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Authors: Camille Minichino
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breath.
“I don’t think . . . why in the world?”
Tina, still on the phone. There was more time.
To do what?
I asked myself.
To snoop?
Apparently so.
I tugged at the Sasso file, which was on the thick side, pulled it out partway from the stack, and lifted the corner. I could make out the printing on a thin strip of the top piece of the paper. Just enough to see the bright blue letterhead.
KARLA SASSO
HOPKINS, SARCIONE, AND SASSO
555 THE FENWAY
BOSTON, MA 02115
I grunted. Not what I wanted to see. I wished I could go back to the time just before the Sasso label came into view, though I didn’t know exactly why I was so disturbed.
Why couldn’t Karla, a Boston divorce lawyer, have business with a New York City PI who listed spousal surveillance in her brochure? Not unusual, or suspicious, I told myself. Except that this was no ordinary PI firm. It was the one where the late, murdered, Amber Keenan had worked.
Dee Dee wasn’t back from lunch, but I knew Tina wouldn’t be on the phone forever. It was now or never. In jerky, two-handed motions, I yanked the Sasso folder from the slot and riffled through the pages. Letters, forms, expense sheets, and then more of each. I caught glimpses of legalese—heretofores and whereupons—and subject lines like
Carter v. Carter
and
Lasky v. Lasky.
The standard phrasing for divorce proceedings. What was I looking for, anyway? I shook my head, mentally slapping myself back to rationality. I hastily straightened the pile of papers, balancing the folder on Dee Dee’s short row of dictionaries and reference books. A flurry of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pages, smaller than legal size, fell to floor.
“I guess that’s it, then . . .”
Tina’s call was coming to a close.
I scooped up the pages and stuffed them into the folder, then squeezed the folder into the slot. I knew I’d messed up Dee Dee’s order, but there was no going back. What was worse, there was one piece of paper still on the floor, half of it under Dee Dee’s desk.
I heard Tina’s footsteps approach the door between her office and the reception area. My breath caught. All my blood seemed to rush to my face. The door opened as I lifted the errant paper from the floor and shoved it into my thankfully large, deep purse. Rose’s tiny, hard-leather numbers might be chic, but in situations like this, only the soft, tote-style purse I always carried would do, I thought, never one to miss an opportunity for going off on a tangent.
I brushed my pants of bits of dust. “I keep dropping my gloves,” I said, showing Tina one I’d deftly pulled from my pocket.
Tina used both hands to make an ushering motion toward her office. “Shall we continue?”
As much as I wanted to hear how the wedding bandit was caught, I needed to get out of the building. I looked at my watch and muttered a
tsk tsk.
“Look at the time. It’s later than I thought, and I need to bedowntown in about fifteen minutes.” I opened my palms to indicate how sorry I was to have to run.
“Another time,” Tina said, shrugging, in a meager show of disappointment.
I searched Tina’s face for signs of awareness that her office was now a crime scene, but I saw primarily relief. Plus a bit of a questioning look at my abrupt change of heart? That might have been my imagination. I struggled to keep myself from looking at the disheveled file in the metal holder or at my purse, where a single sheet, hot as it was, seemed to be raising the temperature of the lining.
We shook hands. Mine were sweaty from the exertion of chasing the papers and from nerves. I imagined Tina dusting her own hand for my fingerprints, then comparing them to the prints on her folders.
I walked to the frosted glass door as quickly as I could without alerting Tina to a problem. I fell in with a crowd of workers carrying paper bags and plastic takeout boxes. A mixture of smells floated through the hallway. I identified hamburgers, salad dressings, and a re-heated
“I don’t think . . . why in the world?”
Tina, still on the phone. There was more time.
To do what?
I asked myself.
To snoop?
Apparently so.
I tugged at the Sasso file, which was on the thick side, pulled it out partway from the stack, and lifted the corner. I could make out the printing on a thin strip of the top piece of the paper. Just enough to see the bright blue letterhead.
KARLA SASSO
HOPKINS, SARCIONE, AND SASSO
555 THE FENWAY
BOSTON, MA 02115
I grunted. Not what I wanted to see. I wished I could go back to the time just before the Sasso label came into view, though I didn’t know exactly why I was so disturbed.
Why couldn’t Karla, a Boston divorce lawyer, have business with a New York City PI who listed spousal surveillance in her brochure? Not unusual, or suspicious, I told myself. Except that this was no ordinary PI firm. It was the one where the late, murdered, Amber Keenan had worked.
Dee Dee wasn’t back from lunch, but I knew Tina wouldn’t be on the phone forever. It was now or never. In jerky, two-handed motions, I yanked the Sasso folder from the slot and riffled through the pages. Letters, forms, expense sheets, and then more of each. I caught glimpses of legalese—heretofores and whereupons—and subject lines like
Carter v. Carter
and
Lasky v. Lasky.
The standard phrasing for divorce proceedings. What was I looking for, anyway? I shook my head, mentally slapping myself back to rationality. I hastily straightened the pile of papers, balancing the folder on Dee Dee’s short row of dictionaries and reference books. A flurry of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pages, smaller than legal size, fell to floor.
“I guess that’s it, then . . .”
Tina’s call was coming to a close.
I scooped up the pages and stuffed them into the folder, then squeezed the folder into the slot. I knew I’d messed up Dee Dee’s order, but there was no going back. What was worse, there was one piece of paper still on the floor, half of it under Dee Dee’s desk.
I heard Tina’s footsteps approach the door between her office and the reception area. My breath caught. All my blood seemed to rush to my face. The door opened as I lifted the errant paper from the floor and shoved it into my thankfully large, deep purse. Rose’s tiny, hard-leather numbers might be chic, but in situations like this, only the soft, tote-style purse I always carried would do, I thought, never one to miss an opportunity for going off on a tangent.
I brushed my pants of bits of dust. “I keep dropping my gloves,” I said, showing Tina one I’d deftly pulled from my pocket.
Tina used both hands to make an ushering motion toward her office. “Shall we continue?”
As much as I wanted to hear how the wedding bandit was caught, I needed to get out of the building. I looked at my watch and muttered a
tsk tsk.
“Look at the time. It’s later than I thought, and I need to bedowntown in about fifteen minutes.” I opened my palms to indicate how sorry I was to have to run.
“Another time,” Tina said, shrugging, in a meager show of disappointment.
I searched Tina’s face for signs of awareness that her office was now a crime scene, but I saw primarily relief. Plus a bit of a questioning look at my abrupt change of heart? That might have been my imagination. I struggled to keep myself from looking at the disheveled file in the metal holder or at my purse, where a single sheet, hot as it was, seemed to be raising the temperature of the lining.
We shook hands. Mine were sweaty from the exertion of chasing the papers and from nerves. I imagined Tina dusting her own hand for my fingerprints, then comparing them to the prints on her folders.
I walked to the frosted glass door as quickly as I could without alerting Tina to a problem. I fell in with a crowd of workers carrying paper bags and plastic takeout boxes. A mixture of smells floated through the hallway. I identified hamburgers, salad dressings, and a re-heated
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