Death's little helpers

6

I slouched in the back of the cab and cursed myself all the way to 34th Street. Mixing it up with Turpin and his security thug had been stupid and pointless, and I was angry with myself for doing it. He was a posturing little martinet and I didn’t like being poked, but that was no excuse- nor was the fact that he’d been so easy to bait. Screwing around with him hadn’t bought me anything, and it could have landed me in some time-wasting trouble.

The rest of the way home, I thought about the little I’d learned at Pace-Loyette. As Nina Sachs had gathered, Pace management had no better idea of Danes’s whereabouts than she did, but they were definitely interested- enough to have made some discreet phone calls, anyway, and to have had a meeting with me. But I didn’t think their curiosity- or worry- had led them to dispatch any errand boys uptown to grease palms and ask questions. And it hadn’t been sufficient to get them to call the cops. Or maybe, as Neary had suggested, the imperative to keep a low profile trumped all. Which left them little else to do with the question of Gregory Danes, it seemed, than to wrap some lawyers around it.

It was after three when the taxi dropped me at home. The building was quiet except for my footsteps. I opened windows and soft air worked its way around my apartment. It stirred a faint surprising trace of Jane’s scent and I wondered what she was doing just then. I poured a glass of water and let my messages play. Lauren’s voice came over the speaker.

“Just reminding you about Ned’s, on Saturday. Keith and I will be there at two. See ya.” I’d seen more of my family in the past few months than I had in years- at brunches, birthdays, an anniversary, and even a second cousin’s bar mitzvah. But the rapprochement was a tentative one for all concerned, and Lauren and her husband, Keith, had decided that I should be chaperoned at these events lest I cut and run, or worse. They’d appointed themselves to the job.

After Lauren came the hushed schoolmarm tones of Mrs. Konigsberg, my brother’s assistant. She was about three hundred years old and, before my brother, she had worked for my uncles and my grandfather at Klein amp; Sons. Besides ancient, Mrs. K was precise, rigid, and entirely humorless, and she couldn’t have disapproved of me more if she’d been my own mother.

“Mr. March, this is Ida Konigsberg calling from Klein and Sons,” she said, as if I might not recognize her voice or her name or might think she’d changed employers after all these centuries. “I’m confirming your meeting tomorrow afternoon, at two o’clock, here at our offices.” She recited the address and I laughed out loud, fully expecting her to follow with directions. “You’ll be interviewing Mr. Geoffrey Tyne, whose curriculum vitae you should already have received. The interview will take place in Mr. Ned March’s conference room, next to his office on the seventh floor. Mr. March would like to meet with you afterward for about fifteen minutes, to discuss your impressions of Mr. Tyne. Please call me to confirm.” I didn’t dare do otherwise.

Mrs. K’s call ended in a discreet click, and then Jane’s voice was there. There was noise on the line and other voices in the background.

“I’m with the lawyers again, and it looks like I’ll be here late.” I heard the rueful smile in her voice. “Leave a message, tell me what you’re up to. Maybe we can have dinner, if you don’t mind waiting.” I heard someone call her name. “Got to jump. Call me.”

I’d learned that, to Jane, late could mean anything from nine till after midnight, and I called to tell her voice mail that tonight I couldn’t wait. Tonight I’d be working. I’d made two failed attempts to speak with Irene Pratt; the third time, I figured, would be the charm. I opened up my laptop and started my browser.

There were three Irene Pratts in the metropolitan area, but only one in Manhattan- on the Upper West Side. I dialed her number, and an answering machine picked up. I recognized the quick talk and the Long Island accent. I didn’t leave a message. I couldn’t count on finding Pratt at home for at least a couple of hours, so I heated some coffee and returned to the court records databases and my list of the complaints against Danes and Pace-Loyette.

The list of the aggrieved was long and varied- from pension funds in the Midwest to coupon clippers in the Sun Belt and day traders on both coasts- and their allegations ranged from plain old negligence and conflict of interest to elaborate conspiracy and fraud. Most, though not all, involved Piedmont Science. Some of the claims had been resolved, settled out of sight for undisclosed sums and with all concerned silenced by nondisclosure agreements, and some were still pending, drifting slowly through a limbo of depositions and discoveries, but none of them had yet made it to an actual judgment.

Mixed in with the investor suits were others, unrelated to Danes’s job as an analyst. There was a six-year-old action- ultimately dismissed- against Danes and every other shareholder in his old 90th Street co-op, brought by a bicycle messenger who’d sprained his ankle in the building’s lobby. And there was an eight-year-old claim, brought by Danes, which involved chipped granite countertops, a broken sink, and an unrepentant contractor. It had dried up after five months. At the bottom of my list was the ten-year-old case of Sachs v. Danes, the divorce proceedings. Seeing it there reminded me that I owed Nina a progress report, and I called her before I headed uptown. She answered on the eighth ring, and she was distracted and barely civil.

“I’m working, for chrissakes,” she muttered, and I heard her lighter snap. “You can come over tonight if you want to talk.” I told her I would.

Irene Pratt lived in the upper seventies, on a leafy street of brownstones between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues. It was nearly six when I got there, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with people walking dogs and toting groceries and heading for expensive workouts. Pratt’s building was a Romanesque town house of rough, tobacco-colored stone. It was five stories tall, with narrow arched windows, a cavernous entryway, and lots of decorative masonry. There was a video intercom system at the door. Judging from the buttons, there was only one apartment per floor. Pratt was on the third. I buzzed and waited and nothing happened. It was still early and I wasn’t surprised. I walked down the street.

There was a bar on the corner of Columbus, with small tables out front. I found one with a clear view of Pratt’s building and ordered a ginger ale. I stretched out my legs and worked my way through a bowl of cashews while the soft air grew dark. Noise and smoke and the smell of liquor thickened around me, and with them- suddenly- came a strong and acrid nostalgia.

It could have been the light that set it off- the ripening purple sky and the swelling shadows, the sense of recklessness and promise that seemed to fall with evening- or it could have been the jumble of voices- laughing, flirting, boasting and arch, eager to please, studiously bored, and all a little slurred. It could have been the tiny buzz of danger as the customers grew louder and less cautious, or the possibility of violence- however remote- that rode with every jostling arm and elbow. It could have been the anonymous feel of being alone in the midst of a raucous crowd that did it, or my own incipient restlessness, scratching in my head like a low-grade fever. Whatever the cues, the memories- of other bars and other evenings, years agowere powerful and close enough to taste. Columbus Avenue was a world away from Burr County, and from the dives I’d haunted in the months after Anne’s death. But the jagged, angry feeling that was always with me then was abruptly back again, lodged in my chest like a hunk of broken glass.

Back then it was broken glass and a head full of static, a furious buzzing that I could never silence but could only distract. And every night, for four blurry months, I did just that, trading grief and guilt for motion, for drink and drugs, for violence and sex. I crashed along the back roads with my headlights dark and a chemical fire in my brain, and I made the rounds of places like the Rind and Buddy’s Fox and every other bucket of blood in the county. When I paused it was only to pass out, and when I came to I was often bruised and battered, or else I was sprawled alongside women whose names I never knew and who were never pleased to see me in the light of day. After a while, I took my act to the neighboring counties, to spare my colleagues the bother and embarrassment of cleaning up after me. It was only luck that no one got killed.

I swallowed some ginger ale, and for an instant it tasted smoky and bitter and my throat closed up. These were long-absent feelings, but they were more than familiar. They dwelled someplace below conscious recall and were bound in me like muscle memory. Like riding a bike. And they scared the hell out of me.

A shudder ran through me and I looked up the street and saw Irene Pratt, walking east from Amsterdam. She had a purse and a big leather tote bag on her shoulder and a plastic grocery sack in her hand, and her gait was awkward. Her head was down, but I recognized the thick chestnut hair and the pink blouse.

I watched her fumble for her keys and disappear inside. I gave her twenty minutes- time enough to sort the mail, put the groceries away, check messages, change clothes; then I took out my cell phone and punched her number. When she answered, I spoke fast.

“Ms. Pratt, this is John March. We spoke yesterday morning, and I stopped by your office this afternoon-”

She cut me off. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you calling me at home for? What do you want from me?”

“I want to talk about Gregory Danes, Ms. Pratt. I’m trying to find him, and I thought maybe you could help.”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I told you, we can’t-”

It was my turn to cut her off. “I know what your orders are, Ms. Pratt. I’m at the bar on the corner, sitting at a table outside. I’ll be here for another half hour if you want to talk.” I clicked off.

It took her forty-five minutes, and her steps were tentative. She’d changed into jeans and sneakers and a blue T-shirt from an electronics trade show in Las Vegas. She was small-breasted and slender, and her arms were soft looking. There was a gold watch on her wrist and a plastic clip holding back her heavy hair. She stood near my table and looked down at me.

“You’re still here,” she said. There was a dark shine to her eyes and more color in her face. A light perfume wafted toward me, something with lilac. I nodded.

“Sit,” I said, but she didn’t.

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you, I’m trying to find your boss. And I’m trying to find someone who cares enough that he’s missing to help me out. I thought that might be you.” Pratt squinted at me but did not speak. “Sit,” I said again. I pulled out the metal chair next to mine. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

She rested her hand on the back of the chair and shook her head. “Why do you say missing?”

“I don’t know what else to call it. The guy’s gone away- no one knows where- and he hasn’t come back when he said he would. And no one has heard from him since the day he left. What do you call it?”

Pratt bit her lower lip. “There’s nothing I can tell you. I don’t know where he is, and the last I heard from him was his voice mail, telling me he was taking time off.”

A waitress orbited the table; I caught her eye and she came closer.

“Another ginger ale for me, and…” The waitress and I looked at Irene Pratt, who looked irritated, and then resigned.

“I don’t know… a Bud, I guess.” The waitress went away, and Pratt looked down at me.

“Sit,” I said. Pratt pulled the chair out and sat at its edge. “Nuts?” I offered her the bowl. She ignored them.

“I don’t know where the hell he is,” she said softly. She played with the clasp of her gold watch. Her hands were small, and her nails were clipped short and unvarnished.

“How long have you worked with him?” She looked up at me and I noticed the lines around her eyes and mouth. I put her age at thirty-five.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” she said.

“It has to do with how well you know him, which has to do with how much help you might be to me.”

Pratt wrinkled her brow and the waitress came. I drank some ginger ale. Pratt drank her Bud from the bottle.

“I’ve worked for him since I got out of B-school- almost a dozen years,” she said. “And I guess I know him as well as anybody- better, maybe.”

“You knew him when he was married?”

She smiled sourly and nodded. “And during the divorce,” she said.

“You know his wife?”

Another sour smile. “The Brooklyn Frida Kahlo? I met her once or twice, before the bullets started flying.” She drank some more Bud and picked a nut from the bowl.

“Their breakup was ugly?”

Pratt laughed. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” She took another drink and shook her head. “I’m amazed they got through it without somebody being dead. ’Course, I’m amazed they got together in the first place, or ever had a kid.” Another drink and more head shaking. “I don’t know why people do it.” I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but I didn’t ask. Her beer was gone, and I waved to the waitress for another.

“He fool around?”

She frowned. “Is that why you want to talk to me? You think we had something going?”

The thought had occurred to me, but I didn’t say so. The waitress brought another beer, another ginger ale, and a fresh bowl of nuts. Pratt took a swallow.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” she said. “Old bullshit, too. Jesus, I’d have to be crazy… His wife tried to make something out of that in the divorce, but it didn’t fly. And she had plenty more to sink her teeth into.”

“Meaning he did fool around?” Pratt nodded. “A lot?” Another nod. “With anyone in particular?”

“Back then? With no one in particular, and everyone he could.” She drank some more Bud and looked at the bottle and then at me. “Not that Greg was some kind of sex machine. In fact, I always thought there was something… I don’t know… kind of neutral about him- sexually, I mean.” Pratt picked another nut from the bowl. “But what the hell do I know? I guess what I’m saying is I think the fooling around was more an ego thing than a sex thing for him.”

I nodded. It usually is. Pratt hitched her chair closer to the table and put her bottle on the tabletop. It was nearly empty.

“Was the divorce rough on him?”

“Oh, yeah, it was a big ego bruise. Losing the kid, and a big pile of dough, and his wife- to another woman- he was a goddamn mess.”

Pratt sat back and crossed her ankle over her knee. A strand of hair had worked itself loose from her clip and fell across her cheek, and her eyes were unfocused behind their glasses. She looked young and bookish in the fading light. She had hold of a thread now, and I didn’t want her to lose it.

“Was he as bad then as he has been lately?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly. “No… that was different. That was just one thing- just one part of his life, I guess. And even though it pissed him off something fierce, the rest of his life- the work- was going fine. Better than fine. Now it’s all turned to shit.”

“I guess it’s been a rough few years for everyone in your department,” I said. I pushed the nut bowl toward her. She took a handful and looked over my shoulder at the crowds- heavier now- that passed along the sidewalks. The bar was packed, and the voices and the music and the traffic sounds ran together in a blur of white noise. The sun was all but gone, and sodium lamps and neon tinted the faces around us. Pratt killed the Bud, placed the bottle carefully on the table, and looked at me.

“A nightmare,” she said softly. “You wouldn’t-”

The words caught in her throat and she looked down and swallowed a couple of times. Our waitress spun by, and I motioned for another round. Pratt looked up at me.

“For a while there, you couldn’t escape the stories- in the papers, on TV, all over the Web- it was fucking open season on stock analysts.” A bitter smile crossed her face and faded to a grimace. “If you read enough of them, you’d think all we did was sit around and dream up lies to tell the widows and orphans- when we weren’t busy sucking up to CEOs and cashing our bonus checks, that is. They died down finally, the stories and the bad jokes, but it’s a different world now. The department’s not even half the size it used to be, and the pay…” Pratt shook her head and picked up her empty beer bottle and put it down again.

“Did they get those stories wrong?” I asked quietly.

“The press?” Pratt’s face was sour, and so was her voice. “They always get it at least half wrong.”

I had no argument with her there and I nodded. Pratt continued.

“I’ve been an analyst for nearly twelve years. Besides my MBA, I’ve got a BS in computer science and a master’s in electrical engineering. I’ve covered semiconductors, consumer electronics, the video game industry, and- modesty aside- I probably know as much about the companies I follow as the CEOs who run them.

“My average workday is fourteen hours- wall-to-wall, six days a week. And you know what I do when I get home at night, after I feed my fish and call my mom? I read: annual reports, quarterlies, mid-quarter updates, economic analyses, purchasing statistics, and you wouldn’t believe what else. I read the science journals for original research and the trade rags for gossip. I read about who’s hot and who’s not, whose project is over budget and whose got canceled and who just jumped from one ship to another. And of course, I read all the product profiles- the head-to-head comparisons, the top-ten lists, the focus groups…” Her voice wavered, and she coughed and shook her head. “I read reviews of video games, and hang out in fucking chat rooms- just to hear what the goddamn fourteen-year-olds think.

“And when I’m not reading, I’m crunching numbers- earnings projections, cost estimates, market share, financing costs, interest rate scenarios, cash flows… Jesus. It’s made me half blind.”

Our drinks came. Pratt took a long swallow and seemed to steady.

“You like those violins?” she asked. She laughed bitterly. “I’m not a fool, and I’m not looking for sympathy. I know plenty of people work hard, and hardly any of them get paid like I do. But my point is, I never phoned it in- not once. My point is…” She took another drink and put her bottle down. Her hands were wet with condensation, and she stared at them for a long moment and wiped them on her jeans. “I don’t know what the hell my point is.”

“You said the press got it only halfway right.”

Pratt sighed and shook her head. “My mom has never had a clue what I do for a living- just no idea at all. She used to ask about it the first few years I was in the business, and I used to try to explain, but it went in one ear and out the other, and after a while she quit asking. But you know what she said to me at the height of the frenzy, when those stories were running practically every day? She said, You just start writing what you think about those companies, honey, and don’t let anyone make you say anything different. You just start telling the truth- no one can blame you for that. Can you believe it? My own mother- and she assumes it’s all some kind of scam. She assumes that I’ve been lying.

“The press went on and on about conflict of interest and lack of independence like they’d discovered a new planet or something. Like it was a big secret that securities firms do business with the companies their analysts cover- like we were trying to hide something. Jesus, if that was a secret, it was the worst-kept one of all time.”

“I think it was news to some investors. And I think the horse-trading part of it- swapping buy recommendations and God knows what else for investment banking business- was a little hard for anyone to swallow.”

Pratt’s face reddened and her dark eyes shone. “Hey, I’m not saying there weren’t abuses. And if somebody decides the rule book was no good and we need a whole new edition, that’s fine by me. I lived by the old version and I’ll live by the new version too. But don’t turn me into a criminal retroactively, for chrissakes- just for playing the game the same way everyone else did.” Pratt wiped something from beneath her eye and drank some more beer.

“And just for the record, you know the last time I said, What the fuck, what’s a couple of cents EPS one way or the other- the last time I thought about how much business one of my companies does with Pace and what kind of recommendation might win us some more- the last time I put out an opinion I didn’t believe in one hundred and ten percent? Never. Not once. Not fucking ever.”

She took another long pull and smiled crookedly.

“Mom doesn’t talk about my work anymore,” Pratt said. “Now all she wants to know is when I’m getting married.” Another strand of hair fell into Pratt’s face, and she pushed it behind her ear. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What the hell does this have to do with Greg, anyway?” she said. A truck rumbled by, and the air was burnt in its wake. I looked at Pratt, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Does he feel the same way you do about all this? Does he feel as

… let down?”

She took her glasses off and cleaned them on her T-shirt. Her face looked bare and confused without them. She put them back on and shook her head.

“It’s worse for him. Until all this shit, Greg bought into the whole star-analyst thing; he believed his own press. For years he lived on a steady diet of money and TV and people saying yes to anything he wanted, and putting up with all his crazy bullshit in the office. It’s like eating nothing but chocolate. And then overnight we went from being the village wise men to being the village idiots- or worse.

“It was hard on everybody, but Greg most of all. He’d been into it the most, and I guess he needed it the most. So when it all stopped, when people stopped calling…” Pratt ran her finger along the edge of the Bud label and began picking at it with a fingernail.

“I heard he went nuts.”

“From who?” she said, but she waved away her own question. “Fuck, it doesn’t matter. You heard right. He was off the wall for a whileobsessed with his reputation, convinced he was going to be left holding the bag for Piedmont and every other thing, while everyone else made out like bandits- really paranoid. He’s finally settled down to merely impossible.” Pratt drained her third Bud, and waved the empty at the waitress. Her glasses slipped down her nose and she pushed them up with her thumb.

“Why do you put up with it?” I asked her.

Her laugh was loud and girlish. “Beats me,” she said. She looked at me, waiting for a response. When none came, she shook her head. “You never heard that joke- about what the masochist said, when someone asked why she hung around with the sadist? Beats me.”

She laughed some more, and the waitress delivered another round. Pratt sipped at her fourth beer and found the chain of her thoughts again.

“If you don’t know him, he comes off like an asshole- vindictive, arrogant, nuts. But that’s not really Greg- not all of him, anyway. Like the arrogance. Some of that is just his sense of humor- he’s really sarcastic. And some of it is just… he’s like a kid who’s always got to be the smartest one in class and makes sure everybody knows it.

“A lot of his press was for real, though. What he can pull from a balance sheet is amazing, and the information he keeps in his head… You want to know the average revenue per employee of the top three database software companies or how much debt each one is carrying, just ask Greg. He’s faster than the Internet. I learned more from him the first month I was at Pace than I did in two years at NYU.

“And it isn’t just having the numbers handy. There’s as much art as science in this kind of analysis, and when it comes to the big picture- the macroeconomics, the forces and trends that can change whole industries- Greg sees things way before anybody else. He sees the shape of things to come.”

I swirled ice in my glass and looked at Pratt. “How did he end up on the wrong side of so many calls, then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really know. Maybe he got a little too fond of one of his own theories, or maybe he didn’t pay enough attention to new data; maybe he was a little slow to reevaluate certain companiesI don’t know. Like I said, it’s as much art as science, and you don’t always get it right; no one does. At the end of the day, Greg was less wrong than a lot of people. The guy is a fucking genius, March.”

I nodded. “Genius isn’t always easy to be around.”

Pratt smiled ruefully. “You got that right,” she said. “But Greg can surprise you. He can be… nice. You don’t expect it from him, but he can be incredibly generous and loyal.”

I looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Pratt shook her head, and her hair tumbled free of the clip and fell around her shoulders. She didn’t seem to mind.

“I’d been at Pace a year and a half when my mom got sick. Breast cancer- very aggressive. It’s just the two of us, and she’s out on the Island, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I go into Greg’s office one morning and tell him about it- and that I might need some time off- and he just looks at me and nods and basically doesn’t say shit. Great, I think, real supportive. One more thing to worry about.

“That afternoon, he calls me back in his office. He hands me a slip of paper with an address and a time on it. Tells me my mom has an appointment the next day at Sloan-Kettering with the top breast cancer guy, and he’s made arrangements with Bobby Loyette about us using the corporate apartment if my mom needs to stay in the city for treatments.

“I was blown away. I just sat there, not knowing what to say. Greg didn’t seem to expect me to say anything. Hell, he barely looked at me the whole time he was telling me this stuff. I sat there, and he sent some e-mails, and after a while we started talking about Intel’s valuation.” Pratt picked up the bottle again and looked at it, but put it down without drinking.

“He’s fucked up, like a lot of people are.” She paused and stared at me. I wasn’t going to argue with her. “But he’s a decent guy too.” Pratt leaned back and worked her fingers through her thick hair. Her clip fell to the ground and she stooped to get it. She steadied herself on the table on the way up and laughed. “Christ, four beers on an empty stomach. You got me shitfaced.”

I nodded. “You want dinner? My treat.”

She looked at me and straightened her glasses. “And then what, you going to take advantage of me?”

I shook my head and laughed. “No more than I have already.” I signaled the waitress, who brought two menus.

“Why not? You married or something?” Pratt blushed even as she asked the question.

I smiled. “Or something.”

She nodded and looked over the menu.

The waitress came again and Pratt ordered a burger and a Coke; I had the vegetarian chili. Pratt was quiet, and I thought that embarrassment and worry might be setting in. I didn’t want her dwelling on it.

“I heard he had a lively meeting with Turpin the day he left,” I said.

Pratt smiled. “Lively- that’s a nice term for it. Any more lively, and we would’ve called the cops.”

“Any idea what it was about?”

“The same old thing, I’m sure: the lawsuits. That’s what Greg and Tampon always argue about.”

“Tampon?”

Pratt colored again. “That’s what Greg calls him. It’s kind of caught on.”

“I can imagine. What about the lawsuits do they argue over?”

“Fight or flight, Greg calls it: fight it out in court or settle. Greg is all about fighting.”

“And Turpin wants to settle?”

Pratt nodded. “That’s what they brought him in to do.”

“Who are they?”

“Management. They brought Tampon in five, six months ago-to clear the air, they said- so we could focus on other things. Apparently that meant settle the cases quickly, quietly, and as cheaply as possible.”

“Greg disagrees with that strategy?”

Pratt snorted. “It makes him crazy. He says they aren’t giving him an opportunity to clear his name and that they’re selling him out. Greg is not the most trusting guy in the world to begin with, and this plays right into his paranoia.”

“I gather he doesn’t have that market cornered, though.”

Pratt gave me a quizzical look. “You mean Turpin?”

I nodded. “If his attitude is anything to go by, Pace management seems pretty nervous about Danes.”

“Between the arguments and the rumors about another look-see from the regulators- and now with Greg being gone- yeah, I guess they’re tense.”

“Should they be?”

“About Greg turning on them or something?” I nodded, and Pratt’s brow furrowed. “I’d like to say no, but the truth is- I don’t know. Greg is paranoid, and he never, ever leaves his ass uncovered. He’s definitely not a guy I would play musical chairs with- not without a lot of padding. But… I don’t know.”

The waitress brought our food. Pratt took a desperate swallow of her Coke and a bite of her burger. Juice ran down her chin, and I handed her a napkin. I took a spoonful of vegetable chili. It tasted like old succotash, soaked in Tabasco. I pushed it aside.

“You’ve said Greg can be difficult”- Pratt snorted-“is there anyone he was particularly difficult with? Anyone holding a grudge?”

She shook her head. “He’s difficult with everyone.” She chewed some more of her burger. “But someone holding a grudge? Nobody jumps out, unless you count the people suing him.”

“Who else is he close to, besides you?”

Pratt wiped her hands on her napkin and pulled her hair back and was quiet for a while. She shook her head slowly.

“I don’t really know. I know he loves his kid- Billy- as much as he loves anybody. He may not know what to make of him half the time, but he loves him. Besides that?” She shrugged.

“No other family?”

“There’s the ex, if she counts. They still talk- about the kid, mostly- and she still pisses him off. And I think he has a brother or stepbrother who got himself in trouble a few years back- somewhere out in Jersey, I think. A reporter picked up on it, and it was five minutes of embarrassment for Greg.”

“How about his friends?”

“There’s some guy he goes to hear music with, up in the country someplace. I don’t know his name, though.” She thought some more and hesitated. “And… there was Sovitch.”

“Linda Sovitch? From Market Minds?” Pratt nodded. “They’re friends?”

“They used to be- when Greg was on the show all the time. I’m not sure how friendly they are now; he wasn’t happy when the guest spots dried up. But I know Greg had lunch with her- right before his last session with Tampon.”

I finished my ginger ale and crunched on an ice cube and thought. “Did he ever talk about leaving?” I asked.

“Leaving Pace? We talked about it a lot- especially lately- about going out on our own, setting up a research company. One of the things that drove him nuts about settling the lawsuits was he thought it would screw that up- screw up his reputation and his earning power. Screw them up more, I guess.”

“You would do it- go into business with him?”

She nodded vigorously. “For an equity stake? You bet I would. Nothing like that is coming my way at Pace.”

“You’re not in line for Greg’s job if he walks?”

Pratt made a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? I’m fine to keep the seat warm while Greg’s away, but when it comes time to fill his spot permanently, they’ll bring a name in from outside- assuming they want to keep a research department at all. If Greg leaves, I’ve got to make plans, one way or another.” She fiddled with the pile of slaw on her plate and looked at me. She wasn’t as light-headed now, and worry was coming back into her eyes. I didn’t have long.

“Do you remember what he said in his voice mail- when he told you he was taking vacation?”

She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message- something like I’m out of here for three weeks- starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”

“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing- about why he left when he did?”

She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things- the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon- and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.

“Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”

“As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”

“He ever do anything like this before- just take unscheduled vacation time?”

Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”

“But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”

Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”

“Are you worried about him?”

Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home