I Will Never Leave You by S. M. Thayer

Author:S. M. Thayer [Thayer, S. M.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781503951679
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2018-08-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

JIM

Simpkins’s entire office is about 150 square feet, not much bigger than the interior of the cargo vans parked in the parking garage just beyond the room’s hollow-core metal door. The decor is minimal—a coat rack, upon which hangs his sheepskin jacket; metal chairs; metal desk; metal filing cabinets; and a credenza—all the furniture painted battleship gray to match the concrete floor and the shadows that hang below Simpkins’s eyes. Maybe camouflage is what he’s after, but some office-supply store must’ve had a serious gray sale around the time Simpkins started up his little operation. Even the coffee mugs and the computers and inkjet printers are gray.

Simpkins rises from his chair and extends his hand in greeting. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“A successful man abides by his schedule,” I say. The lone plant in the office, a hanging philodendron, looks like it died six months ago, so shriveled are its vines. With no windows or appreciable air circulation, spending eight or more hours a day in this cramped space must be seriously soul sucking, the kind of fate you wouldn’t wish on anyone but your boss. Something hisses on the other side of the shared concrete block wall where, likely, the building’s boiler room is located. “Dude, you’ve got a sweet little detective cave going on in here!”

Simpkins lifts his wire-rimmed glasses and rubs his eyes. “To be frank, I’m trying to save on office expenses. It’s all part of my master business plan. For now, I’m working in this pit. That’s why I don’t like to meet new clients here. In a couple weeks, though, if I play my cards right, I should be able to afford better office space.”

I swivel my chair around to take in the sports posters on the walls. “Simpkins, trust me. You’re making a smart move, eschewing pricier office space so you can pocket more money for yourself. Who wants to pay more rent than they have to? Who needs flash? Who needs a penthouse suite or an office window when you have money in your pocket?”

Everything about Simpkins looks turgid and bloodshot. A newbie to the world of boozy bonding, he’s still hungover from our encounter last night, but I’ve got just what he needs. Having stopped off at Potomac Wines & Spirits, an M Street purveyor famous throughout the city for its selection of Scotland’s finest exports, I lay on his desk a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Macallan single-malt Scotch I purchased with three of Tully’s Benjamins. I pull open the bottle’s cork top and inhale the peaty vapors.

“This’ll go down way smoother than the rotgut we drank last night,” I say, tilting the Macallan toward Simpkins. “Drink up, sport!”

Simpkins, green at the gills, takes a pusillanimous swig, barely enough to wet the whistle. His bloodshot eyes widen as the Scotch scorches his throat. He winces.

“Pretty smooth, eh?”

Simpkins nods, his lips braced tight as if in pain.

“So suppose we get started. Did you pass on any information about that Laurel

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