I gave him my card as we exchanged firm handshakes.
“Now what was it you wanted, Miss—ah—?” He smiled patronizingly.
“Warshawski. I want to see Peter Thayer, Mr. Masters. But as he’s apparently not in and you’ve agreed to see me, I’d like to know why the boy felt he needed a private detective.”
“I really couldn’t tell you that, Miss—ah—do you mind if I call you—” He looked at the card. “What does the V stand for?”
“My first name, Mr. Masters. Maybe you can tell me what Mr. Thayer does here.”
“He’s my assistant,” Masters obliged genially. “Jack Thayer is a good friend of mine, and when his boy—who’s a student at the University of Chicago-needed summer work, I was glad to help out.” He adjusted his features to look sorrowful. “Certainly if the boy is in the kind of trouble that it takes a detective to solve, I think I should know about it.”
“What kinds of things does Mr. Thayer do as your assistant? Settle claims?”
“Oh, no,” he beamed. “That’s all done at our field locations. No, we handle the business side of the business—budgets, that kind of thing. The boy adds up figures for me. And he does good staff work—reviews reports, et cetera. He’s a good boy—I hope he’s not in trouble with those hippies he runs around with down there.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me. Jack says they’ve given him a bad idea of the business world. The big point about this summer job was to give him a better picture of the business world from the inside.”
“And has it?” I asked.
“I’m hopeful, Miss—ah—I’m hopeful.” He rubbed his hands together. “I certainly wish I could help you …. If you could give me a clue about what was bothering the boy?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t say … Just called me and asked if I could stop by this afternoon. There wouldn’t be anything going on here that he’d feel would require a detective, would there?”
“Well, a department head often doesn’t know what’s going on in his own department.” Masters frowned importantly. “You’re too remote—people don’t confide in you.” He smiled again. “But I’d be very surprised.”
“Why did you want to see me?” I asked.
“Oh, I promised Jack Thayer I’d keep an eye on his boy, you know. And when a private detective comes around, it sounds kind of serious. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Miss—ah—although maybe we could hire you to find out where Peter’s gone.” He chuckled at his joke. “He hasn’t been in all week, you know, and we can’t reach him at home. I haven’t told Jack yet—he’s disappointed enough in the boy as it is.”
He ushered me down the hall and back to the elevator. I rode down to the thirty-second floor, got off, and rode back up. I strolled back down the hall.
“I’d like to see where young Thayer sits,” I told Ellen. She looked at Masters’s door for guidance, but it was shut.
“I don’t think—”
“Probably not,” I interrupted. “But I’m going to look around his desk anyway. I can always get someone else to tell me where it is.”
She looked unhappy, but took me over to a partitioned cubicle. “You know, I’m going to be in trouble if Mr. Masters comes out and finds you here,” she said.
“I don’t see why,” I told her. “It’s not your fault. I’ll tell him you did your best to force me off the floor.”
Peter Thayer’s desk was unlocked. Ellen stood watching me for a few minutes as I pulled open the drawers and sorted through the papers. “You can search me on my way out to see if I’ve taken anything,” I told her without looking up. She sniffed, but walked back to her own desk.
These papers were as innocuous as those in the boy’s apartment. Numerous ledger sheets with various aspects of the department’s budget added up, a sheaf of computer printouts that dealt with Workers Compensation case estimates, correspondence to Ajax claim handlers—“Dear Mr. So-and-So, please verify the case estimates for the following claimants.” Nothing you’d murder a boy for.
I was scratching my head over these slim pickings, wondering what to do next, when I realized someone was watching me. I looked up. It wasn’t the secretary.
“You’re certainly a lot more decorative than young Thayer,” my observer remarked. “You taking his place?”
The speaker was in his shirt-sleeves, a man in his thirties who didn’t have to be told how good-looking he was. I appreciated his narrow waist and the way his Brooks Brothers trousers fit.
“Does anyone around here know Peter Thayer at all well?” I asked.