Dead Midnight by Marcia Muller

building.
    “We can hope.” I started for the glass doors labeled with the magazine’s logo—a hand holding a magnifying glass over its name—but J.D. stopped me. “From here on we don’t say anything that’ll give away our real purpose, even if there’s nobody around.”
    “Don’t tell me the offices’re bugged?”
    “Knowing Max Engstrom, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
    “Someone told me he’s a control freak. Does he gather information to coerce his employees?”
    “Probably.”
    We walked through the doors into a linoleum-tiled ante-room with a second, solid set of doors at its far side. On the otherwise unadorned wall in between was an intercom with a surveillance camera mounted above it and a command panel for an alarm system. Not excessive security, considering the neighborhood. J.D. pressed a button and spoke, a buzzer sounded, and we pushed through into a scene of utter chaos.
    Phones rang, fax machines and computers beeped, voices spoke loudly or, in some instances, shouted. About fifty casually dressed people filled the large space, and most of them were in motion—pacing, gesturing, popping up from and plopping down into their chairs. Their battleship-gray metal desks were lined up in rows three abreast; there were no cubicles, no dividers, no privacy. The floor was awash in crumpled paper, candy wrappers, and other litter; the desks were covered with files, notepads, coffee cups, and the remnants of meals. My senses reeled from the noise and the mixed odors of Chinese, Mexican, Italian, and good old American grease. Fluorescent light glared down from fixtures suspended on chains from the high ceiling.
    I would have gone insane within an hour if forced to work in such a place.
    A couple of people nodded to J.D. when we came in, but most didn’t pay us any attention. He touched my arm and pointed to a staircase at the rear of the room that led up to a loft where glass-walled offices overlooked the main floor. A man—medium height, heavy, partially bald—stood in one, motioning to us.
    “Max,” J.D. said.
    I followed him past the desks, up the stairs, and along a short hallway to a narrow corridor behind the offices. Max Engstrom waited for us outside his door. He was older than I’d expected—in his fifties—and massive in spite of his lack of stature. Around his large head grew a fringe of gray hair that merged with a neatly trimmed beard; lines furrowed his cheeks in an oddly corrugated pattern; his eyes, under thick brows, were shrewd.
    “Mr. Smith,” he said, nodding to J.D. “And this is the celebrated private investigator, Sharon McCone.”
    I offered my right hand, but he clasped both in his, scanning my face intently. Attempting to control me by refusing a simple handshake. Sizing me up, too, and whatever first impression he formed would govern whether he continued to take J.D.’s cover story at face value. I returned the pressure of his fingers and smiled girlishly—if such a thing is possible at forty-one—and said, “Celebrated, Mr. Engstrom? I doubt that. But I will be if you use J.D.’s story in your magazine.”
    It wasn’t the response he’d expected. He dropped my hands, controlled a frown. “This, from a woman who’s been written up in
People
?”
    “If you saw the piece you must realize how much I regret it. Their photographer made me look like a thug, and their interviewer made me sound like an idiot.”
    “Well, I can promise you we won’t do either. J.D.’s the best freelancer we’ve got, and the purpose of
InSite
is to present attractive people and things in the most favorable light.”
    Engstrom then ushered us into his office, a small space crammed with mission-style furnishings; a leather chair was swiveled toward the glass wall—an excellent vantage point for monitoring what went on below.
    Engstrom saw me looking down and said, “This building used to be a sewing factory. When we remodeled it we kept this loft, which is where the supervisors sat.