"No, I'm sorry," he says, genuinely apologetic. "I should've made an appointment." Gesturing toward the cordless phone I'm placing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, "Was that, uh, anything important?"
"Oh that?" I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into my chair. 'Just mulling over business problems. Examining opportunities... Exchanging rumors... Spreading gossip." We both laugh. The ice breaks.
"Hi," he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. "I'm Donald Kimball."
"Hi. Pat Bateman." I take it, squeezing it firmly. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm sorry," he says, "to barge in on you like this, but I was supposed to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and... well, you're here, so..." He smiles, shrugs. "I know how busy you guys can get." He averts his eyes from the three copies of Sports Illustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with the Walkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slip them into the desk's top drawer along with the still-running Walkman.
"So," I start, trying to come off as friendly and conversational as possible. "What's the topic of discussion?"
"Well," he starts. "I've been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen."
I nod thoughtfully before asking, "You're not with the FBI or anything, are you?"
"No, no," he says. "Nothing like that. I'm just a private investigator."
"Ah, I see... Yes." I nod again, still not relieved. "Paul's disappearance... Yes."
"So it's nothing that official," he confides. "I just have some basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself - "
"Coffee?" I ask suddenly.
As if unsure, he says, "No, I'm okay."
"Perrier? San Pellegrino?" I offer.
"No, I'm okay," he says again, opening a small black notebook he's taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen.
I buzz Jean.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Jean can you bring Mr..." I stop, look up.
He looks up too. "Kimball."
"...Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle - "
"Oh no, I'm okay," he protests.
"It's no problem," I tell him.