Melancholy Baby

31

Harrop and Moriarty had offices on 57th across from Carnegie Hall, in the penthouse. There was a security guard in the lobby of the building, and the Harrop and Moriarty receptionist had to buzz the door open when I rang the bell. She was sleek and blonde and probably twenty-two. She was wearing a headset and microphone, and she spoke into the microphone and pushed some buttons several times while I stood.

“Harrop and Moriarty,” she said. “One moment, please.”

Pushed a button.

“Harrop and Moriarty. One moment, please.”

Pushed a button.

Finally, she looked up at me and smiled automatically.

“Peter Franklin,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“My name is Randall,” I said. “About Ike Rosen and Sarah Markham.”

She continued to smile.

“And did you have an appointment?”

“Ask Mr. Franklin,” I said. “He’ll want to see me.”

The receptionist sighed an understated I’ve-been-there-and-heard-that sigh, and punched a button.

“Ms. Randall, sir, about Ike Rosen and Sarah Markham.”

She listened for a minute and punched a button.

“Mr. Franklin will be right out to get you, Ms. Randall,” the receptionist said.

If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Very professional.

I stood for a moment, and a very handsome young man came down the corridor toward me. His dark hair was short and looked as if it never needed to be combed or cut. He wore a dark brown Harris tweed jacket and a tattersall shirt with a black knit tie. His charcoal flannel slacks were creased; his dark burgundy brogues gleamed with polish. When he put out a hand to me, I could see that his nails were manicured.

“Ms. Randall? Peter Franklin.”

His handshake was strong and square. He looked me straight in the eye when he spoke. His teeth gleamed evenly. His cologne was subtle. He was only a little taller than I was, but it was a minor flaw. Overall, he was spectacular.

“Let’s go on down to my office,” he said.

He was obviously a firm favorite. His office had two windows. I sat in a comfortable client chair with stainless-steel arms. He went behind his glass-topped stainless-steel semicircular desk and sat in his stainless-steel designer swivel chair. There was a big-screen television set and an assortment of VCR and DVD players wired into it, all in a big stainless-steel cabinet. I sensed a decorative theme. There were pictures galleried on the wall opposite his desk. Each had a stainless-steel frame. I nodded at the pictures.

“Clients?” I said.

“Yes,” Franklin said. “I work almost exclusively in the talent-representation end of the business.”

He put his palms together as if he was going to pray and pressed his fingertips against his lips and gazed at me.

“What is your first name, Ms. Randall?”

“Legally,” I said, “It’s Sonya, but I prefer Sunny.”

“Sunny Randall,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t there a football player?”

“My father’s little joke,” I said. “I spell mine S-u-n-n-y.”

He smiled, and his hazel eyes bored sincerely into mine.

“I spell mine P-e-t-e,” he said. “What brings you to me, Sunny?”

“Ike Rosen and Sarah Markham,” I said.

He frowned a little.

“Rosen, I know,” he said. “Worked here once for a little while. Heard he was disbarred.”

“So the phrase ‘attorney at law’ on his card is misleading?” I said.

“He cannot practice law in the state of New York,” Peter said. “Sarah I don’t know.”

“Sarah Markham,” I said.

Peter thought and thought and finally shook his head sadly.

“No, I simply don’t know Sarah Markham,” he said.

“How about Lewis Karp?” I said.

Peter looked bemused.

“Am I on Candid Camera?” he said. “What are you up to, Sunny?”

I took one of my cards out of my purse and handed it to him. He read it and sat back.

“Aha,” he said. “Well, you are about the best-looking detective I know.”

“Yes, thank you, I probably am,” I said. “Tell me about Lewis Karp and Ike Rosen.”

“I can tell you about Rosen,” Peter said. “He is a drunk and a compulsive liar. We fired him here.”

“What was he disbarred for?” I said.

“I don’t know the details. Some sort of financial irregularities. It was after he’d left us.”

“He says he put you in touch with a lawyer in Boston named Lewis Karp,” I said.

Peter smiled broadly.

“Ike Rosen? If I need a contact in Boston I can get one without Ike Rosen. Usually, we do business with Cone Oakes.”

“Good firm,” I said. “But according to Lew Karp, you needed someone who could arrange to have Sarah Markham beaten up. Cone Oakes might not have been your best bet.”

Peter took his praying hands down from his lips and clasped them on the desk before him and leaned toward me. Sincerity radiated from him like strong aftershave.

“I don’t know Sarah Markham. I don’t know Lew Karp. I don’t want anyone beaten up.” He smiled at me. “Except maybe all of the Knicks. I represent some of the most important media people in the country. I don’t arrange beatings.”

“So Rosen’s lying and Karp’s lying.”

“I don’t know Karp. I don’t know what he’s doing. Rosen is lying.”

“Did you have a hand in firing Rosen?” I said.

“I was on the review committee,” he said.

“Maybe it’s revenge,” I said.

“Maybe.”

Peter looked at his Rolex.

“Damn,” he said. “Sunny, I’m stalling a record producer to talk with you. I really have to get to him.”

“Of course,” I said. “If I need anything more I’ll call you.”

“I can do better than that. Why don’t I meet you after work at the bar in the Four Seasons restaurant and buy you a drink.”

“I’d love that,” I said.

“About, say, six-fifteen.”

“Perfect,” I said. “That’s the restaurant not the hotel.”

“Yes.”

“Fifty-second Street,” I said. “Between Park and Lex.”

“Exactly.”

“Six-fifteen,” I said, and stood up.

He stood. We shook hands. He gave mine a little squeeze. Our eyes met. He smiled. I smiled. This could be the start of something big. The only thing was, I thought as I went down in the elevator, that the first picture in the top row of his client gallery was Lolly Drake, the big-star talk-show woman who had started in Moline with George Markham more than twenty years ago.

That was bothersome.