Rubbed Out Read Online Free Page B

office was located on the bottom floor of the building, while the upstairs was taken up by a real estate firm. I wiped the slush on the bottom of my boots off on the mat in front of the door and went inside. The receptionist glanced up from the pile of papers in front of her. She was an older lady with a haircut her stylist should have been shot for committing and a sour expression on her face.
    â€œYes?” she said, obviously annoyed at having me interrupt her work.
    â€œRobin Light. I have an appointment with your boss.”
    â€œHe’s on the phone. He’ll be out soon,” she said and went back to her sorting. Miss Graciousness.
    â€œDo you know his wife?” I figured that as long as I was here, I might as well get started on the job.
    â€œOf course I know Mrs. Wilcox.” The receptionist removed a staple from a set of papers and began separating them.
    â€œWas she in a lot?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou two chat when she was here?”
    The receptionist peered up at me over her reading glasses. “I’m busy. I don’t have time to chat.”
    I tried a different tack. “I like the limo outside.”
    She didn’t even bother looking up, just continued with her sorting.
    â€œIs that how your boss goes to court?”
    No response.
    â€œAre you always this loquacious?”
    â€œNot when I have work to do.”
    I stood there for a few more minutes waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t—obviously she could withstand my penetrating stare—and finally I gave up and took a seat. The chair was impossible to get comfortable in. I tried distracting myself with the magazines on the table, but they were all Field and Stream, and old ones at that, and after leafing through them in a desultory fashion and wondering why anyone would want to do the kind of stuff they were writing about, I leaned back and studied my surroundings.
    The cheap fake-wood paneling on the walls made the waiting room look like a sixties den. The brown shag carpet cemented the impression. And I thought they didn’t sell it anymore. Or if they did, they shouldn’t. The pictures on the walls, the kind you buy at one of those art stores in the mall, were on the same aesthetic level as the carpeting. The plants were plastic. This place was even worse than Paul’s.
    Given the decor, I figured Wilcox wasn’t charging his clients a lot. Or if he was, it certainly wasn’t going into the furnishings. On the other hand, he had enough cash lying around to hire Paul, and Paul didn’t come cheap. Maybe Wilcox just had a bad sense of design.
    Five minutes later Wilcox came out. He had the look of a drinker. He clasped both of my hands in his. They were unpleasantly moist. So were his eyes. He was a small man with a squarish face, a jawline that was beginning to soften, and a pronounced stoop to his posture that pooched his stomach out, making it look bigger than it already was.
    His suit was cheap and ill-fitting, and his hair looked as if someone had gone over the top of his head with a thresher, but he had an expensive watch on his wrist, an item that must have set him back at least six figures, and expensive shoes on his feet. When he opened his mouth, his teeth looked stained and uneven.
    My grandmother had always said you could judge a person by their shoes, but that was because Rolexes were before her time.
    â€œSo,” he said as he led me into his office and closed the door. “Paul tells me you’re going to find my wife.”
    â€œI’m going to try,” I replied. “Hopefully, people will be more helpful than your secretary.”
    â€œMartha is protective.”
    â€œI would have chosen the word rude myself.”
    Wilcox shrugged. “Maybe, but I couldn’t get along without her.”
    I changed the subject. “I take it you’ve been to the police?”
    He nodded.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd they said