My Boss is a Serial Killer (7 page)

“
Do you yell?” I asked. I had no fear
of screwing up this interview. With our relationship screwed from
the beginning by our own frustrations, Bill and I had nowhere to go
but up.

He was quick enough and honest enough not to
pretend that he didn’t understand the question. “I don’t think I’ve
ever yelled at anyone in my life.”

“
Heavy on the sarcasm? Like snide
comments?” I folded my arms and practically glared at him. “I just
quit working for a sarcastic sonofabitch who enjoyed making asides
about how little he liked me. I won’t put up with it
again.”

“
Nor should you.” Bill looked as I had
felt—fascinated. “Were you good at your job?”

“
I have no idea,” I confessed. “The
only positive feedback I ever got from him was over completely
stupid things, like my ability to look up numbers in phone
books.”

“
But your resume says you worked there
for several years.”

“
I was tricked. He didn’t really start
to show his true colors until I’d been with him long enough to join
the 401(k) plan.”

“
Golden handcuffs,” said Bill. “They
make it so you can’t afford to leave, and then they stick it to
you.”

A new code word. I gave him my first genuine
smile.

“
What do you think of this?” he asked,
showing me the insanely neat document from before.

“
I think you have a lot of strict
expectations that might take some getting used to. But then again,
that document looks great.”

“
Thanks.” The smile he returned was
genuine, too. He said, “I’m sorry Terry Bronk got to you
first.”

I recoiled physically, though I tried to
sound diplomatic. “Oh, er, I don’t think I’d do well working for
Mr. Bronk.”

“
Really? You don’t want to work for the
managing partner?”

Unable to help it, I muttered, “I don’t think
I have the perseverance.”

A small eruption of laughter exploded from
Bill Nestor, and he put a hand over his mouth to stifle it. I
couldn’t help but laugh too, mostly from the surprise. Though his
office door was closed, Bill lowered his voice when he said,
“Terry’s the only partner left. One is dead, one is supposedly
retired, and Simms is running a hotel in Florida and we haven’t
seen her in years. I shouldn’t say this, but there’s a rumor among
the attorneys that Terry Bronk ate them in a fit of
perseverance.”

Wide-eyed I stared at him.

Bill, recovered from his laughter, admitted,
“I’ve lost count of how many secretaries I’ve had.”

“
But you need one,” I reminded him,
“and if you decide to offer me the position, I’ll be willing to
try.”

“
The work is repetitive and fairly
dull. Estate work doesn’t have the thrills of litigation. I do it
because of my problems with stress; that’s how uninteresting it can
be.”

“
Nevertheless.” I shrugged. “I’m sure
you have other people to interview. But keep me in mind. I’ve had
enough thrills in litigation.”

We shook hands. We agreed that it was nice to
meet each other.

Later that day, Donna called me at home to
tell me that, if I was sure I didn’t want to work for Terry Bronk,
Bill Nestor’s secretary job was available. I took the job with
Bill, and I’ve never regretted it. After I’d been with the firm for
a few weeks, someone, said that I’d been offered a choice between
working for Attila the Hun or Rainman, and I’d chosen Rainman. I
couldn’t imagine anyone preferring to work for someone as
“high-maintenance” as Terry Bronk, but an attorney like Bill
presents his own challenges. In response to the Terry Bronks of the
world, you get angry, or you cry, or you bow down under their
tyranny and bear it. Responding to Bill takes more finesse and
patience than that, and I guess between the two, I’d chosen what
many considered the more difficult path.

I’m not sure what filled the time at offices
before the Internet came along. Terrible rumors circulate that in
some offices, employees are restricted from Internet use or can
only visit sites that have something to do with their actual jobs.
I guess we got lucky at MBS&K, where they didn’t monitor our
Internet usage, though they probably should have. We could have
been on the West Coast, we surfed so much. I suppose that, provided
work was finished on time, they decided that their resources were
better spent on buying fancy new monitors for attorneys who didn’t
know how to use computers. I didn’t debate the logic behind that,
because it meant I could check out the TV schedule at
bbcamerica.com without being reprimanded. Well, unless Junior
Gestapo Brent caught me, which he never did because I could always
hear him coming by the sound of his thighs rubbing together.

Before this admission causes any
consternation about whether I was doing my job or even deserved it,
I’ll reiterate that I was good at what I did. I was an excellent
secretary. But I was there almost fifty hours a week, and my job
didn’t require fifty hours a week. Maybe it used to when I was
still learning, but I’d gotten it down. I got my assignments done.
I kept Bill Nestor happy. I helped Suzanne with her extra workload,
such as the nightmarishly awful deposition summary about screws
that was still, still, still growling at me from my inbox. I got to
work on time, I didn’t steal anything but the occasional pen or
roll of tape at Christmastime, and I didn’t cause trouble.

The only problem was how to cope with the
extra hours while still appearing to look busy. Here are some
pointers. Carry a pen and pad of legal paper everywhere you go. It
looks as if you’re going to a meeting, doing research, or carrying
out an assignment. I have found that it boosts confidence to have
some notes written on the pad that hint at monumental tasks.
Something like, “Research. Discovery. What are rules? Has anyone
dealt with this before? PPT. RSMO. NOT ENOUGH INFO to be definite.
Consult Westlaw.” See how industrious that seems? It appears that I
have already started the project, been unsatisfied with my initial
results, and have determined to dig further with more
PERSERVERANCE. Armed thus, I could wander around, stop and chat
with Lucille (who knows what everybody is doing, always) and read
the front-desk copy of
People
magazine.

Staring off into space, dreaming about a
hunky muscular detective who is going to take you out the following
afternoon, can only be passed off as “brainstorming” if you are
peering over a piece of legal text. That’s what I was doing on
Friday when Charlene materialized at my cubicle to grill me. She
had been designated as reconnaissance, for everyone who wanted to
know about my date. Robo-Secretary Charlene always got the facts
straight. Incorrect information was as upsetting to her as poorly
aligned rows and angles were to Bill Nestor, and she was as
ruthlessly studious about her gossip as she was about her job.

She stood holding a file under one arm and a
pen and paper in the other hand, so she gave the appearance of
being extremely busy. Charlene’s face was a supervisor’s dream come
true because she always looked focused and vaguely troubled, and
that’s the kind of attitude that supervisors like.

“
What are you and the detective doing
tomorrow?” she demanded outright.

“
Lunch is all I’m sure of. Then who
knows?”

“
Meaning what?”

“
I barely know the guy,” I said. “I
don’t know what he likes to do. I don’t even know if we’ll have
anything to talk about for more than fifteen minutes.”

“
All the girls are impressed that you
were asked out so quickly.”

“
I was very forward with the poor guy.”
Still, I felt rather smug. Sometimes I was envious of many of my
coworkers, who all seemed to be married to great guys and raising
adorable children or still single but taking sexy vacations,
building mansions, and buying sports cars. Meanwhile I seemed to do
nothing but work for Bill, watch television, and remain divorced.
Ha
ha
, now they could sit on their greener-grass yards and
look enviously at me. I could throw myself at a hunky muscular
detective that I barely knew, badger him into taking me out, and
hope that we wouldn’t cringe at how incompatible we were. Normally,
becoming the center of attention at the office required developing
a terrible illness, having a baby, or doing something extremely
wrong.

“
Where is he taking you for
lunch?”

“
I don’t know. I was so happy he asked
me out that I didn’t get details.”

“
Then we’ll spin it as a surprise,”
decided Charlene. A frown remained on her forehead, but this was
her typical expression. “That’s more romantic.”

Hearing Charlene Templeton speak of romance
was odd. She was quite decidedly the most unromantic person I’d
ever known. Unlike Bill, who appeared ambiguous about all things
sexual, Charlene was borderline hostile with men. She was a good
match to Aven Fisher, the manically busy divorce attorney for whom
she worked, not only because she was Robo-Secretary and could keep
up with his demands, but because she gelled so well with his
pro-women attitude.

I told her about Bill’s belief that he’d
brought it all about.

“
Oh that’s sweet,” said Charlene. “Is
he being protective of you?”

“
No, I don’t think we’re doing the
father-daughter thing. Really I think he just wants me to pump the
detective for information about the Adrienne Maxwell
investigation.”

Knowledge of Adrienne Maxwell’s death had not
been a secret in the office since the detective had shown up at the
door. Particularly since Gus had said Adrienne’s name in front of
Lucille, any hopes of discretion on Bill’s part had gone flying
right out the nearest window. Everyone knew that the police were
investigating her suspicious suicide and about the witness and the
unsub, and the rumors were growing and becoming a little
assumptive. I say assumptive because people were taking it for
granted that our firm, and Bill Nestor, were in the center of an
investigation. As far as I could tell, we were no more than a
peripheral interview that was over and finished.

Case in point: Here came Suzanne Farkanansia,
the pain-in-the-ass paralegal. She was a few inches taller than
Charlene, and I was seated, so she looked down her nose at both of
us. She asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me about the meeting with
the detective?”

“
Because everyone already knows about
it.”

My honest answer didn’t please her. She said,
“I am Bill’s paralegal; if the police want to meet with him about a
client, I should probably be there. Particularly if Bill can’t
be.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “That wasn’t a
meeting. That was me, trawling for a date.”

“
Must be nice, to be so
self-confident.” Suzanne disliked me enough that I knew this was no
compliment. She glanced sideways at Charlene and then looked back
at me again. “I’d like to see your notes on what took
place.”

“
I’ll get those typed up for you,” I
agreed helpfully. I didn’t have any notes from the meeting, so
typing them up would be a snap.

“
And next time, I’d appreciate being
informed when client matters come up.”

Charlene asked, “Why? Did you deal a lot with
Adrienne Maxwell?”

Suzanne sighed patiently. “It doesn’t matter
if I never met the woman. What matters is that secretaries are paid
for typing and filing and keeping calendars, and paralegals are
paid to know what’s happening with the clients.”

“
Okay, then.” I continued to agree with
Suzanne in hopes that this would make her go away.

“
Anyway you’re not Bill’s paralegal,”
said Charlene, all earnestness. “Just because you’re the paralegal
he uses to do a Westlaw search once every six months doesn’t make
you his paralegal. You work for everybody here.”

Suzanne shot a withering look at the shorter
woman but didn’t respond. She spoke to me instead. “How’s that
deposition summary coming along?”

“
Great.” That was a lie.

“
I’d really like to have that back by
the end of next week.” Suzanne turned to leave us and then added,
“And when you’re with the detective, I’d be careful about what I
said about our firm or about Bill.”

I stared after her in puzzlement. “What do
you think she meant by that?” I asked Charlene.

Charlene said, “She’s only jealous. But you
really do want to be careful about anything you say, so as not to
breach attorney/client privilege.”

It was insulting when Suzanne suggested I was
that brain-dead, but Charlene was a sincere giver of advice, even
patently obvious advice, and it was hard to take offense. Charlene
explained further, “Your detective might make it seem like small
talk when he’s actually trying to get information about our
firm.”

“
What information could he possibly
want? He’s already talked to Bill.”

“
If he’s a detective then he knows
lawyers, and if he knows lawyers then he knows they don’t ever tell
the entire truth. Maybe he’s looking for the truth from
you.”

She had lost me. I grinned at her
over-protectiveness, though it was probably for the firm’s sake
rather than my own. I whispered, “The truth about what?”

“
Well, that’s just it,” Charlene said.
“The truth he’s looking for. We don’t know what that
is.”

“
Now Suzanne’s rubbing off on you. I
really think it’s just an ordinary date that he was pressured into
by an ordinary secretary.”