Read Online JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home by Peter Spiegelman - Free Book Online

Director of Research. Immediately beneath his name was his assistant’s, Giselle Thomas. Neary had put a check alongside it. Below her, also with a check by her name, was Irene Pratt, Assistant Director of Research. Halfway down the page, another name was marked: Anthony Frye, Telecommunications Research. Leafing through the rest of the directory, I found only one other name with a check beside it: Dennis Turpin. According to the directory, Turpin was head of the legal department— the chief in-house counsel. Turpin, Neary had told me, was the guy who had had the shouting match with Danes, right before Danes’s sudden vacation. I carried my coffee to the table and picked up the phone.
    Giselle Thomas answered on the first ring. Her voice was mature and musical and Caribbean. I asked for Danes and there was a little sigh at the other end of the line.
    “Who’s calling, please?” I gave her my name. “Mr. Danes isn’t in, Mr. March. Is there someone else? Irene Pratt, maybe?”
    “When is the last time Mr. Danes was in, Ms. Thomas?”
    She paused. “I need to refer you to Ms. Mayhew, in Corporate Communications, sir.”
    “Does she know when you last heard from Mr. Danes? Does she know where you think I might find him?”
    Giselle Thomas laughed. It was liquid and pleasant. “Well, Mr. March, I can’t say exactly what Ms. Mayhew knows, but I expect it’s many things. And she’ll be pleased to tell you, I’m sure. Shall I transfer you?”
    “I understand the company has its rules, Ms. Thomas, and I appreciate that you’ve got to follow them, but it’s not Ms. Mayhew who can help me, it’s you. You know Mr. Danes. You’ve worked with him for— how long has it been? If you’d rather not talk at the office, I’d be happy to meet you someplace. Just name the spot.”
    She laughed some more. “You sound like a nice fellow, Mr. March, you do. And it’s nice that you want to talk to me. But that just isn’t going to happen. Now, would you like me to put you through to Nancy Mayhew?” I declined politely and rang off.
    I tried Irene Pratt’s number next, but it was answered immediately by a computer voice that asked me to leave a message. Giselle Thomas had made it sound like Pratt was in the office, so I hung up and waited five minutes and tried again. The result was the same. I skipped down to Anthony Frye.
    Frye’s line also went straight to voice mail, but the voice on the recording was a woman’s and the message was brief. Anthony Frye was no longer employed by Pace-Loyette, and any inquiries should be made to Irene Pratt. I made a note to find a home number for him and tried Pratt’s line once more. This time I got through.
    “Research, Pratt,” she said quickly. I introduced myself and asked her if she knew how I might get in touch with Gregory Danes.
    “And this is in reference to what?” she said. Her voice was high and nasal, and she had a faint Long Island accent. She sounded impatient, and I heard pages turning at her end.
    “This is in reference to the fact that I’d like to know where he is.”
    “Greg is on leave. If you want to know anything else, you’ve got to talk to Nancy Mayhew in Communications.”
    “Have you heard anything from him in the last five weeks, Ms. Pratt? Has anyone there?”
    “You’re with who, March?”
    “I’m an investigator, and I’m trying to locate Gregory Danes.”
    “You’re with the police?” she said. I had her full attention now.
    “I’m a private investigator. Have you heard from him, Ms. Pratt?” She was quiet for a while, and when she answered she spoke softly and more slowly.
    “I’m sorry, but … I really can’t help you. Let me give you Nancy Mayhew’s number.” She read it to me and said good-bye.
    I sighed and worked the kinks from my neck. All roads seemed to lead to Nancy Mayhew. I punched her number.
    Nancy Mayhew and I got on first-name terms right away. She was crisp and smart and friendly, and she laughed like an aunt