I watched her write: Cal-Air 2287 dep STA 5:45p, arr LAX 6:52p. Pan Am 154 dep LAX 10:00p, arr LHR 8:25am. The entire page was covered by fragments; phone numbers without identifiers, names without references indicated. She knew what she meant while she was taking notes and she assumed she’d remember what she was talking about, but when she came across the same page in four days, she’d be clueless. At the same time, she wouldn’t have the nerve to throw out her scribbles in case the notes turned out to be critical.
I finally got tired of being ignored and ambled over to the wall-mounted photographs of the current agents. The women outnumbered the men, and most were closer to fifty years old than thirty. All of the names were easy to pronounce. Catherine Phillips was the #1 Sales Associate for Montebello Luxury Properties, selling over $23 million for each of the past three years. Several exclamation points were affixed to the news!!! If the office took a 6 percent cut and Ms. Phillips collected even half of that amount (minus expenses), she was doing better than most. In her photograph, she appeared to be in her mid- to late sixties and quite attractive.
I sat down in one of the comfy upholstered visitors’ chairs. Kim was still deep in her phone conversation. While I was cooling my heels, I cast about for a cover story to present as soon as she was free. I’d intended to slide in with a ruse that would allow me to pump the listing agent for information about the Clipper estate. Specifically, I was curious how someone might have commandeered the property as Hallie had. There was bound to be a system in place, but I wasn’t sure how it worked. Agents from other companies had to be in possession of the combination that would open the lockbox that held the house key. Otherwise, Nancy Harkness would have to be present for every showing, a nuisance if nothing else.
I let my gaze drift back to Ms. Bass, who was now asking about United and Delta. I placed her in her forties—dark-eyed, with red hair worn in a style that suggested a wind machine at work. She wore a tank top, and her arms were so beautifully muscled, I envied her. Her tan was uniformly dark except for a mottled streak along her left forearm, where she’d misapplied her Tan-in-a-Can. (When I try such products, my skin takes on an orange tinge and smells faintly spoiled.)
To hurry her along, I got up and crossed to her desk. She made eye contact, apparently surprised to find me still waiting. She circled a set of numbers, murmured a few remarks, and hung up. She cocked her head in a deft move that shifted her torrent of hair. “May I help you?”
I don’t know how she managed it, but her tone implied I was the last person on earth she’d be willing to accommodate.
“I’m here to see Nancy Harkness.”
No hesitation whatever. “She’s gone for the day.”
I glanced at the wall clock. “It’s ten fifteen.”
“She has buyers in from out of town. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is. I need information about the Clipper estate. She’s the listing agent, isn’t she?”
Kim widened her eyes and worked to suppress a smile. “Are you in the market for a house?”
“I’m in the market for information about the Clipper estate.” I had no sense of humor whatever and I thought I’d better make that clear.
“If you leave a number, I can have her call you later in the week. She’s tied up with clients for the next three days.”
I thought rapidly to the mug shots of other agents in the office and remembered only one. “What about Catherine Phillips? Is she here?”
Kim Bass, Receptionist, didn’t look favorably upon this request. “I doubt she’d have time to see you. What’s this in reference to?” She asked this as though I’d told her once and she’d forgotten what I said.
“Business.”
“And you are?”
I took out a card and placed it on the desk in front of her. She picked up the card and read it, then focused on me fully, a response I’m often subject to from those who’ve had little or no experience with private investigators.
“You’re a private detective?” she asked.
“I am.”
She waited for me to elaborate, and when I said nothing, she picked up the handset and pressed two numbers. Her expression suggested a smackdown was forthcoming from someone higher up in the chain of command. For this, she could hardly wait.
“Good morning, Ms. Phillips. I have someone here who’d like to see you. No, ma’am, she doesn’t have an appointment.” There was a pause; Ms. Phillips was apparently asking for additional information.
Kim shot me a look, and her gaze returned to the card I’d given her. “Kinsley Millhoney,” she said, pronouncing “Millhone” as though the second syllable rhymed with “baloney” instead of “bone.”