LITMIR.BIZ

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several interviews where she talked nonstop about her brand, whatever that meant. As I looked around at all the pretentious trappings, it was obvious to me that whatever her brand was, she was as serious as a heart attack about it.

      The receptionist was a young black woman with a flat face and a forced smile. After I gave her my name and stated my purpose, she picked up the phone on her desk and called back to announce me, then hung up. “Ms. Chandler will be right with you,” she said before turning back to her computer.

      Ben sidled up next to me. “Nice digs, huh?”

      “It’s a little much.”

      “You should feel the leather on that couch. It’s as smooth as a baby’s butt cheeks.”

      I slid him a look. “What’re you doing feeling babies’ butt cheeks?”

      He frowned. “Cute. You should really think about putting a couch like that in your office in place of that hobo pullout you’ve got now. Class it up a bit.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with my office.”

      Ben grinned and then did that Groucho Marx thing with his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

      I turned away from him. He was clowning, and if I didn’t stop it, it would go on indefinitely. The best thing to do was just ignore him until he reined himself in. I eyed the copies of all the glossy magazines fanned out on one of the tables, the faces of Chicago celebrities and political VIPs staring up at me with megawatt smiles. Ben caught me looking.

      “The police superintendent’s in that one,” he offered in a stage whisper. “He’s no pretty boy, but he’s photogenic in a plain sort of way. I wouldn’t tell him that to his face, of course. I don’t think he’d take it as a compliment.”

      I slid him a look. “Will you knock it off?”

      He glanced past me and his smile disappeared. I turned to see what had prompted the shift, and saw a tall black woman rush into the reception area, a woman I assumed was Kaye Chandler, Allen’s right-hand. She moved like she had a purpose, fast, all steam and propulsion, her Louboutins regally kissing the carpet. She headed straight for Ben, zooming right past me.

      “Detective Mickerson,” she said.

      “Ms. Chandler.” He glanced over at me. “This is Cassandra Raines, the private investigator I recommended.”

      She turned to face me and took a moment to check me out. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed neatly in a paisley dress, her dark face well made up, short black hair layered in waves. My first thought was that Allen paid very well, but after taking in Chandler’s dull eyes, pursed lips, and the stern set of her prominent jawline, I had a feeling that despite the flash, I was looking into the face of a woman who hadn’t had a good time in forever and likely spent her days dancing at the end of puppet strings. For that, I decided, whatever Allen paid, it wasn’t nearly enough at all.

      “Yes, the private investigator.” The way she said it sounded like she was slightly amused, as though Ben had said I was a kiddie magician or circus juggler. “Follow me. Vonda’s just about ready for you.” She turned to the receptionist. “Pamela, Vonda would like you to hold all calls for twenty minutes. Twenty, not twenty-one or twenty-two.” She didn’t wait for Pamela’s acknowledgment. She’d apparently given the young woman all she felt she needed to know.

      Down the hall we went, passing boxlike offices on both sides, each box fronted floor to ceiling by glass. Most of the offices were empty, but not just empty. Vacant. Only a handful of staff occupied the others, men and women sitting glumly at small desks, tapping computer keys or cradling phone receivers between chin and clavicle. As we passed, each of them glanced up to look but then quickly lost interest and went back to what they were doing. None of the offices had privacy drapes or blinds. I felt exposed for them. It was like passing displays in a Museum for the Clinically Morose.

      “You’re punctual,” Chandler said as we moved along. “Vonda insists on punctuality.”

      I flicked a look at Ben, but he acted like he didn’t see me. “Uh-huh.” I was a little curious about what else Allen insisted upon, but let it go. “Does the staff know what’s been going on?” I asked. It would explain why half the offices were cleared out. Who wanted to work in close proximity to a woman with a target on her back?

      “Vonda hasn’t authorized me to make a formal announcement. Besides, it’s Vonda who’s on the receiving end of all this nastiness, not staff.”

      I let a beat pass, considered my words carefully. “If there’s a threat, the office, and those in it, could be at risk. They should at least be made aware, so they can be on alert.”

      Chandler stopped abruptly, turned, and her eyes held mine. “You’re here for Vonda. She’ll inform the staff when she feels it’s the appropriate time. Security. Protection. That’s what she needs. Detective Mickerson has explained this to you?”

      I watched her, mesmerized by the intensity, wondering about its source. “He did. But security doesn’t get at the source of the problem, does it?”

      Ben cleared his throat. His signal to me to shut it. “Anything new since last time I was here?”

      Chandler’s eyes shifted from mine to Ben’s. “Nothing that needs to concern you.”

      Chandler then shot Ben a cold, off-putting look, which Ben returned in kind. He was a cop, not one to shrink under a withering glare. I smiled slightly, watching the face-off, though I had little doubt who’d win it. And, as I suspected, Chandler blinked first. I waited for Ben to follow up with another question or Chandler to volunteer more information. Neither did, so I jumped in.

      “So, no more flowers or letters?”

      Chandler gave me the same stare she’d just given Ben. It was obviously her go-to move, but she got the same from me as she’d gotten from him. Her sculpted eyebrows flicked upward, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned on her heels and walked on. Ben and I shot each other a “What the hell?” look, then quietly followed.

      I wondered about the threats, though. Ben had told me Allen and Chandler had thrown evidence of them away, the flowers, the letters, all except the copy Ben had been given on the sneak. It was an opportunity missed. The flowers could have been traced; maybe the letters had had prints on them. Why destroy everything? Chandler was definitely Team Allen, though. Not much evidence of concern, or none at all, for the people around her. That was telling. Maybe it was a disgruntled staffer who was tormenting the boss, or a fan who thought he hadn’t gotten enough attention. Or maybe the heat was coming from someone a little closer to home. As for the flowers, flowers weren’t threatening, unless they were anonymous, unless they kept coming, unless they were unwanted.

      The hall opened up into a small oval sitting area, with a large corner office on the far side. Allen’s name was on the door. This office, too, was fronted by glass, but unlike the others, Allen had drapes, which were now drawn. Across the hall sat a similar office with Chandler’s name on it. Ben and I stood patiently at Allen’s door and listened to a woman’s voice, Allen’s presumably, escalate in anger. It sounded like she was giving someone a lot to think about. Chandler’s face showed little emotion as she rapped lightly on the door, and then melted quietly away. She’d obviously become inured to these kinds of exchanges. Inside, a man fought to get a word in edgewise but was quickly shouted down.

      “Wow. She’s got some lungs on her,” I said.

      Ben grinned. “Yep.”

      I strained to get the gist of what she was saying, but couldn’t make out much; the door was too thick. “Does it sound like we’ll be standing here awhile?”

      “Hope not,” he said. “I feel like a frickin’ idiot. You?”

      “Friend of a frickin’ idiot.”

      Allen yelled the word bastard loud enough for us to hear it distinctly. The meeting didn’t sound like it was winding down, so we continued to wait.

      “Maybe

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