Frameshift

When they got off the elevator, a sign directed them to the president’s office. Pierre placed both his hands in his hip pockets to help control their shaking. As they came to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, Pierre’s eyes went wide. Bullen’s brunette receptionist was gorgeous — Playboy Playmate of the Year gorgeous. She smiled, her teeth Liquid Paper white.

“Hello,” said Pierre. “Drs. Tardivel and Bond, to see Mr. Bullen.”

She lifted a telephone handset to her ear. Pierre thought briefly that this must be part of Silicone Valley. Molly, picking up the word “silicone,” whapped him lightly on the upper arm.

Having gotten the okay, she rose and, hips swaying atop black stiletto heels, escorted Pierre and Molly to the inner sanctum, opening the heavy wooden door and gesturing them inside.

A goodly hunk of Condor Health Insurance’s profits had clearly been spent on Craig Bullen’s office. It was twenty feet wide and forty feet long, paneled in rich reddish wood — California redwood, Pierre imagined — with intricate carvings of hunting dogs and deer along the frieze. Eight oil paintings of landscapes hung in the room, all doubtless originals. Pierre was astounded to see that the one closest to him, depicting the Scottish moors, was by John Constable, and, like every good Canadian, he immediately recognized the distinctive stylized work of Emily Carr next to it. Her painting included one of her trademark Haida totem poles.

Bullen rose from behind his wide mahogany desk and strode down the length of the room. He was a broad-shouldered, athletic man of about forty, with the lined, dark face of someone who often spent time lying on southern beaches. He had a squarish head, brown eyes, and a hairline that had receded, leaving behind a graying dust bunny at the top of his forehead. His designer suit was dark blue, and he wore intriguing inch-wide cuff links made of gold-plated watch innards.

“Dr. Tardivel,” he said in a deep voice as he extended a large hand.

“How good of you to come.”

“Thank you,” said Pierre, quickly taking the proffered hand and shaking vigorously enough to hide his own palsied movements.

Bullen’s grip was firm, perhaps overly so — an aggressive, macho display.

He turned to Molly, his eyebrows moving up for a conference with his dust bunny. “And this is?”

“My wife, Dr. Molly Bond,” said Pierre, returning his hands to his pockets. He stepped on his left foot with his right, trying to keep it from moving.

Bullen shook her hand as well. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, smiling right at her. “I hadn’t realized Dr. Tardivel was bringing anyone with him, but now that I see you, I’m delighted that he did.”

Molly blushed slightly. “Thank you.”

Bullen started walking. “Please, please, come in.”

A long conference table of polished wood filled part of the room; it had seating for fourteen. Bullen walked along its length to a giant antique Earth globe and tilted off the Northern Hemisphere, revealing a stock of liquor bottles within.

“Won’t you have a drink?” he said.

Pierre shook his head.

“No, thank you,” said Molly.

“Coffee? A soft drink, perhaps? Rosalee will be glad to get you anything you’d like.”

Pierre thought for half a second about asking for something, just to get another look at the spectacular secretary. He smiled ruefully to himself.

You can’t escape your genes. “No, thank you.”

“Very well,” said Bullen. He closed up the Earth and took a seat at the conference table. “Now, Dr. Tardivel, I understand you’ve had a breakthrough over at your lab.”

Pierre nodded and gestured for Molly to sit down. She took the padded leather seat next to Bullen, then moved the chair slightly, bringing him into her zone; her right knee was now practically touching his. Pierre walked around to the other side of the long table, using the backs of the chairs as supports. He removed his sports jacket — he was wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt beneath — and sat opposite both of them. “I think it’s safe to say,” said Pierre, “that what we’ve discovered will shock the entire insurance industry.”

Bullen nodded, fascinated. “Do go on, sir. I’m all ears.” A writing pad bound in calf leather was sitting on the table. Bullen drew it to him, opened it up, and took a gold-and-black fountain pen from his jacket pocket.

“What we’ve discovered,” said Pierre, “is, well, shall we say in the nature of a statistical anomaly.” He paused, looking significantly at Bullen.

The man nodded. “Statistics are the lifeblood of insurance, Dr. Tardivel.”

“Well said,” remarked Pierre, “for blood figures very heavily in all of this.” He looked over at Molly and raised his eyebrows a tiny amount, conveying the question of whether she was succeeding at reading Bullen’s mind. She nodded slightly. Pierre went on. “What we’ve discovered, Mr. Bullen, is that your company has a very low rate of major claims payments.”

A few vertical creases joined the horizontal ones on Bullen’s bronzed forehead as he drew his brows together. “We’ve been very lucky of late.”