An attractive black woman sat behind a big glass desk, holding a phone to her ear with one hand, while tapping on a computer keyboard with the other. She was a burst of color in the otherwise monochrome surroundings: a red dress that showed off her curves while being office-appropriate, rouged lips, and dark curls dipped in rust. She eyed Connor as he approached, her gaze traveling from his face all the way down to his Adidas sneakers. She silently held up a finger topped with a scarlet nail, indicating she’d be with him in a minute. He suddenly felt underdressed in his jeans and t-shirt. This place was only a half hour from Venice, but it might as well have been a million miles away.
The receptionist murmured something into the phone, hung up, and gave him the once over for a second time. Very slowly and deliberately. He realized he should be feeling undressed, rather than underdressed.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I sure hope so. My name is Matt Connor and I’m a private investigator. I was hoping to speak to someone about Amanda Meyers.”
The woman looked surprised, then hopeful. “Have you found Amanda? Is there news?”
“No, no, nothing like that, I’m afraid.” Her face fell and he felt bad, wondered if they’d been friends. “I’m just following up on some potential leads.”
“Oh, okay. I guess you’ll be wanting to speak with Mr. Dunne in that case. Amanda reported directly to him and they worked very closely together. But . . . I know you don’t have an appointment because I don’t remember making an appointment for anyone half as exciting as a private eye.”
He grinned. “You got me. No appointment. Guilty as charged.”
She winked. “This is a lawyer’s office, Mr. Connor. We don’t use words like that here. Now, why don’t you take a seat over there and let me see what I can do?”
She picked up the phone again and Connor wandered over to the window, rather than the couch. He was nowhere near high enough for a panoramic view of the city but he spotted the Orpheum Theatre and the Broadway Bar and dozens of tiny people going about their business on the sidewalk below. It sure beat what he saw from his own office window.
His reverie was broken by the sound of the receptionist’s voice.
“Mr. Dunne has some meetings this afternoon but he can spare ten minutes right now.”
Connor turned away from the view. “Perfect.”
“Head on down the hallway.” She pointed a red talon and he shuddered, thinking about the damage those things could do. “Third door on the left.”
“Thanks . . .” He smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
The receptionist smiled back. She had a great smile. “My name is Vanessa. Now scoot. Nine and a half minutes.”
Connor followed Vanessa’s directions and found a polished oak door with a silver name plate on front which read “Zachary Dunne, Partner.” He rapped a knuckle twice.
“Come on in.”
The office was spacious and bright, thanks to its corner position in the building, with natural light streaming in from south- and west-facing windows. There was a smaller version of the leather couch he’d seen in the waiting room, a conference table that could seat six, and a big sturdy desk topped with a bunch of fat files, a banker’s lamp, leather blotter, and some framed photos.
Zachary Dunne was around fifty, bald, bespectacled, and twenty pounds overweight. He wore navy pants with a white pinstripe, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a Homer Simpson tie. Connor couldn’t see his feet behind the desk but guessed there might be novelty socks too.
He tried not to roll his eyes.
One of those guys.
Connor took a seat and explained how he’d been hired by the family of another missing woman and was looking into the possibility that Amanda Meyers’ disappearance might be connected somehow.
“What can you tell me about Amanda?” he asked.
Dunne steepled his fingers and puffed out some air. Cocked his head slightly to the side, like a schoolkid puzzling over a particularly tough question in a pop quiz.
“Okay, Amanda. Let me see now. Amanda worked for the firm for, uh, almost three years, I think. She joined in a junior role and earned a promotion after a year or so. She was hardworking, tenacious, punctual, ambitious. Very popular with her fellow coworkers. A big loss to Haywood, Dunne & Smith when she . . . um . . . now that she no longer works here.”
Connor thought the speech sounded rehearsed, like Dunne was dictating a reference for a résumé, rather than talking about someone he’d known, who’d been missing for two years.
“She’s been replaced, then?”
The other man sighed. “We tried to manage as best we could without Amanda in the days and weeks after. Then we brought in a temp to pick up some of the workload. Eventually, after six months, we had to officially terminate her contract and find a permanent replacement.”
“What happened to her things?”
“She mostly had work files in her desk. The few personal items were boxed up and mailed to her parents.”
“I’ve not been able to get hold of them yet.”
“I’m not sure they’ll want to speak to you.”
“No?”
“I heard there was some kind of breakdown. The mother, I think. Her parents took it very badly.”
Connor nodded. “You mentioned Amanda was popular with her coworkers. Did she have friends here? Did she socialize much outside of work hours?”
Dunne frowned. “I don’t think so. Of course, she would attend the Christmas party, office leaving drinks, things like that. Otherwise, no, I don’t think she spent much time with any of the staff outside of regular working hours.”
“What about you?”
The lawyer looked startled. “What about me?”
“The receptionist out front said you worked together a lot,” Connor said. “Were you close? Would you say you were friends?”
Dunne twisted a gold class ring on his left pinky finger. No wedding band, despite the wedding photo on the desk.
“Yes, I guess you’d say we were friendly.” He nodded toward the conference table wistfully. “We’d often grab lunch over there while working on a case.”
“Late nights too?”
“Sometimes, if the work demanded it.”
“You ever drop her home after work?”
“No. She usually had her own car. Or sometimes she’d take an Uber.”
“Did she live nearby?”
“A rental in Victor Heights.” Dunne picked up a pen, twirled it in his fingers, dropped it back on the desk. “That’s what she told me anyway. I’d never been there obviously.”
“Obviously,” Connor said. “Do you have the Victor Heights address for Amanda on file? Would save me a job looking it up.”
Dunne’s eyebrows bunched together into a single line of confusion. “Why do you need her address? She hasn’t been there for two years. I’m sure there must be another tenant in her apartment by now.”
“Might be worth speaking to the neighbors.” Connor met his gaze. “See if they remember anything useful.”
“I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to give out personal information on our members of staff.”