Bartley Longe sat behind closed doors in his Park Avenue office, trying to talk himself into indignation at the rudeness of the detective who had, in effect, ordered him to put off any appointments he might have until they met.
But he could not conceal, even from himself, that he was frightened. Brittany’s father had kept his threat to go to the police. He couldn’t have them digging into his background again. That sexual harassment suit the receptionist had filed against him eight years ago hadn’t looked good in the newspapers.
The fact that he had been forced to settle for a lot of money had hurt him, financially and professionally. The receptionist had alleged that he’d become outraged when she rejected his advances and had slammed her against the wall, and that she had been in fear of her life. “His face had darkened with anger,” she had said to the cops. “He can’t stand rejection. I thought he would kill me.”
How was that going to sit with this cop when he does some digging into my background? Longe asked himself. Should I bring it up right away so that I seem straightforward? Brittany’s been missing nearly two years. The only way they’ll believe that I didn’t do something to her is if she turns up in Texas and visits her Daddy very, very soon.
Something else. Why hadn’t Kevin Wilson taken his call this morning? Surely he, or someone in his office, had seen Zan going into the station house with her lawyer. Surely Wilson had to be figuring that she’d probably be arrested, and if she was, how much time would she be able to put into his model apartments?
I need that job, Bartley Longe admitted. It’s a showcase for whoever gets it. Sure, I get enough business from the celebrities, but an awful lot of them drive a hard bargain. They say they’ll get a magazine to do a photo layout of their new homes, and that it would be free advertising for me. I don’t need that kind of free advertising.
I lost some of my big-money/old-money customers after that lousy publicity. If I’m involved in another scandal, I’ll lose more of them.
Why doesn’t Wilson call me back? In his letter when he asked me to bid for the job, he said it was of the utmost importance that I submit my plans as soon as possible because they were already behind schedule. But now, not a word from him.
The intercom on his telephone buzzed. “Mr. Longe, are you planning to go out after your meeting with Detective Johnson, or do you want me to send for something after he leaves?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know,” Longe snapped. “I’ll decide after I see him.”
“Of course. Oh, Phyllis is calling. That means he must be here now.”
“Send him in.”
Nervously, Bartley Longe opened the top drawer in his desk and looked at the mirror he kept there. The small job that had been done on his face last year had been terrific, he comforted himself. It wasn’t obvious, but it got rid of the suggestion of a jowl that had begun to form below his chin. Having the touch of silver in his hair was exactly the right way to go as well. He had worked carefully on his distinguished exterior. He tugged at the sleeves of his Paul Stuart shirt so that the monogrammed cuff links were in place.
Then as Elaine Ryan tapped on the door and opened it with Detective Wally Johnson in tow, Bartley Longe stood up and, with a courtly smile, welcomed his unwelcome guest.