Found Money - James Grippando [59]
The main offices for Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz were on five contiguous floors some forty stories above downtown Denver. Theoretically, the Denver headquarters and six branch offices operated as one fully integrated law firm. Amy made sure that was the case with state-of-the-art computer links between cities. Still, there was no technological or other way to transport completely the high-charged atmosphere of the main office to its satellites. Each visit to Denver reminded Amy that it wasn’t the satellites in Boulder or Colorado Springs that made this Rocky Mountain law firm comparable to the finest firms in New York or Los Angeles.
Amy approached the secretarial station outside Marilyn’s office with some trepidation. Her secretary was a notorious snob who protected Marilyn like royalty.
“Good morning,” said Amy. “Is Marilyn here?”
The secretary raised an eyebrow, as if Amy’s use of the first name was utter insubordination. “She’s here, yes. But she’s not available.”
“Is she with someone?”
“No. She’s simply unavailable.”
“When will she be available?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She almost glared at Amy, invoking her most snotty tone. “Whether a client calls. Whether her partners need her. Whether Jupiter aligns with Mars.”
“Please tell her Amy Parkens is here, that it’s personal, and that it’s very important.”
She didn’t budge.
Amy met her stare. “If she gets angry, you can personally type my letter of resignation.”
Smugly, she buzzed Marilyn on the intercom and delivered the message exactly the way Amy had worded it. A look of surprise washed over her face. She hung up and muttered, “Ms. Gaslow will see you now.”
Amy smirked. Never underestimate the power of an astronomer to align the planets.
Marilyn Gaslow had an impressive corner office on the forty-second floor with breathtaking views of both the mountains and the plains. The furnishings were French antiques. Museum-quality artwork decorated one wall. Another was covered with plaques and awards she had accumulated over the years, marking a lifetime of achievement that included everything from first woman president of the American Bar Association to a four-year stint as chairwoman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Scattered among the wall of glory were photographs of Marilyn with every president since Gerald Ford, each signed and inscribed with a warm personal message. Behind her desk was a more personal touch—a framed but faded old snapshot of two smiling teenage girls. It was Marilyn and Amy’s mother.
“So good to see you, Amy.” She rose and gave her a motherly hug.
In some ways, Marilyn was like a mother, at least when they were together. Marilyn had been her mother’s closest friend at one time and, in her own way, had taken an interest in Amy’s well-being after the suicide. Whenever Amy wasn’t right before her eyes, however, Marilyn was simply too busy to notice that she lived from paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment with her daughter and grandmother. Marilyn was a career woman to the exclusion of any personal life. Her only marriage had ended in divorce twenty years ago, and she had no children of her own.
Amy gave her the latest on Taylor as they settled into their chairs. Amy sat on the couch. Marilyn took the Louis XVI armchair. Marilyn was pleasant but clearly pressed for time.
“So what’s this personal and important matter you’ve come here to talk about?”
“Our apartment was broken into yesterday. The place was completely wrecked.”
“My God, that’s terrible. Do you need a place to stay?”
“We’re okay. Fortunately we had rental insurance. We’ll just have to impose on the neighbors until the place gets cleaned up.”
Marilyn reached for the telephone. “I know the chief of police in Boulder. Let me give him a call, make sure there are more patrol cars in the area.”
“Marilyn, that’s not necessary. I just wanted