“Ms. Daniels,” I called out.
The purpose-driven machine did not alter her pace. I repeated myself a little louder while calculating the chances that I had followed the wrong person. She stopped and spun around. She wore a white blouse and a pinstriped jacket. Her charcoal skirt stopped just above her knees, revealing a pair of splendid legs.
“Yes?”
“I’m a friend of Andrew Keller’s. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“And you are?”
She stood motionless, her mind calculating whether I was worth the effort, worth another squandered moment of her precious time. Allison Daniels lived in a world of vapid meetings, droning lunch appointments, and avalanching emails, all of which she assigned critical importance to. But one day they would move on without her, leaving her bedazzled as to where her life went and wondering where she’d gone wrong and what the hell she’d been thinking. My hard opinion and quick judgment—based on such a cursory observance and three monosyllabic words—might have been premature. But I’m right more than I’m wrong, although I’m wrong more than I admit.
I gave her my name, a few lines about Andrew’s visit to me, and suggested we meet for lunch, should she be available.
“I’ve never heard of you. You may call my secretary. He might be able to fit you in.”
“I don’t want lunch with your secretary.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m terribly busy.”
“Andrew is terribly dead.”
She punched her breath out. “You can walk with me to my office.” She pivoted and marched to the elevator in the corner of the garage. She punched the elevator button, disgusted that it hadn’t anticipated her prompt arrival, stupid thing that it was.
I positioned myself beside her. She glanced at me. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I heard of his death through a mutual friend. Just awful. We hadn’t spoken to each other since God knows when. Our firm doesn’t do that type of work anymore.”
“What kind of work is that?”
“Is what?”
“That you don’t do anymore.”
“Oh . . . business law.”
The elevator groaned to a stop and the door opened. She stepped inside, along with another man who had appeared out of nowhere to stand next to us. I followed the man, fumbling in my shoulder bag.
“I’ve got a picture here,” I said. “Perhaps you can just give it a glance.”
“I don’t have the time.”
“You’re not going any faster than the elevator.”
“Everything OK, Allison?” The man asked.
“Fine, Kurt. Mr. Travis and I are just concluding a little business.”
The elevator opened and Kurt waited for Allison to exit first. I took a step past her and held up the picture of Elizabeth Walker.
“Do you know this woman?” I said.
She started to brush past me but then halted. She snatched the picture from my hand.
“Where was this taken?”
“A hotel.”
She handed it back. “And Andrew claims that this woman was . . . who did you say again?”
“He knew her as Elizabeth Phillips before she was married.”
A man brushed past us and entered the elevator. “Morning, Allison. We still on for three in the conference room?”
“We are, and if you’re late like last time, you’re buying lunch for the office the next day.”
“Aye aye, captain.” The door shut.
“Do you know this woman,” I asked again.
She squared off in front of me. “Mr. Travis—”
“Jake.”
“—I do not know you or why you are here. Your opening argument about Andrew paying you a visit after twenty-some empty years doesn’t impress me. If there was foul play regarding his death, I’m sure the police are more qualified than you to investigate. Now, if you would excuse me and stop your childlike pestering, I have obligations I must attend to.”
She trooped through a jungle-green public garden with crisscrossed red bricks and entered the reception lounge of Chamberlain, Glanis, Newman and Daniels. A ficus tree partially blocked her name.
“You lied to me, Ms. Daniels,” I said from behind, loud enough to turn heads. “Phone records indicate you and Andrew Keller were in contact prior to his death.”
She stopped, turned, and stalked back to me. She kept coming until our faces were inches apart. “Who are you?” she hissed. I caught a whiff of perfume.
“Andrew Keller bled out on the grimy floor of a gas station convenience store next to a stack of bottled waters on sale for four ninety-nine. I’m the guy who got the call. Rendezvousing with this woman may, in some inconceivable manner, have contributed to his death. You recognized her just now. You and he talked recently, despite your earlier false attestation that ‘only God knows when.’”
Allison Daniels backed off a few inches, as if noticing how close she was. “I can give you twenty minutes. Counter at the restaurant at the end of this block at twelve forty-five. Don’t be late.”
“Aye aye, captain,” I said. I expected a smile, but all I got was her back. I didn’t think the other side was smiling.
ALLISON SLID ONTO THE stool next to me at 12:55 p.m. I wondered if that would cut into my allotted time. She demanded a spinach quiche without acknowledging the menu. I opted for the grass-fed, nongenetically engineered organic burger with field greens and local organic tomatoes and natural red onions with aged Wisconsin free-range goat cheese. I tacked on two years to my life just by ordering it.
“I appreciate your time,” I said, offering a soft opening.
“Your clock’s ticking.”
“What did you and the late Mr. Keller talk about?” I asked, making no attempt to disguise the tone of my voice.
Her chest rose and fell. She stood, took off her jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and reclaimed her seat. “Look, it’s just a hectic day, that’s all. Hectic day, hectic week, hectic . . .” She gave a dismissive flip of her hand.
“Your time is your decision.”
“Oh puhleeze,” she groaned. “I don’t need sophomore psych over lunch.”
Maybe she did, for her searching, soft green eyes held mine a moment beyond protocol. I wondered if she knew who she really was or made it up every day, but that’s just the lens I view the world through.
“I looked into you,” she said. “A checkered past, as they say. On whose authority are you here?”
“I can’t say.”
“That’s not going to fly.”
“I was asked by a U.S. marshal to look into the death of Andrew Keller. The official statement is that he was the victim of a random crime. We believe Andrew was executed. The purpose of the robbery was to kill him.”
“See, you can say. And this woman you’re obsessed with?” I was surprised that she hadn’t challenged my statement that a U.S. marshal had retained me.
“I’m not obsessed with her.”
“Act like it to me.”
“She’s my only lead—along with you. Andrew claims he dated Mrs. Walker in college. Her maiden name is Phillips. He recently ran into her and was murdered shortly thereafter.”