Page 99 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Overtime

gambit intended to distract Maisy from the real agenda, like a
magician’s patter, or was it truly germane to the investigation?
Maisy’s bored expression seemed genuine enough to me.
Labelle stood up, her computer already folded into its own
mysterious silence. The women exchanged minimal salutations and
we left the office. But where were the P&L people Friday night?
Wasn’t their work done, the system in its final testing phase? Ms.
Detective would know; I was playing catch-up again.

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We were delving deeper into the executive suites, guided, I am
certain, by the policewoman’s memory of the floor plan she had
spent no more than a millisecond scanning. This was a hushed and
plush environment, the realm of vice presidents and their servants. I
could remember companies where the data processing department
was down on the shop floor, its managers indistinguishable from the
shirt-sleeved engineers and clerical bosses with whom they vied for
small glass-fronted offices facing a room of rigidly-aligned desks. All
that had changed, at least in companies whose directors could justify
high-priced consultants; the latter counseled the former to upgrade
its computer operations to ‘management information systems,’ place
experts unfamiliar with the business in upper-level positions
guaranteed to command respect from the departments requiring their
services and bury all objections to costly outsourced projects under a
mountain of impressive terminology and obfuscating paperwork. I
couldn’t complain: my own status rose along with these title-inflated
short-timers. If the present scandal didn’t destroy me, I might soon
be a vice president myself.
The gatekeeper of this inner sanctum arrested our forward
movement with sharply arched eyebrows and an imperious swivel of
her long and graceful neck. Maud Lynn Storry ostensibly functioned
as what used to be called a secretary for all of MIS, dispensing checks
and parking stickers to the rank-and-file. But most of her time was
taken up by Bendan, who considered her his personal property; was
that feeling mutual?
“Lynn,” I began, “I’d like you to meet—”

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