A pause at the other end of the line. “It’s a surprise,” I explain.
Another pause. I hear the rattle of a keyboard. Then: “Alistair Russell’s employment was terminated last month.”
“Terminated?”
“Yes. Ma’am.” She’s been trained to say that. It sounds grudging.
“Why?” Stupid question.
“I have no idea. Ma’am.”
“Could you transfer me to his office?”
“As I said, his—”
“His former office, I mean?”
“That would be the Boston office.” She’s got one of those young-woman voices that frills upward at the end of a sentence. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.
“Yes, the Boston—”
“I’m transferring you now.” Cue the music—a Chopin nocturne. A year ago I could have told you which one. No: Don’t get distracted. Think. This would be easier with a drink.
Across the park, she moves out of sight. I wonder if she’s speaking to him. I wish I could lip-read. I wish—
“Atkinson.” A man this time.
“I’m looking for Alistair Russell’s office.”
Instantly: “I’m afraid Mr. Russell—”
“I know he’s no longer there, but I’d like to speak to his assistant. Or his former assistant. It’s a personal matter.”
After a moment, he speaks again. “I can put you through to his desk.”
“That would be—” Once more with the piano, a rill of notes. Number 17, I think, B major. Or is it number 3? Or number 9? I used to know this.
Concentrate. I shake my head, my shoulders, like a wet dog.
“Hello, this is Alex.” Another man, I think, although the voice is so light and glassy that I’m not entirely sure, and the name’s no help.
“This is—” I need a name. Missed a step. “Alex. I’m another Alex.” Jesus. Best I could do.
If there’s a secret handshake among Alexes, this Alex does not extend it. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I’m an old friend of Alistair’s—Mr. Russell’s—and I just tried him at his New York office, but it seems he’s left the company.”
“That’s right.” Alex sniffs.
“Are you his . . .” Assistant? Secretary?
“I was his assistant.”
“Oh. Well, I was wondering—a couple of things, actually. When did he leave?”
Another sniff. “Four weeks ago. No, five.”
“That’s so strange,” I say. “We were so excited for him to come down to New York.”
“You know,” says Alex, and I hear in his or her voice the warmth of a revving motor: There’s gossip to be shared. “He still went down to New York, but he didn’t transfer. He was all set to stay within the company. They bought a house and everything.”
“Did they?”
“Yes. A big one in Harlem. I found it online. A little Internet stalking.” Would a man relish behind-the-back talk this much? Maybe Alex is a woman. What a sexist I am. “But I don’t know what happened. I don’t think he went anywhere else. He can tell you more than I can.” Sniff. “Sorry. Head cold. How do you know him?”
“Alistair?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, we’re old college friends.”
“From Dartmouth?”
“That’s right.” I hadn’t remembered that. “So did he—I’m sorry to phrase it this way, but did he jump or was he pushed?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to find out what went down. It’s all super-mysterious.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“He was so well-liked here,” Alex says. “Such a good guy. I can’t believe they’d fire him or anything.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “I do have one other question for you, about his wife.”
Sniff. “Jane.”
“I’ve never met her. Alistair tends to compartmentalize.” I sound like a shrink. I hope Alex doesn’t notice. “I’d like to get her a little ‘welcome to New York’ present, but I’m not sure what she likes.”
Sniff.
“I was thinking a scarf, except I don’t know what her coloring is.” I gulp. It sounds lame. “It sounds lame, I know.”
“Actually,” says Alex, voice dropped low, “I’ve never met her, either.”
Well, then. Maybe Alistair really does compartmentalize. Such a good shrink I am.
“Because he totally compartmentalizes!” Alex continues. “That’s the exact word.”
“I know!” I agree.
“I worked for him for almost six months and never met her. Jane. I only met their kid once.”
“Ethan.”
“Nice boy. A little shy. Have you met him?”
“Yes. Ages ago.”
“Nice boy. He came in once so they could go to a Bruins game together.”
“So you can’t tell me anything about Jane,” I remind Alex.
“No. Oh—but you wanted to know what she looks like, right?”
“Right.”
“I think there’s a photo in his office.”
“A photo?”
“We had a box of stuff to send down to New York. Still have it. We’re not sure what to do with it.” Sniff and cough. “Let me go check.”
I hear the phone scuff the desk as Alex sets it down—no Chopin this time.