107
Aligned Design
Ch 19
Eames was at the office early. Despite the active night she'd spent, she was eager to get this day going. The list of questions grew as she thought through each interview. Where's Bobby? I could use his mind on this, she thought.
As if summoned, her partner rounded the corner from the lifts. His head was down and his shoulders were slumped. Oh, boy, thought Eames, here we go.
"Morning," she said as he pulled out his chair and sat. It appeared he was going to ignore her today. Great.
Then, he realized she was there, "Huh? Oh, sorry, yeah, morning." He flipped open his portfolio, rested his head in his right hand and studied intently.
Edward round the corner and she saw him watching her. Slyly he ran his tongue over his lips and winked at her. She lost it, laughed aloud and immediately looked down at the desktop.
"Huh?" Bobby asked, looking up at her. He saw the top of her head and saw her shoulders shaking. "Eames? Are you crying? What did I do? Did I say something to make you cry?"
She looked up at him and her face said it all, "No, no Goren, I'm not crying." Eames tried to get herself together. Slowly she recovered and stole a glance over at Sledge. He was standing with the phone to his ear, looking at her. He caught her glance and did it again.
Eames dissolved. Her hands flew to her face and she chortled behind them. It grew. Every time she tried to stop, another wave crashed over her and she sat bouncing with laughter. She tried to keep it quiet, but then she snorted a huge one and Goren's head shot up. Her snort sent her over the edge and she laughed until tears fell.
"Are, are you laughing at me? Eames? What . . . ?" He looked at Alex as though she was nuts. Deakins walked over to ask about the interviews today and saw Goren looking tired and worried and his partner laughing her head off.
"Do I even want to know?" he asked. Eames laughed on, waving her hand, unable to speak, reaching for a tissue in her second drawer. Goren stared at her, then looked up at his boss.
"And everyone thinks I'm the crazy one?"
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Gleason woke up and dashed to the bathroom. Afterward, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. This is ridiculous, I can no longer eat at night, she said to herself. She walked back to the bed and lay down. She felt queasy and wanted to sleep more, but knew she was awake for the day. I need to get up, she thought; I should get breakfast. The thought of food tossed her stomach and she rolled onto her back. Ugh, no food after six in the evening – ever again, she told herself.
Bobby came to mind. What is wrong with him? He was so angry with me. Bobby's words had hurt. She had no idea he was capable of that kind of fury. She wanted things to be as they were that first weekend.
She recalled their meeting, he was so shy, fumbling, trying to ask her out. She smiled, seeing him again in her mind. That next evening, Thursday night, he was so tall, commanding, so interested in everything she said. Sitting across from him, in the booth at Dickie's, she studied his deep dark eyes, his button nose. His wonderfully curly hair, cut so short – he thought it wouldn't be so curly that way. She smiled, remembering. His lips, how he would purse them when thinking, how he used them when loving her.
Her mind's eye traveled every inch of his body. She saw the way the muscles of his body wrapped his bones and filled his skin, defining his lean, taut, strong shape. She felt his heat, his soft strength. Her body remembered his hands, his fingers, so large, strong. Oh, what he does with his hands. She felt so safe next to him. He enveloped her, body and soul.
Oh, how she missed him. Then call him, she told herself. Tell him what he wants to hear. Say it. You have never said it to anyone, not even as a child. You have saved them your whole life, locked away, those three, precious, magic words. Give them to Bobby. He is the one to hear them. He is the one you love.
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Eames' phone rang three times before she was collected enough to answer it. "Eames," she finally said. "Ok, thanks, bring him up. Uh, take him to interview two. Thanks."
Bobby over at her, "Who's here?"
"The insurance broker, Stanley Mazurowsky."
He went back to what he was doing on his laptop. Eames flipped through papers looking for the list of questions she'd worked on yesterday. Damn! She searched the folders on her desk. Shit! She went slower, examining each sheet and folder again. Fuck! "God damn it," she said.
Bobby looked over again. "What are you looking for?"
"I can't find the list of questions for this interview. It was right here, yesterday."
Bobby stood and reached over his desk to three, clipped together, sheets of paper straddling both desks.
"This it?" He asked holding up the papers.
Eames took the papers from him and slumped with relief. "Thank you! Where were they?"
"Right there," he answered, pointing.
"What would I do without you?" she said with a smile, turning away.
"We'll see, won't we?" he answered softly.
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Gleason must have drifted off because she woke to deep rumbling thunder. The rain slashed against the window. She roused and suddenly had to pee. While in the bathroom, she turned on the shower. She walked back to the large window and pulled back the sheer curtains, looking out at the wet world.
She loved the rain. It cleansed and nourished the earth. The smell of rain made her want for home. Rain smelled differently on the tiny island in the North Sea. There, it had a clean, raw edge to it; unlike she had smelled anywhere else.
She wanted to go back one day. She wanted to take Bobby there. She wanted him to see Edinburgh, Stockport, Cheadle, Luton, Doncaster, and Oxford. He would love Oxford. His brilliant mind would thrive there. What was wrong with him? She turned and went back to the bathroom to shower.
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Eames headed to interview room two. Bobby glanced her way and returned to his laptop. He was searching for types of tubing. It was slow going. Nothing he had found looked anything like what might have made the ligature mark on the artist's neck. He needed to get to some hardware stores and talk to people, look at tubing. Will Deakins let me out? Go ask him, he said to himself. Bobby walked to the boss's office.
Deakins was on the phone and Bobby waited outside the open door. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor.
"Well, let me know one way or another. . . . Ok, sure. Bye." Deakins finished, returned the receiver and said, "Is Eames in interview two?"
"Uh, yeah, I think so," Bobby replied.
"Ok, thanks for getting me. Let's go." Deakins stood and crossed his office. Bobby stood aside, paused, raised his left hand to his chest as if to say something, decided 'what the hell,' and followed the boss.
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Gleason stood, dressed and groomed, looking out the window again. She had wanted to walk around Northwestern's campus today – do what she had wanted to do yesterday. Was it too rainy to walk? Not if she had a raincoat and umbrella, which she did not. Doggone! She looked at the clock, eight twenty-one.
Bobby would be at work, if he went. Call him, she told herself. See if he is ok. Talk with him. Find out what happened. She knew she should. But, honestly, she was afraid to call him. She was afraid of him. Gleason wrapped her arms around herself and felt her eyes fill. She was afraid of what he would say, of what he might do.
She turned and decided to get something to eat. She bent and opened the mini fridge and looked at the last bowl of soup – tomato, her stomach lurched and she gagged. Oh, the smell! God! She shut the fridge door and sat up on the foot of the bed, breathing deeply, trying to keep down whatever remained in her tum. Oh. Oh.
Why was she so queasy this week? She had felt funny the last few weeks at home. She even threw up three mornings last week and two the week before, always after Bobby had left for work. She was certain it was because she had eaten too much too late. Same here, she just could not eat late in the evening. She needed to eat something now then, so there would be no repeat of yesterday.
Gleason opened the microwave and removed the basket of bread and rolls. A nice thick slice of Italian, a sesame seed roll, and a dinner roll sat in the bottom. Looking away, she opened the fridge, removed a bottle of juice without looking at the label, and grabbed the bowl of butter packets. She slammed shut the door and sat back on the bed. Her breakfast was ready.
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Deakins and Bobby stood in the dark watching Eames interview the insurance broker. Bobby stood with his right hand tucked under his left arm, left hand to his lips. They listened as she talked with the insurance man. Mazurowsky was willing and well prepared. He brought the original insurance papers and copies of everything for her.
"Who bought policies on these six pieces?" Eames asked.
"Three individuals purchased policies, actually; two within the same week. The artist, Meraux Peignoir, purchased the first one. Well, he had an initial policy he had purchased with the first painting in 1991. He added each piece to the policy as it was finished. He insured them with the normal codicil regarding current market value.
"In other words, the replacement value of each piece would be determined by its value at the point in time when the claim would be made. So, the value of the policy would increase and decrease according to the market value.
"Here's a copy of the policy purchased by Mr. Peignoir. You'll find all of that information on the green tabbed pages with the particulars highlighted in yellow. The signature pages have purple tabs." Mazurowsky slid a clipped packet across the table to Eames. "Oh, I brought a folder for you. There are quite a few things here." Mazurowsky smiled wanly.
"Thank you, Mr. Mazurowsky." Eames accepted the folder, laid it open, and set the packet on the right hand side.
Bobby cleared his throat, the fingers of his left hand at a right angle to his palm, still at his lips. "She should put that packet face down on the left hand side of the folder. That way, the information will be in chronological order of receipt."
Deakins slowly turned his head and looked at the tall genius beside him. Jesus, he thought to himself.