Read Online Silent Thunder by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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the corner. Any other day there would have been four or five old copies of the Detroit News in it; today it was the Free Press and sixteen not-quite-empty cartons from the Chinese take-out place in the next block. I gave up.
Upstairs in my reception room, Constance Thayer looked up from an old magazine and told me I had a piece of Mandarin orange on my lapel.
9
I PLUCKED THE PIECE of spoiled fruit off my jacket and dropped it in the smoking stand. The glamour of detective work never dims.
I unlocked the door to the inner office and held it for her. The suit was tan today, the blouse gold and caught at the neck with a jade brooch in an antique gold setting. She carried a brown leather handbag into the office and leaned it against one leg of the customer’s chair when she sat down. With some women the things are just props. Her hair was red in the sunlight.
On my way in I picked up the mail under the slot, sat down behind the desk, and shuffled through it. There were no checks today, just bills and a letter with the stylized owl that Reliance Investigations used for a logo printed in the corner. I knew what it would contain, but since she didn’t seem in a mood to talk just yet I opened it. It was computer-printed on stiff steel-gray stock to match the envelope and Krell’s shrapnel tie clasp. This one should have been pink. I read it a second time more slowly, just as if I were alone, then laid it aside and folded my hands on the blotter like Barry Fitzgerald.
“Was yesterday morning a special occasion, or does a drink any old time of the day sound better than a kick in the teeth?” I asked.
“I—I’d like a drink very much.”
I brought up the bottle and two glasses. I wasn’t sure about them, so I took them into my little water closet, washed them, and splashed an inch of water into each, letting it run first. Back at the desk I colored the water and handed her one. I raised the other.
“Carthage must be destroyed.”
She laughed slightly and we clinked glasses. Although she looked like a sipper, she took the top off hers like a steeplejack. An orange flush climbed her cheeks under the tan.
“Do you always keep it in the drawer?” she asked. “Like a gumshoe?”
“I did a job for a cabinetmaker once who offered to install one of those trick bars that come out from behind the paneling. But I’d have had to walk clear across the office.”
“I didn’t drink or use anything at all when I met Doyle, not even when I made those films. He got me started with Irish coffee. That was before the cocaine.”
“Still do it?”
She shook her head. “I’m allergic to the smell of hundred-dollar bills.”
“Me too.”
She smiled politely. I had some more and set my glass on the blotter. “You talked to Dorrance?”
“Yes. He was very angry with Mr. Krell for hiring you without consulting him.”
“Krell has some old-fashioned ideas. He thinks he can run his own business his own way.”
“You sound as if you admire him. Yesterday I had the impression—”
“The right one. But he’s his own man, even if it’s on his wife’s money, and he employs only the best. Those that will put up with him, anyhow; they generally don’t for long.” I folded my hands again. Body language. “You didn’t come here to write a book about Ernest Krell.”
“I came here to re-hire you.”
“Does Dorrance know?”
“He thinks I’m home. I tried to call you earlier, but your service said you were out. I took a chance on catching you here.”
“Where’s home these days?”
“I’m staying with my sister in Redford.” She studied me. “You think I’m a coward, don’t you?”
“No woman who ever shot a man for beating her up is.”
She dismissed that with a jerky impatient wave. Cocaine gestures are a long time going. “I have confidence in you, Mr. Walker. I realize my character judgment is suspect, considering the man I married, but I liked the way you refused to let Mr. Krell intimidate you
Upstairs in my reception room, Constance Thayer looked up from an old magazine and told me I had a piece of Mandarin orange on my lapel.
9
I PLUCKED THE PIECE of spoiled fruit off my jacket and dropped it in the smoking stand. The glamour of detective work never dims.
I unlocked the door to the inner office and held it for her. The suit was tan today, the blouse gold and caught at the neck with a jade brooch in an antique gold setting. She carried a brown leather handbag into the office and leaned it against one leg of the customer’s chair when she sat down. With some women the things are just props. Her hair was red in the sunlight.
On my way in I picked up the mail under the slot, sat down behind the desk, and shuffled through it. There were no checks today, just bills and a letter with the stylized owl that Reliance Investigations used for a logo printed in the corner. I knew what it would contain, but since she didn’t seem in a mood to talk just yet I opened it. It was computer-printed on stiff steel-gray stock to match the envelope and Krell’s shrapnel tie clasp. This one should have been pink. I read it a second time more slowly, just as if I were alone, then laid it aside and folded my hands on the blotter like Barry Fitzgerald.
“Was yesterday morning a special occasion, or does a drink any old time of the day sound better than a kick in the teeth?” I asked.
“I—I’d like a drink very much.”
I brought up the bottle and two glasses. I wasn’t sure about them, so I took them into my little water closet, washed them, and splashed an inch of water into each, letting it run first. Back at the desk I colored the water and handed her one. I raised the other.
“Carthage must be destroyed.”
She laughed slightly and we clinked glasses. Although she looked like a sipper, she took the top off hers like a steeplejack. An orange flush climbed her cheeks under the tan.
“Do you always keep it in the drawer?” she asked. “Like a gumshoe?”
“I did a job for a cabinetmaker once who offered to install one of those trick bars that come out from behind the paneling. But I’d have had to walk clear across the office.”
“I didn’t drink or use anything at all when I met Doyle, not even when I made those films. He got me started with Irish coffee. That was before the cocaine.”
“Still do it?”
She shook her head. “I’m allergic to the smell of hundred-dollar bills.”
“Me too.”
She smiled politely. I had some more and set my glass on the blotter. “You talked to Dorrance?”
“Yes. He was very angry with Mr. Krell for hiring you without consulting him.”
“Krell has some old-fashioned ideas. He thinks he can run his own business his own way.”
“You sound as if you admire him. Yesterday I had the impression—”
“The right one. But he’s his own man, even if it’s on his wife’s money, and he employs only the best. Those that will put up with him, anyhow; they generally don’t for long.” I folded my hands again. Body language. “You didn’t come here to write a book about Ernest Krell.”
“I came here to re-hire you.”
“Does Dorrance know?”
“He thinks I’m home. I tried to call you earlier, but your service said you were out. I took a chance on catching you here.”
“Where’s home these days?”
“I’m staying with my sister in Redford.” She studied me. “You think I’m a coward, don’t you?”
“No woman who ever shot a man for beating her up is.”
She dismissed that with a jerky impatient wave. Cocaine gestures are a long time going. “I have confidence in you, Mr. Walker. I realize my character judgment is suspect, considering the man I married, but I liked the way you refused to let Mr. Krell intimidate you
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