"...Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle"

"Oh no, I'm okay," he protests.

"It's no problem," I tell him.

I get the feeling he's trying not to stare at me strangely. He turns back to his notebook and writes something down, then crosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and she places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glass tumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful, worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles and nods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently, I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping my hands together, sitting up. "Well, what's the topic of discussion?" I say again.

"The disappearance of Paul Owen," he says, reminding me.

"Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about the disappearance or anything..." I pause, then try to laugh. "Not on Page Six at least."

Kimball smiles politely. "I think his family wants this kept quiet."

"Understandable." I nod at the untouched glass and bottle, and then look up at him. "Lime?"

"No, really," he says. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" I ask. "I can always get you a lime."

He pauses briefly, then says, "Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own files, okay?"

"Shoot," I say.

"How old are you?" he asks.

'Twentyseven," I say. "I'll be twentyeight in October."

"Where did you go to school?" He scribbles something in his book.

"Harvard," I tell him. "Then Harvard Business School."

"Your address?" he asks, looking only at his book.

"Fiftyfive West Eightyfirst Street," I say. "The American Gardens Building."

"Nice." He looks up, impressed. "Very nice."

"Thanks." I smile, flattered.

"Doesn't Tom Cruise live there?" he asks.

"Yup." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Suddenly I have to close my eyes tightly.

I hear him speak. "Pardon me, but are you okay?"

Opening my eyes, both of them tearing, I say, "Why do you ask?"

"You seem... nervous nervous."

I reach into a drawer in my desk and bring out a bottle of aspirin.

"Nuprin?" I offer.

Kimball looks at the bottle strangely and then back at me before shaking his head. "Uh... no thanks." He's taken out a pack of Marlboros and absently lays it next to the San Pellegrino bottle while studying something in the book.

"Bad habit," I point out.

He looks up and, noticing my disapproval, smiles sheepishly. "I know. I'm sorry."

I stare at the box.

"Do you... would you rather I not smoke?" he asks, tentative.

I continue to stare at the cigarette packet, debating. "No... I guess it's okay."

"You sure?" he asks.

"No problem." I buzz Jean.

"Yes, Patrick?"

"Bring us an ashtray for Mr. Kimball, please," I say.

In a matter of seconds, she does.

"What can you tell me about Paul Owen?" he finally asks, after Jean leaves, having placed a Fortunoff crystal ashtray on the desk next to the untouched San Pellegrino.

"Well." I cough, swallowing two Nuprin, dry. "I didn't know him that well."

"How well did did you know him?" he asks. you know him?" he asks.

"I'm... at a loss," I tell him, somewhat truthfully. "He was part of that whole... Yale thing, you know."

"Yale thing?" he asks, confused. thing?" he asks, confused.

I pause, having no idea what I'm talking about. "Yeah . . Yale thing."

"What do you mean... Yale thing?" Now he's intrigued.

I pause again what do do I mean? "Well, I think, for one, that he was probably a closet homosexual." I have no idea; doubt it, considering his taste in babes. "Who did a lot of cocaine..." I pause, then add, a bit shakily, " I mean? "Well, I think, for one, that he was probably a closet homosexual." I have no idea; doubt it, considering his taste in babes. "Who did a lot of cocaine..." I pause, then add, a bit shakily, "That Yale thing." I'm sure I say this bizarrely, but there's no other way to put it. Yale thing." I'm sure I say this bizarrely, but there's no other way to put it.

It's very quiet in the office right now. The room suddenly seems cramped and sweltering and even though the airconditioning is on full blast, the air seems fake, recycled.

"So..." Kimball looks at his book helplessly. "There's nothing you can tell me about Paul Owen?"

"Well." I sigh. "He led what I suppose was an orderly life, I guess." Really stumped, I offer, "He... ate a balanced diet."

I'm sensing frustration on Kimball's part and he asks, "What kind of man was he? Besides" he falters, tries to smile "the information you've just given."

How could I describe Paul Owen to this guy? Boasting, arrogant, cheerful dickhead who constantly weaseled his way out of checks at Nell's? That I'm heir to the unfortunate information that his penis had a name and that name was Michael Michael? No. Calmer, Bateman. I think that I'm smiling.

"I hope I'm not being crossexamined here," I manage to say.

"Do you feel that way?" he asks. The question sounds sinister but isn't.

"No," I say carefully. "Not really."

Maddeningly he writes something else down, then asks, without looking up, chewing on the tip of the pen, "Where did Paul hang out?"

"Hang... out?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "You know... hang out."

"Let me think," I say, tapping my fingers across my desk. "The Newport. Harry's. Fluties. Indochine. Nell's. Cornell Club. The New York Yacht Club. The regular places."

Kimball looks confused. "He had a yacht?"

Stuck, I casually say, "No. He just hung out there."

"And where did he go to school?" he asks.

I pause. "Don't you know this?"

"I just wanted to know if you know; ' he says without looking up.

"Er, Yale," I say slowly. "Right?"

"Right."

"And then to business school at Columbia," I add, "I think think."

"Before all that?" he asks.

"If I remember correctly, Saint Paul's... I mean"

"No, it's okay. That's not really pertinent," he apologizes. "I just have no other questions, I guess. I don't have a lot to go on."

"Listen, I just..." I start softly, tactfully. "I just want to help."

"I understand," he says.

Another long pause. He marks something down but it doesn't seem important.

"Anything else you can tell me about Owen?" he asks, sounding almost timid.

I think about it, then feebly announce, "We were both seven in 1969."

Kimball smiles. "So was I."

Pretending to be interested in the case, I ask, "Do you have any witnesses or fingerprints"

He cuts me off, tiredly. "Well, there's a message on his answering machine saying he went to London."

"Well," I ask then, hopefully, "maybe he did, huh?"

"His girlfriend doesn't think so," Kimball says tonelessly.

Without even beginning to understand, I imagine, what a speck Paul Owen was in the overall enormity of things.

"But..." I stop. "Has anyone seen him in London?"

Kimball looks at his book, flips over a page and then, looking back at me, says, "Actually, yes."

"Hmmm," I say.

"Well, I've had a hard time getting an accurate verification," he admits. "A... Stephen Hughes says he saw him at a restaurant there, but I checked it out and what happened is, he mistook a Hubert Ainsworth for Paul, so..."

"Oh," I say.

"Do you remember where you were on the night of Paul's appearance?" He checks his book. "Which was on the twentyfourth of June?"

"Gosh... I guess..." I think about it. "I was probably returning videotapes." I open my desk drawer, take out my datebook and looking through December announce, "I had a date with a girl named Veronica..." I'm completely lying, totally making this up.

"Wait," he says, confused, looking at his book. "That's . . not what I've got."

My thigh muscles tense. "What?"

"That's not the information I've received," he says.

"Well..." I'm suddenly confused and scared, the Nuprin bitter in mystomach. "I... Wait... What information have have you received?" you received?"

"Let's see..." He flips through his pad, finds something. "That you were with"

"Wait." I laugh. "I could could be wrong..." My spine feels damp. be wrong..." My spine feels damp.

"Well..." He stops. "When was the last time you were with Paul Owen?" he asks.

"We had" oh my god, Bateman, think up something "gone to a new musical that just opened, called... Oh Africa, Brave Africa Africa, Brave Africa." I gulp. "It was... a laugh riot... and that's about it. I think we had dinner at Orso's... no, Petaluma. No, Orso's."

I stop. "The... last time I physically physically saw him was... at an automated teller. I can't remember which... just one that was near, um, Nell's." saw him was... at an automated teller. I can't remember which... just one that was near, um, Nell's."

"But the night he disappeared?" Kimball asks.

"I'm not really sure," I say.

"I think maybe you've got your dates mixed up," he says, glancing at his book.

"But how?" I ask. "Where do you place Paul that night?"