information,” Radd Stassen said. “We’ve got information.”
“What have you come for?” Dana asked him. “Doughnuts?”
Radd Stassen smiled. It amounted to a neck-tightening grimace and a shimmer of teeth.
“We already know you act as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady,” he said.
“Bob Brown acts as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady,” Dana said. “Would you like his number?”
“You act as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as”—Radd Stassen checked his papers—“Melissa Crowell.” He put the papers on his knees and patted the edges of the stack, pretending to straighten them. “It’s in your capacity as agent for Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as Melissa Crowell that we’re going to call you in the civil suit. Jane Minetti Brady has a certain amount of interest in Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as
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