The Anonymous Client

1.
    S TEVE W INSLOW RODE UPTOWN IN the back of a cab and thumbed through the casting calls in Backstage . They were, as he’d expected, much the same as in last week’s issue. Most of the open auditions were for chorus work. Steve Winslow was neither a singer nor a dancer. Not that he hadn’t done musical comedy in his time—in summer stock you did all the shows, and when a musical came along you faked it. Steve could carry a tune, and laboriously learn a dance step by rote if pressed, but no one was ever going to hire him to do it. Not with the wealth of legitimate singers and dancers New York City had to offer.
    Steve sighed and flipped the page.
    The cab pulled up in front of an office building on West 48th Street. Steve paid the fare, over-tipping as usual. After years of driving a cab himself, Steve had a soft spot for cab drivers.
    Steve folded the paper under his arm, went into the lobby, took the elevator up to the seventh floor, got off and walked down the hall. It was a little after nine, and a mailman with a pushcart was making his morning rounds, sliding letters through the mail slots in the office doors. He had just stopped in front of a door and taken two letters from the cart when Steve walked up.
    “I’ll take those,” Steve said.
    The mailman gave him a funny look. Steve wasn’t surprised. It was October, and Steve was seasonably dressed in brown corduroy pants, a blue T-shirt, and a tweed sports jacket. That, coupled with his shoulder-length dark hair, made him look somewhat younger than his thirty-five years.
    The mailman glanced at the office door. On the frosted glass were the words, “ STEVE WINSLOW, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW .” The mailman looked back at Steve, hesitated a moment, then handed him the letters, and pushed his cart off down the hall.
    Steve smiled. There was no way the mailman thought he was the lawyer. Probably some office boy hired by the attorney. Steve turned the knob, pushed open the office door.
    Tracy Garvin was seated at her desk reading a book. Without looking at the cover, Steve knew it would be a murder mystery. It was all she ever read.
    Tracy was about twenty-four, with long blonde hair that always seemed to be falling in her face, and large, round-framed glasses that had a habit of getting tangled in the hair. She was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, her usual office attire. Steve didn’t mind. How could he, the way he dressed? And it wasn’t as if he had any clients he wanted to impress.
    Tracy looked up from her book when Steve came in.
    “Good morning, Tracy,” Steve said. He held up the two letters. “Mail’s here.” He tossed the letters on her desk, smiled, and went into his inner office.
    Steve sat down at his desk, tipped his chair back, and unfolded the Backstage .
    “Mr. Winslow.”
    Steve looked up.
    Tracy Garvin was standing in the doorway. The first thing he noticed was that her glasses were folded and in her hand. Steve frowned. In the little he’d seen of Tracy Garvin, one thing he had observed was that when she took off and folded her glasses it usually meant that she was upset about something.
    “Yes,” Steve said.
    Tracy Garvin took a breath. She seemed to be controlling herself with an effort.
    “Mr. Winslow, I haven’t seen you in over two weeks.”
    “I know,” Steve said.
    “Then you come walking in here, toss the mail on my desk, and say, ‘Good morning,’ as if nothing had happened.”
    Steve looked at her. “What happened?”
    “Nothing,” Tracy said.
    Steve frowned. This was not one of his days. But then, he reflected, not many of them were. “So what’s wrong?”
    Tracy took a breath, blew it out again. “Mr. Winslow, I sit at that desk eight hours a day, five days a week.”
    “I know. That’s what I hired you for.”
    “Yes, but nothing happens. I open the mail and answer it. That takes a good fifteen minutes. And I answer the phone calls, a particularly demanding job, since most days there are none. I sit here all day long and I don’t do anything.”
    “I know,” Steve said. “I have no law practice. I have one client, Sheila Benton. Handling her affairs doesn’t amount to much. She’s in Europe now, so it amounts to even less. There’s no work. I told you that when I hired you.”
    “I know that, but ..”
    “But what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Steve smiled. “I do. You didn’t believe me. You figured it was a law office, so something had to happen. Well, you’re wrong. I have no clients,