She'd been looking down at his morning mail as she walked into his office to drop it into his in-box. It was the usual collection of office memos, letters from production company reps, and a couple of comped subscription magazines. Today it was Playboy, with yet another tired photo spread on Pamela Anderson, and Men’s Health, featuring a cover story on how to get better looking abs in seven days.
But as she looked up from the mail, there were the boots staring right at her almost as hard as she was staring at them. She stopped to admire the intricate detail and craftsmanship that had escaped her all the other times she’d seen them. Maybe because then they’d been moving. But here they were - still - allowing her time to really notice things she hadn’t seen before. The fine sterling silver tips. The little moons and stars cut into the toepieces. The bright, golden sunlight reflecting off them because of the blinding shine. The polished, flathead silver tacks that held the toepieces in place. No doubt about it, these were quality boots.
She moved her eyes ever so slightly upward and looked at the leather. Black, wrinkled, worn, but with a look of comfort and familiarity.
“Like a pair of old shoes…,” she thought, smiling.
Yes, these boots were maybe the best looking pair she’d ever seen. And just as she was having that thought, another one came right on the heels of it.
Why were they at eye level?
She looked up, and saw Dean Montaine hanging from the light fixture.
The screaming went on for almost an hour.
Sheridan worked Westside long enough to see a few cases involving advertising people. He often wondered why more of them weren’t murdered. As far as he could tell, they were for the most part loud, petty, egotistical, annoying and self-loathing. And those were their good traits. He figured the city, which was essentially a company town, made them that way. They all liked to consider advertising a part of the entertainment community. They all thought they were in show business. But the truth was they were just on the periphery of it. If you could call commercials for Swedish furniture stores, Japanese car manufacturers and fast food burger joints show business. No, Sheridan thought, these were, on the whole, people who made a lot of money for contributing nothing to society but volumes of visual and verbal pollution.
Not that it stopped them from thinking they were better than anyone else.
Sheridan walked up to the receptionist who’d just gotten to work and was putting her purse in the drawer. She used to just leave it under the desk at her feet. But a couple months ago she’d run to powder her nose, and a messenger decided he’d help himself to her wallet while she was gone.
He asked to be directed to Dean Montaine’s office.
"Do you have an appointment?”
“Actually, I’m a little late. I don’t think he’ll mind.”
“Your name?”
He flashed his L.A.P.D. badge. “Tell you what. Just tell me where it is. I’d like to surprise him.”
She pointed down the hall towards the northeast corner office.
There was nothing surprising about the fact she wasn’t aware of what had happened. The way Cressman/Krate was laid out, reception was a huge atrium with a narrow, copper waterfall sculpture two hundred yards away at the other end, and a long wall of bad art that at least added color to the space. You had to turn one of the four corners in the lobby and go down a hallway to get to any of the interior offices, which left the receptionist sitting on an island of her own removed from the rest of the employees. Since Dean Montaine’s body was discovered two and half hours before the agency opened, there was no way she’d have seen the police and coroner personnel that were already securing the scene.
Besides, Sheridan thought, receptionists are always the last to know.
