JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home by Peter Spiegelman Page B

But I was amused that Turpin had referred to my brother as Ed. While Edwin is his given name, no one who knows my brother even casually calls him anything but Ned. Turpin looked at Jan Carmody.
    “You know Ed March, over at Klein, don’t you, Jan?”
    She nodded and smiled thinly. “I know Ned,” she said. Turpin didn’t notice her correction, or pretended not to. That amused me too.
    “And we know you too,” Turpin said. “We know you fancy yourself some kind of cowboy, and we know what a high-handed pain in the ass you can be. So let’s get something straight from the outset: We have no intention of putting up with your bullshit here.” Turpin pointed at me, and the scolding tone I’d heard on the phone came back to his voice. “You keep harassing my people, you mess with the conduct of our business, and I’ll have your license— and your goddamned trust fund— in my pocket before I’m through.” Turpin gave me a hard look. Jan Carmody stuck with empty.
    I smiled at them. “Unless I’m mistaken, you asked me here today, and I thought it was to have a grown-up conversation, not to sit through a piece of bad theater.” Carmody stiffened. Turpin began to color and drew a breath to speak, but I continued. “I understood what you said yesterday, and I still understand it today, though I hardly think a few phone calls qualify as harassment. My only interest is in finding Gregory Danes. If you want to talk about that, fine. Otherwise, I’ll let you get back to work.” Turpin’s lips were pressed together and his face was dark. Jan Carmody cleared her throat, and she and Turpin exchanged glances. She spoke.
    “The point Dennis is making, Mr. March, is that Pace-Loyette takes its responsibilities to its shareholders and clients and employees very seriously. And it will react seriously to anything that impedes its ability to serve those constituents.” It was impressive lawyer-speak— a gentle threat, a claim to the moral high ground, but oblique and ultimately elusive in its meaning. And Jan Carmody delivered it well: polite, reasonable, and serious, and without a hint of Turpin’s posturing. I nodded at her.
    “About Danes … ?” I said. Carmody looked at Turpin, who’d come off the boil.
    “I assume you got your client’s say-so to talk to us,” Turpin said. I nodded. “And? Who are you working for?”
    I smiled. “Before we get to that, I need some assurance that I’ll get my questions answered.”
    Turpin leaned forward in his chair. He pointed again. “That depends on your questions, doesn’t it? Don’t think you’re getting a goddamn blank check here.”
    “I don’t. But I want to know that you’re willing to talk about certain things— like when you last saw Danes, or when anyone here last spoke with him, or what his mood was— that sort of thing.”
    Carmody answered. “And in turn, Mr. March, you’re authorized to tell us what?”
    “I can tell you who I’m working for and what I’ve found so far.” Carmody and Turpin looked at each other and reached some sort of agreement. Turpin nodded.
    “All right,” he said, “you first.” I told them who had hired me and what I knew so far. It was a short story and they were silent when I finished, as if they were waiting for something more.
    “That’s it?” Turpin said. “That’s what you’ve got? There’s nothing there I didn’t already know.” I shrugged. He knitted his thick brows. “How do I know you’re not feeding me a line of crap, anyway? You have proof you’re not working for someone else?”
    “Who else would I be working for?”
    “How the hell should I know? There are plenty of plaintiffs out there.”
    Jan Carmody interrupted with a cough. “We have Ms. Sachs’s number. Why don’t we call and verify.” She slipped a cell phone from her pocket and stepped out of the room. She was gone less than five minutes, during which time Turpin and I sat silently, looking at nothing. Carmody nodded at Turpin