Free Suicide Season by Rex Burns Page A

apparently left the office, were less indicative of a pattern. Even the golf times were scattered, and I was left with a long list of single meetings, a shorter one of a lot of meetings, and the shortest list of all—those names and initials he met with only three or four times at the most.
    I ran the display one more time, then ordered a printout and, while the machine chattered rapidly to itself, telephoned McAllister’s assistant once more.
    “Mr. Haas’s secretary? Carrie Busey. Yes, she’s still with us.”
    I dialed the number given and identified myself.
    “Miss Busey, you were Mr. Haas’s secretary?”
    The voice came back without nervousness or surprise. “I was.”
    “I have some questions about a few items that have come up concerning his daily office routines, and I wondered if I could take you to lunch and pick your brain.”
    “We’re not supposed to discuss company business, Mr. Kirk.”
    “I understand. But as I said, I have clearance—you may verify that with Mr. McAllister’s office. And what I’m interested in is not so much the company’s business as his. Who the meetings were with, what some of the rather cryptic entries in his appointment book might be, what you might remember about some of the people he saw.”
    “I suppose that’s harmless enough.” The cool voice added, “Though I will, of course, ask for written approval from Mr. McAllister’s office.”
    “Of course.” Written approval. She knew how to protect herself in the corporate jungle. “How about tomorrow at Gianelli’s?”
    The voice warmed a bit. “That sounds very nice.”
    “Is eleven thirty too early? We can get a quiet table then.”
    “I can manage.”
    Bunch, closing the door on the last of the conversation, raised his eyebrows. “Gianelli’s? What’s this one look like?”
    I hung up. “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know? You’re taking her to a place like that and you don’t know?”
    “It’s Haas’s secretary. I wanted to impress her a little.”
    “That’s more than a little. How come you get to take broads to Gianelli’s and the best I get is Wendy’s?”
    “Oh, now, Bunch—you wouldn’t enjoy it. You’d have to wear shoes, and you know what that does to the hair between your toes.”
    “Right. Silly me to forget. Here.” He tossed a thick envelope on the desk and set a small stack of tape boxes beside it. “This envelope’s the printout on the AeroLabs bid; I think we got a good chance with it. The tapes are everything you wanted on Haas—all the conversations, pickups, whatever we had on file. You name it, I put it all in chronological order on these.”
    I showed him the printout from my computer. “This is a list of his official contacts for six months prior to his death.”
    “And you want correlations with what we already have?”
    “If it can be done. And if you think it’s worth the time.”
    Bunch got that little frown which always came when he puzzled out a new twist for his machines to struggle with. For all that he liked to act the hairy and unwashed cowboy, he had a magical skill with electronic devices, and he always enjoyed a new challenge. “Let me think about it a little. Maybe I can rig something up.”
    Dialing again, I waited five or six rings before the telephone was answered by a child’s voice. “The Haas residence.”
    “May I speak to Mrs. Haas?”
    “Who’s calling, please?” It sounded like the boy’s thin voice—Austin, Jr.
    “Devlin Kirk.”
    “Just a minute, please.”
    The phone went blank, then was picked up and the woman said “Hello.” I heard the click of the extension as it hung up. “This is Devlin, Margaret. I’d like to know if you still have the envelope of personal effects from your husband’s desk. I understand it was mailed to you last October.”
    “I think so—I’m sure I do.”
    “Can I come over and pick it up?”
    “The children and I were just leaving. I promised them the afternoon at the zoo.” She