Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

that skeptical attitude to life and those who live it,” I said.
    “Indeed, one might suspect the very opposite,” Mr. Howieson said. “Indeed is putting it mildly,” I said. “Anyway.” I got out the notes I’d made at the office after seeing the Lubinskis’ courier and his peas on their way, while I was filling in the time before driving down to Huntington Beach . “March 14th,” I said. “One of your employees, a Jonathan E. Flint, while returning from the theater with another of your employees, a Mrs. Leonard Richard Jones, alias Mary, was killed by a single shot in the head. Through my extensive contacts with the LAPD, otherwise known as Sneezy, I obtained a copy of the investigating officer’s report of the crime and also copies of other relevant paperwork, which I’ll fax you if you want.”
    “Skip it,” he said.
    “Just as well,” I said, “as I don’t have a fax.”
    “John Flint,” he said. “Of course I remember, I was at the funeral, showing company solidarity and all that. And Mary Jones, of course I know her, if only slightly, as we are in different departments. I am too modest to mention that we are also on different floors and different rungs of the oh-so-slippery corporate ladder. Mr. Daniel, I am beginning not to like this at all. Go on, please.”
    “Of course you also know what department both Flint and Jones toiled in,” I said.
    “Do I ever,” he said, looking grim. “Pensions.”
    “Nebulous is the word for it,” I said, “but when I was talking to the widowed Mrs. Flint, she mentioned she’d come across a sheet of paper in their safe-deposit box she’d never seen before and couldn’t make hide nor hair out of, so she’d chucked it. All she remembered was it was a list of names and addresses with some common denominator, something in common linking them. What that factor was she could not recall.”
    “Pensions,” said Mr. Howieson. “Those fucking pensions.”
    “Lots of money in pension plans these days, a little bird told me,” J said. He shot me a look. “What exactly did Flint and Jones do in pensions or with pensions?” I said. “I mean specifically.”
    “I do not know,” he said, pushing himself forcefully up and out of the armchair. “But I will soon find out.” He crossed to the desk, looked up a number in a rotary file, grabbed the phone, then dialed.
    “Mr. Douglas? R. Howieson, from the office... I will tell you what you can do for me, sir, with apologies to the wife and family for disturbing your evening, you can join me here as soon as possible... Yes, you could say it was an emergency situation, Frank... twenty minutes? Thank you.” He hung up. “Twenty minutes,” he said to me.
    “I heard,” I said.
    “Scotch, bourbon, Irish, or Canadian?” he said.
    “Irish,” I said.
    He slid back the doors of a wooden cabinet recessed in one wall, revealing a compact but well-stocked wet bar, and poured us a couple of hefty slugs into the kind of glassware you find in cheap bars or my kitchen.
    “See,” I said, “what were Flint and Jones doing going out together in the first place? They never had before. They were not romantically involved and they too were on separate rungs on the greasy—I mean slippery—corporate ladder, verifiable facts all. And there’s more,” I said, “more bits and more pieces, but maybe we’d better wait for Mr. Douglas, because otherwise it’s all conjecture, let alone libelous slander.”
    “Mind if I work?” he said.
    “Nope,” I said. “Mind if I have some more Irish?”
    “Nope,” he said. He called the security guy, told him to expect another visitor, then resumed his scribblings. I resumed my sippings and idle musings.
    I interrupted him only once during the following half hour by asking him where the little boys’ room was. He told me.
    Frank Douglas showed up right on the dot of seven-thirty. At least he looked like he was supposed to, being an accountant type—worried and balding and wearing an off-the-peg dark gray suit.
    “Mr. Daniel here is looking into something for me,” Mr. Howieson said, interrupting his underling’s apologies for being late and the way he looked. “In conditions of absolute secrecy and total confidentiality. Understood?”
    “Yes, of course, Mr. Howieson,” Douglas stammered.
    “Mr. Douglas here is Mrs. Mary Jones’s immediate superior,” Mr. Howieson said. “He will answer all your questions succinctly and accurately. Am I correct,