by Gail Hewitt
"But TTI Security employees have access to contact information for all employees, correct?"
"I suppose so," Maggie conceded.
"So that's everything that happened up until this morning when you arrived at work, correct?"
"That's correct," Maggie said.
"So the threats made directly to you started today?" Joanna Banks interjected somewhat impatiently.
Maggie nodded. "First, a young woman who works for TTI, Heather Thomas, came to my office and accused me of lying to get Mr. Wells fired. I explained to her that human-resources issues aren't my area of responsibility and that she needs to talk either to the employee or to PeopleMatters, the consulting firm that handles HR for TTI. She refused to believe that I had not fabricated a story that led to Mr. Wells' dismissal and told me that, if she learned for sure that I had, she would 'get' me. I suppose you could consider that a threat."
The two detectives looked at each other meaningfully.
"As to this Thomas woman," Cook said, "had you previously observed any particular interaction between her and Wells?"
Maggie shook her head. "I was just hired by TTI. This is my first week here."
"So you aren't familiar with the ANR thing they were working up?" Banks asked.
"ANR?"
"Adult Nursing Relationship," Banks told her, pulling a brochure from a packet of materials and shoving it across the table to Maggie, who picked it up and began to read.
"Wow," Maggie said softly. The brochure was in two parts, the first an ornately typeset argument from a religious organization with a cult-like name stating that it was a woman's duty to please a man with her breasts and the second a very specific 1-2-3 on this very particular way of doing that.
Maggie looked up at Banks and Cook. "I didn't know it was possible for a woman to lactate when she's not pregnant or hasn't been pregnant."
"ANR is bigger than you think," Banks told her, "and evidently this Heather has gotten into it with the Wells character."
"How do you know it's him?"
Banks, watching her closely, handed over the last photo, showing Josh Wells with Heather's left nipple drawn into his mouth, his hands holding her breast firmly in place. In her right hand was the remote control for the evidently tripod-mounted camera. She did not look especially happy, but she also did not appear to have been forced. In the background was a poster featuring the motto Ad astra per aspera in white against a midnight-blue background strewn with tiny stars.
"This definitely was taken here," Maggie told Banks, pointing out the poster. "It's my understanding that these were custom-designed and printed for TTI, and pretty much every office has one – I was issued one that's still in a tube. It's just so bizarre to think that employees would be doing something like this at work. For nowadays, these are good jobs, terrific jobs if you want to be in on the ground floor of a new enterprise that's going to become famous. Who'd jeopardize their chance to stay here?"
"That may be part of the thrill for these two: spit in the eye of authority, which happens to be just a few feet away on the other side of a not-very-well-locked door. Also," Cook held up a word-processed sheet, "Mr. Wells had actually drawn up a schedule for Miss Thomas that required him to have access to her three times a day for half an hour at the time. According to his hours roster, Wells would have been here for at least one of the sessions in the normal course of things and probably sneaked back for the other two. His being fired is going to put a serious obstacle in the way of something that evidently both of them wanted to do very much, which is probably why Heather Thomas is so angry with you."
Maggie made a face and slid the ANR brochure back to Banks, who laughed. "Not too appealing, is it?"
"So this is definitely something between Mr. Wells and Miss Thomas of which you have no prior personal knowledge?" Cook asked, still watching her closely.
"I told you. I just came to work here, and I didn't know either one of them before that."
"Okay, so how long was it after the girl friend left that Josh Wells called you?"
Maggie thought about it. "An hour and a half to two hours, tops, is my impression."
"And what exactly did he say in this call that you found alarming?"
"He started out furious, and it got worse. At first he just accused me of getting him fired, then blamed me because I hadn't told him that I wasn't, as he put it, just one of the EA's — that's what they call the executive assistants around here. He evidently felt that I'd somehow been unfair not to have made my job title clear to him when he first walked into the office. And Heather had evidently told him about our conversation, because he said I should stop talking to her about him."
"And were you saying anything during all of this?"
"Just that I found his contacting me inappropriate and that if he persisted, I'd have to report him to the authorities. That was when it got ugly. He said something like: "I swear I'll follow you home and take a pair of garden shears to those tits of yours. You'll see how much good your authorities do you." Then he hung up."
Banks looked faintly alarmed and circled a notation on her pad. "That's not good. How long would you say the entire conversation lasted?"
"Maybe a minute or two. It was pretty brief. But check it for yourself. The desk set in the office I'm using has a 'record conversation' button, and I pushed it as soon as I realized it was Josh calling. If the function is live, everything should be on there except the first few words."
Banks sat up straight. "You recorded it? Good girl."
"We'll need that phone," Cook said. "Where's your office?"
"On the ground floor of the central townhouse, at the very rear. Alysha Harding can have you taken to it. And you'd better have her get an IT person to go with you. Everything around here is tied to a network, and I'm not sure if the recording actually lives within that set or is stored on some central server."
Tom Scott came through the door, sending a text. "How's it going in here?" he asked, glancing at Maggie protectively.
"Miss McLaurin has been very helpful," Joanna Banks told them. "She seems to have a good handle on what's going on, but I'm not sure she fully appreciates the potential gravity of the situation. If it's at all possible, she needs to stay away from her condo for a few days until we can get this guy straightened out."
"That's easily arranged," Tom told the detective. "We have staff housing on premises, and there's security here 24/7."
"And you're going to have a security detail go with her when she leaves the building?"
"That's the plan," Tom said easily. "You can be sure we won't let anything happen to her."
"The first few days are the most critical," Cook said. "This Josh sounds like a freak who's gotten in over his head rather than a serious threat, but until we're sure . . . "
"I understand," Tom told them. "We're taking this very seriously. If it weren't for her job here, she'd never have met the little turd, so in a way it's on our heads."
"We'll be in touch. You will be around?" Banks turned to Maggie, who was veering erratically between embarrassment, anger, and relief at the way Tom appeared to be taking charge of the situation.
Tom answered before Maggie could. "She's flying with my aunt to Georgia tomorrow, to pay her mother a Christmas visit. I may or may not be going along myself, but there's security on board, and she'll be well looked after on the ground as well. They should be back here by midnight, and you have my contact information and Miss McLaurin's if you need either one of us in the meantime."
Alysha appeared at the door. Tom told her what the detectives needed, and she led them away. Maggie, on the verge of being overwhelmed, remained sitting at the frosted glass conference table. Tom paced up and down, a frown on his face.
"So you've had me followed since last night?" she asked.
"It was necessary," he said grimly, turning to face her. "There's no point in getting mad about it. It was for your protection."
"You could have told me," she pointed out.
&
nbsp; "Granted, but there wasn't time to negotiate potential objections."
"This just totally sucks," she said. "How can I get anything done while someone is hovering over me all the time?"
"It won't go on long," he told her. "Trust me."
And, somehow, looking at his expression, she did not doubt him, at least not about that.
Tom's cell rang, breaking what threatened to become an awkward moment. He answered at once, but did not take his eyes off Maggie.
"Yes, Aunt Martha? Yes, Maggie's with me in my office." He sat down in the chair across the conference table from Maggie and grinned. "Yes, I'll tell her." He turned to Maggie. "My aunt is delighted that you've decided to fly down with her." He turned back to the phone. "You know, Aunt Martha, something's come up here that I think you may be able to help us with. I'll give you the details later. For now, what I want to know is if you can put Maggie up tonight and tomorrow night. It'll help with a little issue we have going on with another employee and also simplify things for tomorrow morning. The car can collect both of you here for the drive to Stewart. No, I haven't decided if I'm going. I will if I can, but I may have to bring work along. Okay, I'll tell her. You understand it'll probably be an hour to an hour and a half before she gets there? She's got to run an errand first."
Which was why, half an hour later, Maggie found herself, accompanied by a female security detail, in her condo packing a bag. Within forty-five minutes, following a quick trip over relatively quiet streets, she was back at TTI headquarters. Alysha was waiting for her in the entrance of the central townhouse.
"There's a quicker way to get to Mrs. Evans' place. You just go through here." Using one of the keys that crowded a large ring, Alysha opened a door obscured by an angle of the staircase, and Maggie found herself in a residential hallway that closely resembled the one upstairs. Going to a door immediately across this hall, Alysha knocked, and the door was opened almost at once by Tom Scott.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Scott?" Alysha asked, sounding a little tired for the first time.
"Yes, go home and enjoy Christmas, and don't come back here until day after tomorrow."
"You'll text me if you need me?"
"I promise," Tom said. He closed the door and led Maggie into what would have been the original sitting room of this townhouse. It had retained, as the listing agent had almost certainly put it, its original features, which worked well with the fact that someone had done an expert job of layering the room's walls in distinctive Bradbury & Bradbury paper. Martha Evans, who was sitting, Tommy Cat in her lap, before a cheerful blaze on the hearth of a curvy white marble fireplace, saw her looking at the paper.
"It's the Anglo-Japanese roomset," she said.
"I like the color break," Maggie told her.
"The decorator gave me several choices," Mrs. Evans explained, "and I liked the apricot best — more cheerful, I thought, although any of it would have gone well with the dark furniture."
"I like it that you used the same colors on the tree," Maggie said, nodding toward the tall, narrow Christmas tree dominating one corner of the room.
"They tell me it took some doing to find enough apricot-colored decorations," Mrs. Evans laughed. "But I think they enjoyed the challenge."
"Have a seat," Tom told Maggie. "You must be exhausted. This has been quite a day."
Martha Evans looked at her nephew and guest shrewdly. "Enough mystery, Tom. What's going on?"
Tom glanced at Maggie. "Shall I tell her? Well, then . . . " And he launched into a highly edited version of the crazy employee who'd threatened Maggie. "So, you see, it's no earth shaker, but we're going to keep a close eye on her for a few days."
Mrs. Evans turned to Maggie. "And how do you feel about that, young lady?"
Maggie shrugged and smiled weakly.
"I know the feeling, my dear. Tom can be bossy at times, but the terrible truth is that he's usually right. He has excellent instincts about people." She turned back to her nephew. "Now, tell me, Tom. Where are we going tonight?"
"Aunt Martha is a Christmas-light aficionado," Tom explained to Maggie, "and tonight we're taking the grand tour. The car is coming for us at nine. Want to come?"
"Of course, she wants to come," Mrs. Evans snapped. "There's no point in her staying here by herself and thinking about this lunatic who's been so bothersome."
Tom looked questioningly at Maggie, who shrugged. "You'll enjoy it," he told her. And, oddly enough, she did. Even Jack Holt, who was sitting at the front of the passenger section, seemed less tense. Maggie understood why. It was relaxing to sit back and just listen as aunt and nephew were driven through the city like any two tourists, past every display the driver had been able to locate for the itinerary. It was odd, she thought, how well they got along, given what she knew of the hostile relations Tom had endured with his parents. Then she remembered the art in Tom's otherwise grungy apartment when they'd first known each other.
"You paint, don't you?" she impulsively asked the older woman.
"I did," Mrs. Evans told her, sounding surprised. "I decided I wasn't enjoying it some years ago and gave it up. But how would you know?"
"I told her," Tom said shortly. "She admires artists. I'll have to show her where my favorite of your work is hanging now."
Maggie followed his lead. "That'd be nice." Evidently Tom had not told his aunt about the role she'd played in his past, which was a relief. This TTI situation was getting complicated enough as it was.
After the driver had deposited them back at the house, Mrs. Evans led Tom and Maggie into her ornately decorated dining room, where a small buffet was laid on the table. Tom helped his aunt's plate and cut up the food in small pieces so she wouldn't have to try to use a knife. His affection for his mother's sister was touching, Maggie thought. She wondered how Mrs. Evans had hurt her arm. The information hadn't been volunteered, and she hadn't wanted to ask. At least, it didn't keep the older woman from enjoying herself. Tom had obviously set up this living arrangement so he could ensure her happiness and well-being, whatever the circumstances.
As they ate, Maggie finally began to feel more natural. It became possible for her to enter into the spirit of their easy banter; and when they began to talk about the Atlanta of decades past, she found she was able not only to call up anecdotes from her own childhood and young adulthood, but also to repeat things she'd been told by her father, some of which had been told to him by his father.
"Maggie's grandfather was a developer," Tom explained, "and her father was a well-known columnist for the Constitution. Her mother still lives on West Paces Ferry."
Mrs. Evans looked sharply at her nephew, and Maggie wondered if Tom realized he'd revealed he knew more about her than would be the case with the average new hire. Suddenly she was too tired to care. It required a huge effort not to droop where she sat.
"Tom, look at her! The poor girl's exhausted," Mrs. Evans said accusingly, "and they tell me the car will be here at seven, so it's going to be an early morning. She's in the Herter bedroom. Show her where it is."
Tom looked somewhat surprised, but got up readily enough and led Maggie into the house's original hallway, from which a heavily carved staircase rose to the second floor. "Stairs there," he said. "Elevator here."
"Elevator," she said, yawning. "I can't believe how sleepy I am."
"It's the aftershock hitting you."
The elevator turned out to be barely large enough for two people, and she could feel the warmth of Tom's body and hear him breathing. Upstairs, he led her to a door at the front of the house. "This is the best guest room, so Aunt Martha must really like you. I see they've already put your bag on the bench there at the foot of the bed. Is there anything else you need tonight?"
"No thanks."
"Do you want to be called? It'll have to be at six, I'm afraid."
"Yes, thank you," she said sleepily.
Tom started to leave, then stopped and turned around. "If this is awkward for you, Maggs, I apologize. I
don't know what she was thinking."
"I think she's guessed that we know each other," Maggie said, trying and failing not to yawn. "It doesn't matter. I'll be here just a couple of nights and . . ."
"I'm glad you're okay with it," he said with relief, "because I can see how it might look odd to some people.' He hesitated. "Like Miles Brewster, for example."
"I don't think Miles would care. The engagement's off," she said, too tired to keep up any pretense.
"I shouldn't have sent you that link," Tom told her.
"I'd have found out sooner or later anyway," she said.
"But it shouldn't have been from me, Maggs," he said. Then he turned and left the room.
&Bradbury paper, this time in an elegant Aesthetic Movement pattern that made her feel as if the entire mise en scéne could be on display in one of the Christmas windows they'd driven slowly past tonight. She even knew the title, "Girl waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve." She turned out the bedside lamp, which closer examination revealed almost certainly to be Tiffany, and slipped between the sheets. She'd expected to go to sleep immediately, but she lay there for a while, unable to make the edges of her mind close down against things she didn't want to think about, couldn't think about right now.
When she was almost asleep, she realized that the door from the hall was slowly opening. Silhouetted against the hallway light, a man tiptoed into the room and set her briefcase beside the desk. There was a strong night light in both this niche and in the main part of the bedroom, so she could see that it was Tom, who stood for a moment looking in the direction of the bed. She tensed, thinking that he was going to move toward her. But he simply stood where he was, completely still, for what seemed like a very long time before he turned and left, closing the door behind him with care.
What had he meant, she wondered suddenly. What difference did it make if it were Tom or someone else who sent her the Celebrity Sightings link about Miles and the French supermodel? The point was that — however the information had arrived — she had seen with her own eyes that Miles was moving on.
