Chapter Thirty-Nine

Joe paused under the canopy outside the club. "When did the weatherman say we were going to get rain? I thought it was supposed to stay clear."

Brent shoved his hands in his pockets. "It was on weather.com."

"Well that's really helpful to someone without a computer or a smart phone."

Brent shrugged. "Cece had computers and TVs, you know. Several, in fact."

Joe frowned at the rain. "I guess we're just going to get wet." He stepped from under the canopy and Brent followed, his coat pulled over his head.

Once they were inside the truck, Brent looked at his wet shoes in dismay. "I bet they're ruined now. They're Bruno Maglis, too."

"I'm glad to see nothing we've been through has changed your priorities," Joe said. "So how are we going to find this Docet woman?"

"Let's go to the ballet. While we're driving, I'll call information and see if Ursula is listed."

Joe pulled onto the feeder road. "I’m assuming you know how to get there," he said as he entered the freeway. "It's downtown, right?"

Brent nodded. "When we get closer, I'll give you directions."

They drove a long time in silence, once Brent gave up on his attempts to get a phone listing for Ursula Docet. Settling back in his seat, he gave in to the mesmerizing rhythm of the rain beating on the roof and the pumping of the windshield wipers.

Finally Joe muttered, "Damn dirty trick of that girl back there, putting Lamia's drinks on our tab."

"They all do that," Brent said. "It's assumed that if a dancer is at your table, you're buying her drinks."

"Well, I didn't appreciate it. And I wouldn't have had so many if she hadn't kept ordering them."

"Too late now." They were nearing downtown and Brent pointed to the exit up ahead. "Let's get off here. It's not as close, but it will keep us from getting stuck in that traffic up ahead."

Joe pulled off the freeway, turned onto a side street and following it toward the anonymous towers ahead. Under Brent's guidance, he navigated the broad one-way streets of the city's center, dodging office-workers and lumbering city buses that cut him off when they didn't stop directly in front of him to admit or disgorge passengers. "I knew there was a reason I hated driving downtown."

"Park in that garage up ahead," Brent said, ignoring Joe's complaints. "The one two blocks up, on the left.

"Now you tell me." Joe wove through the chaos to get from the far right to the far left lane, darting in front of a red Hyundai just in time to make the garage entrance. He found a vacant parking space then twisted around to look behind the seat. "Are we going to need an umbrella? I have one here somewhere, I think."

"No, if we take the elevator to the basement level, there's a tunnel that we can use to get over to the ballet building. This is all part of the fine arts center." He stepped out of the truck and did a quick assessment of his clothes. Then he examined Joe with the same critical eye. "We're going to have to get into some drier things. We need to look nice."

"What for?"

"Trust me." Brent reached behind his seat for his overnight bag and took out a few things. "See anyone who'll notice if I change my pants?"

"Are you insane? This isn't your bedroom."

"You're right. I'll go in the stairwell." He slung a pair of slacks and fresh sweater over his arm and headed toward the steel exit door. With a glance over his shoulder at Joe, he called, "Pick something dry for yourself. Something that looks professional."

Grumbling, Joe dug in his bag, but the best he could come up with was a pair of dry jeans and a sweater. He followed Brent to the stairwell, meeting him as he was coming out. "Is that the best you've got?" Brent asked.

"Yes, it is," Joe said irritably. "Unlike you, I didn't take any of that stuff from Cece's."

Brent frowned. "Well, I guess it will have to do."

"Have to do for what?"

"Just get dressed. I'll tell you the plan in the elevator."

A few minutes later they were riding the elevator into the depths of the building. Joe fidgeted in one of Brent's cashmere sweaters and asked, "So what's all this about?"

Brent was focused on something in his wallet and didn't look up.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting a few business cards on top so I can get to them quickly. When we get there, let me do the talking. I'm going to make like I'm doing a little cold-calling, seeing if they'd like me to handle their advertising."

"Aren't you a little high up the food chain to be doing your own cold-calling?"

Brent smiled. "I'll wing it. I can be very convincing."

"No argument there." Joe examined the cuffs of his sweater. "So who am I?"

Brent considered. "I think you'll be my photographer. You know enough about art and lighting to be believable."

"Just so long as I don't have to take any actual pictures."

The elevator doors slid open on a dim winding tunnel that meandered into the murky distance under the dim blue lighting. They followed its twists and turns for several minutes, the bare concrete walls occasionally relieved by framed ballet and theater posters whose bright colors nevertheless managed to look sad and drained of energy in the claustrophobic tunnel.

"How far is it?" Joe finally asked. "I'm starting to feel a little hemmed in, here."

"We're almost there. These tunnels go on for miles, though. You can get lost if you don't know what you're doing." A few moments later, they found themselves at a glass double door with the words "St. Argent Ballet" neatly calligraphed on the glass. "Just remember to keep quiet. And try to look artistic." Brent opened the door and they went inside.

They found themselves in a small lobby decorated in soothing tones of gray and blue. No one was immediately in sight, and Brent took the opportunity to pick up a schedule of performances lying on a small table. He scanned it briefly, taking note of the dates. Finding a few programs on the table as well, he flipped through one, memorizing the names of a few directors and principals. Suddenly a woman burst into the room, brisk and athletic in leotard, baggy pants and a windbreaker. Brent ran after her. "Excuse me, ma'am, could you direct me to the business office?"

"Down the hall, third door on the left," she said as she brushed past him and hurried out the door.

"Nice lady," Joe remarked.

Brent was unconcerned and headed down the hall, Joe following close behind. When he got to the office he was looking for, he paused to compose himself then pulled out a business card and strode confidently up to the reception desk. "Good afternoon." He handed his card to the young woman at the desk. "My name's Brent Conner, and this is one of my associates, Joe Gonzales."

Joe offered a polite nod of agreement.

"I was wondering if I could see Claire Fournier."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, no. I saw the performance of Giselle last night and was very impressed. As you see from my card, I'm in marketing, and I think I can help get the word out about what a great collection of talent you have." He leaned forward. "I have a client with a small area magazine he's putting together, and maybe we could collaborate with him-- get him to run a story about the work you're doing here." He pulled out another business card from his wallet. "So is Ms. Fournier available this afternoon? I don't need much of her time. I just want to introduce myself and see if she'd interested in setting up a formal appointment for a later date."

The receptionist reached for the phone. "I'll see if she's available," she said. "Have a seat while I page her office."