Rough Cut (7 page)

    Sarah stood up.

    "I just can't imagine who'd do anything like this," she said. "He… he had his faults but…"

    That was the only genuine-sounding thing she'd said since coming in here. Even when he was dead, she wanted to mother and protect him. Maybe in a curious way I felt jealous-that she'd never expressed any protective feelings toward me. Apparently I wasn't the kind of guy women enjoy mothering.

    I walked her to the door. She kissed me on the cheek with her warm, wet face, then clutched my hand. It was the kind of thing you expected at graveside, very dramatic rather than low-key and earnest.

    Then she turned back and stared at me a moment. "I know you may not believe this, but deep down, he really respected you. I know he did."

    Sure he did, Sarah. About as much as I respected Hitler.

    

    

    I spent the next few hours going over the work load that lay ahead for the next few weeks. If I needed any reminder of how critical the Traynor account was to the preservation of Harris-Ketchum, this was it.

    Two television and six radio spots and four print ads needed to be produced for the Traynor account, along with forty-two different pieces of collateral, meaning brochures, catalog pages, point-of-purchase cards, etc. Much of the work would yield us fifteen percent for placing it in various mediums, all of which amounted to several hundred thousand dollars, and this for a very small campaign. In the parlance of the trade, Traynor was a "cash cow," meaning it could be milked for our sustenance.

    And-if we were to meet overhead-it needed to be milked for every possible penny.

    Not noble, perhaps, but true.

    Around three, with a headache starting to work through my frontal lobes, I decided to walk through the shop, kind of an inspection now that I would be running the place myself. I wasn't sure what provisions Denny had made in his will for his part of the agency, but I felt sure he would have left it to somebody outside the business.

    Ordinarily, I didn't like walking the length and breadth of the shop because it was too much like spying: Douglas Mac-Arthur inspecting all the funny little yellow troops at his command. Today, though, alone, I picked up layouts, looked at copy, played some videotapes, and in general learned that we could turn out good creative work on a rather consistent basis.

    I was headed back toward my office after spending an hour in the shop when I heard the noise coming from Denny's office.

    At first I thought it might be Bonnell back again, but there was a furtive edge to the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, closets being searched…

    On impulse, I picked up a knife used for cutting packing tape as I moved closer to Denny's office…

    They were so busy they didn't even hear me. Both of them looked sweaty, almost feverish, they were working so quickly.

    "Hello," I said.

    Sarah Anders looked up first. Her tears were long gone, replaced now with a resolute kind of anger.

    Then Gettig whirled to look at me. He had been working on the wall safe Denny kept behind the framed photograph of his father, while Sarah had been working through the bookcase, dropping books as she went.

    As usual, Gettig was dressed like the lead in a beer commercial. Today he was trying to look like a Jack London seaman-thick black turtleneck, heavy belt holding up designer jeans. I almost expected him to call me "matey." Instead, he said, "Get the hell out of here." Then he started stalking toward me.

    I'm not going to pretend that I'm tough, or even especially physically adept. But at that precise moment I had two things going for me. One, I was composed enough that I could set my balance; two, I genuinely disliked Gettig, which made what I was about to do a very pleasant task.

    I got him a good clean shot across the jaw and he sagged before I could get him with another one. He slumped against the desk, his eyes vague.

    Sarah grabbed my arm. "Don't hit him again, Michael. Please."

    It was in her voice and gaze, something I wouldn't have ever suspected. I wondered how and when they'd gotten together-and why. I couldn't imagine an intelligent, sensitive woman like Sarah with a cartoon like Gettig. But there it was-pity and fear and passion in her eyes and voice all at the same time.

    "What are you looking for Sarah?" I snapped.

    "Just…" She seemed on the verge of talking when Gettig regained his feet.

    "Don't tell him a damned thing!" he said.

    Sarah flushed. "Ron, please…"

    I thought of Sarah's plump, friendly husband sitting out in the suburbs somewhere. Well, I supposed that for all his flaws, Gettig was exciting in his foolish way…

    "Get out," I said. Obviously neither of them was going to talk.

    "He's got something of mine," Gettig said, rubbing his jaw. "I want it."

    "Take it up with his estate."

    Sarah, sensing that the punches were going to start flying again, took Gettig's arm. He wrenched it away violently. She looked as if God had just spurned her.

    Then Gettig said, "C'mon," and stormed out.

    She stared at me then followed him out, turning back only at the last. "Denny really did have something that belonged to Ron."

    I thought of Clay Traynor using similar words to explain why he'd gone out to Denny's last night.

    "Sarah, why the hell would you get mixed up with somebody like Gettig?"

    Anger flashed across her eyes. "You don't have a right to judge me!"

    Her words hurt me just enough-obviously I did have a tendency to be overly judgmental-that I could do nothing but shake my head.

    Then she followed her lover out and disappeared down the hall.

    For the next ten minutes the echoes of all the anger rang in the room. I sat in Denny's desk chair and thought of the better times when we'd been younger and gotten along. I looked at the awards that covered one entire wall and thought of all the great work we'd done over the years, despite any number of personal ups and downs.

    It was while I was mellowing out that I started wondering again what it was that Gettig and Sarah had been looking for. On the floor around my feet were small piles of stuff they'd left from their search. I started putting the things back into the drawers they'd been taken from.

    Which was when I found the newspaper clipping about the robbery.

    At the time it didn't make the least bit of sense to me and I wondered why Denny had kept it in his desk at all.

    I also wondered why I felt compelled to put the clipping in my pocket and take it along with me when I went home.

    

    

    By the time I reached the parking garage, a winter dusk had settled over the chill air. The garage was in shadows. On my way to my car I heard my name called out cheerfully. Ahead of me in the gloom, I saw Tommy Byrnes wave and walk toward me.

    My stomach did unpleasant things. We hadn't really talked since our conversation in my office. I was going to have to be very nice and very apologetic and at the moment the prospect of being either wearied me.

    Tommy came toward me like a shy animal. "Hi," he said.

    I nodded. Decided to get it over with quickly. "Sorry about yesterday, Tommy. I'm not in the best frame of mind. You know how that goes-little things, insignificant things, irritate me. I want you to know I think you're doing a good job."

    "Thanks," he said. Obviously he was half afraid to speak, afraid he'd make me angry again.

    We walked to our cars in tense silence.

    "I really do want to be in advertising," he said finally.

    "I know you do, Tommy. I just can't figure out why."

    He was surprised. "But it's a great field, Michael." He was still self-conscious about calling me by my first name but he was learning. "I mean, it's really creative."

    "I don't think so," I said. "You don't? Really?"

    "We're dabblers, Tommy. That's what most of us are. We can't write novels or poetry so we dabble at writing copy and make a very big thing of how 'creative' we are. Or we can't paint seriously so we go on about how inventive we are and throw a lot of awards dinners so that everybody will know that we're important. In a way, the account executives are the most honest of all of us. They're whores and most of them don't pretend to be anything else." I looked over at his young, shocked face. This wasn't anything remotely resembling what his professors would be telling him-particularly not with the venom I could hear in my voice.

    "So how come you stay in it, then?"

    "Very simple. There's nothing else I can do that people will pay me half as well for."

    "But you're a good writer. You really are."

    This time I could sense he wasn't offering idle ass-kissing. He was being sincere.

    "A good copywriter, Tommy. You've got to make that distinction. It's one thing to write a clever little ad and it's another thing entirely to write something worthwhile."

    "But you've won Clios. That should be worth something."

    "It wouldn't be worth a hell of a lot to Hemingway." I laughed. "Tommy, this is a field where agency people who help pollute the air and feed chemicals into the food supply are given statues of appreciation." I stopped at my car and clapped him on the shoulder. "There I go again, Tommy. Sorry. I'm not in the best of moods."

    "I still want to be in advertising." He had received the True Calling and his voice trembled with it now. Despite my cynicism he preferred to believe that advertising was just as important and glamorous and soul-sustaining as his advertising professor told him it was. "Well, at least I'm glad you're not still mad at me," he added.

    I nodded and waved goodnight and watched him walk into the shadows at the far end of the ramp.

    Then I opened the door to my own car. The overhead light came on. In the dimness I saw Cindy Traynor.

    All she said was, "God, I'm freezing to death. Hurry up. Please."

    

    

    She didn't seem aware when I got in and closed the door. She just stared straight ahead. Obviously she was looking at much more than the rough concrete wall.

    "Are you all right?" I asked.

    Nothing.

    "You must be freezing, Cindy." Nothing.

    I turned on the heater. Played the radio. Sat back and lit a cigarette.

    "I'm sorry about having you followed," I said. "I know." Her voice, ethereal, was nonetheless startling in the quiet.

    I decided to start over again. Gently. "How long have you been here?" Her car was parked next to mine.

    "An hour. I'm not sure."

    I reached over and touched the tip of her nose. It felt like a piece of ice. I smiled. "At least an hour."

    "I talked to the young kid for a while."

    I looked at Tommy Byrnes's retreating car. "Tommy?"

    "Yes. He saw me sitting here and came over. He's very nice."

    My eyes studied her in the darkness, her blondness, the slightly drugged beauty of her features. She looked tired. She sighed, tried something like a smile. "I don't know why I came here."

    "To talk, I suppose. I need to talk to somebody, too. Given the circumstances, I'd say that's pretty normal."

    "This afternoon I had some wine and took a Librium, and I thought they would help me sleep but they haven't." She shrugged. "I've never been involved in anything like this, have you?"

    "No."

    "My parents were very strict Lutherans. Very strict. They didn't prepare me to commit adultery or be involved in murder cases." The muzziness of her voice was starting to have a sexual effect on me, like the slow blue gaze of her sleepy eyes. "Do you ever think about death?"

    "You know what?" I said. "Maybe there's a better place to have a discussion like this one."

    "You didn't answer my question."

    "Sure, I think about death."

    "Does it scare you?"

    "Yes."

    "Do you believe in God?"

    "Sort of."

    "Yeah, me too. Sort of. My mother believes in Him absolutely and that's a great comfort to her. Last Thanksgiving I walked in on her. She was on her hands and knees, praying. I was really moved. I wish I could be like that but I'm afraid I lead a different kind of life, don't I?"

    I laughed. "Maybe it's our generation."

    She laughed too. "That's a handy excuse, anyway." She paused. "I was going to go into the agency and get you but I was afraid I'd run into Clay."

    "He left a few hours ago."

    "He's afraid."

    "I know."

    "I feel sorry for him. He doesn't know what to do."

    I hesitated. "You know, there's a possibility he may have killed Denny."

    She shook her head. "There's a possibility that any number of us may have killed Denny." She folded her hands primly and went back to staring at the wall. Then, "Where did you have in mind to go?"

    'To my apartment."

    "Maybe you've got the wrong impression of me. I really don't sleep around. Sorry. Denny's the only affair I ever had."

    "I thought maybe we could talk."

    "We're talking here."

    "Where we could be more comfortable, I mean."

    "I'm very vulnerable right now. I might say yes to something I'd regret."

    "Did you kill him?"

    "No. Did you?"

    "No."

    "Do you think my husband did?"

    "I don't know," I said.