Dismissed with Prejudice by J. A. Jance

Author:J. A. Jance
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER 12

BIG AL AND I SAT IN THE WARM AUTUMN sun at the rough picnic table at the Pecos Pit Barbecue for the next forty-five minutes, while outdoor diners milled around us. We chewed on leftover hunks of ice in Styrofoam cups and brought each other up to date on what had been happening at opposite ends of the state.

“Did you ever talk to the people from the shredder company?” I asked.

“Not yet. They were out of town yesterday when I stopped by on my way home. I thought I’d try to see them today.”

“And what about Davenport?”

“I had an appointment for yesterday, but he stood me up. His secretary rescheduled me for later on this afternoon.”

“I’ll go along, if you don’t mind. He may be able to shed some light on this Woodruff thing. If nothing else, he might know where to look for him. Mrs. Oliver’s saying he lives in a hotel on one of the peninsulas isn’t a whole hell of a lot of help.”

“We can always get the location of the pay phone from the phone company,” Big Al said.

“I know, but if we can get it from Davenport it’ll save time.”

When we finally left the Pecos Pit, it was to drive to 1201 Third Avenue, Chris Davenport’s shiny new building. According to the rave review of one prominent architectural critic, the building is “a perfect rendition of art deco style.” I’d call it more an architectural rendering of tutti-frutti, with its towering confection of green mirrored glass and matte-finished pink granite. The multi-humped roof line looks like it came straight from the set of the 1930s King Kong, but of course that movie was made in black and white.

Once inside, we found that the old-fashioned marbled lobby looked like a time traveler from that same era. We fumbled around for several minutes before we were able to locate the bank of elevators.

Chris Davenport’s office on the forty-fifth floor was suitably high in the building, definitely not low-rent squalor. When the elevator door opened, we found ourselves in a spacious and highly modern reception area done in the current fashion of dusty rose and subtle grays, rich-looking but soothingly quiet.

“Bankruptcy must pay pretty good wages these days,” Big Al said under his breath.

“For attorneys,” I returned.

As far as female help is concerned, law firms always seem to recruit the pick of the crop. A young receptionist with big boobs, a tightly belted knit dress, and a tiny waist announced our arrival over an intercom. Behind the receptionist’s desk, mounted on the cloth-covered wall, was a large brass plaque listing the names of the partners, thirty-four by actual count. Davenport’s name, in position nineteen, showed that despite his youthful looks, he had been around for some time.

Another nubile young secretary appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to lead us to Davenport’s office. She directed us through a door around the corner from the reception counter. The door opened on a private stairway leading down to the next floor. That’s when we discovered that the firm—Rice, Baxter, and Wheeler—leased two entire floors.

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