A small Nissan drove up, slid into the space Daniel had just vacated. Two girls exited the car, laughing and talking. I pulled the rubber band out of my hair and fluffed it out, then stuffed the cap into my jacket pocket. Grabbing my purse out of the bicycle basket, I hurried over to join them. They regarded me curiously as I stepped forward.
“Hello, I was wondering if you could help me?” I pointed to the bicycle. “I tried to sign in at the guard shack, but the guard was pretty busy with the deliveryman. I was kind of surprised she waved me in.”
The taller of the two girls looked me up and down. She had on a blue and white dress that showed off her trim figure, and her honey-colored hair was cut in a becoming style. A slight frown creased her skillfully made-up face—I judged her to be in her late twenties. “They do that sometimes with the bicycle riders. You have no idea how we’ve complained about it. I mean, think about it—they could just let anybody in—no offense.”
“Yeah,” agreed the shorter girl. She was plumper, but had a prettier face. Her violet-colored suit wasn’t as expensively cut as the other girl’s, but if those stilettos she wore weren’t Manolos, I’d eat leftover tuna for a week. She brushed a hand through her raven curls, and I noted her nails were French tips, and professionally done. KMG must pay their admins well. “It would be so easy for a terrorist to just ride in here and leave a suitcase with a bomb lying around—you know.”
I nodded, and offered what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. I held my arms out. “I couldn’t agree more. See—no suitcases.” When that was met with blank stares, I decided that either they had no sense of humor, or my stand-up routine needed work. “I came here hoping to see Mr. Grainger, or possibly whoever’s been appointed the new catering manager.” I reached into my cross-body bag and dug out a business card for each of them. “I’m Nora Charles. I own Hot Bread, and I’d been negotiating some catering contracts with Ms. Simmons.”
They took the cards and looked at them, and their attitudes suddenly did a one-eighty degree turn. “Oh, Hot Bread,” the blonde gushed. “Specialty sandwich shop, right? I love that place! You own it?”
I nodded.
“Wow—I’m crazy over those sandwiches. Those names are so catchy! I was in the other day—I had the Ricky Martin.” She smacked her lips. “It was great.”
“Me, too,” said the brunette. “I like the tuna melt. And the Ryan Reynolds Reuben. And practically everything on the menu. Can’t you tell?” She ran her hands over her plump hips before she stuffed the card into her jacket pocket. “What events are you catering for us?”
“The Memorial Day event definitely. There were others under negotiation. Ms. Simmons was going to send me a final contract, but . . .” I shrugged and injected a note of sympathy into my voice as it trailed off.
The two exchanged a quick look, and then the blonde nodded. “Yeah, we saw the story in the paper this morning. It’s pretty gross. I mean, Patti wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but no one should die like that. It’s crazy.”
“Well, I thought I’d better come down and see what’s happening with my contracts in person. It’s hard sometimes to get through with a phone call.”
“You’re right. Especially around here.” The blonde wiggled her fingers. “I’m Irene, by the way, and this is Jody. Marshall Connor is handling the catering for now, I think. You can check in with Darla, and then we’ll take you up to his office, if you want.”
I fell into step beside them as they flashed their badges and the door swung open automatically. “Marshall Connor?” I said as we walked into the reception area. “Funny, catering is the type of job you’d think a woman would have—like Alicia Samuels perhaps.”
Both of them turned to stare at me. “Alicia Samuels? Why would you think she’d get that job?” Irene asked.
I shrugged. “No particular reason. I’ve just heard that she’s painstaking with detail and very thorough—although I’d guess one would have to be, dealing with the media, right?”
“She was.” Jody shrugged. “It’s hard to say just what she’s doing now. She doesn’t work here anymore. She quit the week after Mrs. Grainger died.”
I tried to sound neutral and not let my tone convey any of the excitement I felt at that announcement. “She quit? Really?”
“Yeah, it surprised us, too. She was good at what she did, and everyone seemed to like her, especially Mr. Grainger. Patti wasn’t too fond of her, though.” Irene gave a wise nod.
“Yeah.” Jody giggled. “And vice versa. Alicia used to avoid Patti like the plague. If she saw her coming, she’d duck into someone’s office, or bury her nose in a file. She tried to have as little to do with her as possible.”
“Amazing what jealousy will do. Patti was so afraid Alicia’d make a move on Grainger, it was pathetic.” Irene sighed. “Not that Mr. Grainger had eyes for any other woman—at least not when his wife was alive. Patti didn’t waste any time sinking her hooks into him once she was gone, though.”
“Well, I think he only let her because he was still in shock,” put in Jody. “Mark my words, he’d have come to his senses sooner or later—if Patti hadn’t died first.” She flushed and made a quick sign of the cross. “May she rest in peace.”
We were in front of the reception desk now. Irene motioned to me that they’d wait over by the bank of elevators, and I waited my turn behind a FedEx man who seemed infinitely more interested in the cleavage displayed by Darla’s low-cut blouse than in anything she was saying to him. After he panted and drooled for ten minutes, he finally went on his way, and I stepped forward and stated my name. Darla gave me a blank look at first, but when I handed her my card, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Oh, yes, Ms. Charles. I am so sorry. Ms. Simmons never did mail out your contract. I’m sure Mr. Connor would be happy to discuss terms with you, though. Everyone here just loves Hot Bread.” She smiled and picked up the phone. “Let me just tell him you’re coming up.”
She turned away and spoke briefly into the phone. After a few minutes she replaced the handset and smiled. “Mr. Connor’s out, but his admin says she remembers seeing that contract. Mr. Connor did re-sign it, so if you want to go up to the eighth floor and ask for Betsy, she’ll be happy to give you your copy. Just turn right when you get off the elevator and walk all the way down.” She paused. “You can ask about making another appointment with Mr. Connor. I’m sorry, but everyone’s just been so stressed since—ah—the incident.”
“Understandable. Thanks.”
Irene and Jody must have got tired of waiting for me, because when I reached the bank of elevators, neither girl was in sight. I rode up to the eighth floor by myself and, when the doors opened, made a left instead of the prescribed right. I passed the conference room where I’d sat with Patti only two short days ago and then I found myself back in front of Alicia Samuels’s office. I turned the knob, and the door yielded an inch and then stopped, stuck. I tried the knob again, putting more of my weight behind it this time. The door shook and then groaned inward, its creaking hinges suggesting an oiling might be in order. I closed it carefully and moved swiftly over to the desk, sat down in the leather chair. The sticky pad with Lola’s cell number on it was still in the same spot as when I’d seen it.
Okay, Nora. Now what?
I leaned back in the chair and looked the desk over. I opened the middle drawer and peered inside. It was empty save for two Bic pens, some rubber bands, a small magnifying glass, and two pennies. I closed the drawer and opened the drawer on the right. This time I scored a box of breath mints and a box of staples. The drawer on the left was totally empty. I pulled out both bottom drawers. Aside from some thin files with press releases, they were empty as well. There were certainly no clues here. Alicia/Adrienne had covered her tracks well.
Or had she?
I’d moved offices about eight times in the six years I’d worked on the Chicago Tribune, and
each time I’d left something behind without realizing it. It wasn’t intentional—it’s just one of the hazards of moving. You’re usually so irritated that you have to move in the first place and usually so rushed by the time the big day finally rolls around that there’s always something that gets cast by the wayside.
In Alicia/Adrienne’s case, I was certain it might be something she’d hidden, something she might have even forgotten about. I’d done that—hidden something so very well that I often forgot I had it, or when it came time to look for it, damned if I could remember the “safe place” I’d stored it in.
I got up, walked over to the massive cherrywood bookcase. The shelves overflowed with books on marketing, media, and other related subjects. I ran my finger along the spines, idly noting the titles: The Social Media Marketing Book, Marketing Made Easy, Marketing and the Media, Book of Crests, Marketing in the New Media . . .
Whoa!
I backed up and looked over those titles again. Book of Crests stood out like a sore thumb. I pulled it out of its slot and took it over to the desk. I settled myself into the soft leather and opened the thick volume. A quick perusal revealed it to be a sort of encyclopedia of coats of arms of various family names. I noticed a small Post-it sticking out and turned to that page.
On it was a photograph of the Gianelli family crest. It depicted the usual coat of arms, and right at the top was a large knight’s helmet (or as Chantal would say, a bascinet) with long, flowing plumes.
A memory stirred at the back of my mind, elusive, just out of reach. I pushed the chair back and rose. As my fingers closed over the book, I felt my back hip pocket vibrate. Startled, I dropped the book. The heavy volume crashed to the floor. I winced at the sound and dug in my pocket, pulling out my cell. I snapped it open.
“Nora Charles.”
“Hey, babe. Hank told me to give you a call. He thought I could dig up some info you asked him to check on quicker. You know, because of my contacts.”
Petey Peppercorn was a PI from Chicago, one of the best. He’d been another of my confidential sources for years when I worked the crime beat, and we’d become fast friends. His tone was light, but there was a steely undercurrent to it that told me he had something important to tell me. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”
I sank back into the chair. “It could be worse. What do you have? Something on Karl Goring?”
“Yeah, and I had a devil of a time getting it. I see why old Hankie passed the buck to me. That trail is buried deeper than Captain Kidd’s gold. The only reason I got anything at all is my guy at the FBI owes me big-time.” He blew out a breath. “Listen up—I’m only gonna say this once. When Goring was young, he got in with the mob. At first it started out small, and then it grew into something pretty big. Anyway, long story short, the kid realized he was in over his head and turned on the mob leader. You know what that usually means.”
“Witness Protection?”
“Yep. My source couldn’t tell me any more than that, but he did tell me the name of the mob guy Karl’s testimony put away.”
“Who?”
“Giancarlo Gianelli.”
And now I remembered why that crest seemed so familiar. I’d done a story on Giancarlo Gianelli when the former mob kingpin had died after a long stretch in prison. He’d had a large and loyal family, who always wore symbols of the Gianelli name—usually something in the shape of a knight’s head, the symbol on their family crest. I remembered something else, too.
“Giancarlo has siblings, right?”
“Yeah—one’s Mickey. He got busted two years ago. Money laundering. He’s got thirty-five to life in Chicago State.” Petey’s chuckle was dry. “One of his ex-dolls blew the whistle on him—a deathbed confession from prison, I heard.”
“Really. Deathbed.” My mouth was so dry, I could barely form the words. “You don’t remember her name, by any chance?”
“Ada, maybe? Adele—no wait. Adrienne. That was it. That help you any?”
I tightened the grip on my phone. “You have no idea.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, and I don’t wanna know. I thought you got out of the crime reporting business—thought you went back to run your mama’s deli.”
“I did—I am. What can I say? Old habits die hard.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re foolin’ around with the Gianellis, there’s something you should know. Aldo—that’s the last remaining brother—the Feds are watchin’ him too. Got to do with offshore accounts and terrorist ties, but so far they can’t prove anything. Since they’re under observation by the Feds, they gotta keep their noses clean, but my guy on the inside told me that Aldo’s been mouthing off a bit lately, hinting he’s about to settle an old score. I’m not quite sure what that means, but it can’t be good. You know the Gianellis—they’re into revenge.” He paused. “So whatever you’re into, Nora, be careful. I’d hate to hear they pulled your body out of the ocean wearin’ a pair of cement shoes, if you get my drift. Hank and I—we’d miss ya.”
I tried a laugh, but it came out sounding like a hyena on crack. Loud and shrill. “You know me, Petey. I’m always careful.”
“Yeah, right. Well, you need anything else, just holler. We never had this conversation, by the way.”
“What conversation?”
He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
The line went dead. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and bent to retrieve the book. As I picked it up, I saw the edge of a photograph peeping out from underneath the dust jacket. I set the book back on the desk, removed the jacket. The photo had been taped to the inside, but the fall must have shaken it loose. I picked it up and looked at it.
There were two men in the photo. One was heavy, his fat belly protruding over the waistband of his expensively cut suit. He had slicked-back black hair, beady eyes, and a smile that showed expensively capped teeth. The second man was medium height, slight build, with a sharp nose, protruding chin, and small, slitted eyes. There was a cruel slant to his mouth that indicated he could probably be a pretty tough customer. Looking at him sent a chill racing up my spine. There was something about him that struck a chord, yet I was positive I’d never seen him before. God, I’d certainly have remembered him!
The fat man was handing the shorter man a small object. I squinted, trying to get a better look. I blinked, unable to trust what I’d seen. I pulled open the middle drawer, grabbed the magnifying glass, and pored over the picture.
Nope. I hadn’t been mistaken. It was a ring, and it looked almost exactly like the one I’d found in Lola’s envelope, except the inlay was different—I couldn’t quite make it out. Damn grainy photos! I flipped it over—there were initials printed there: MG and CW—and a date, some five years earlier. MG—Mickey Gianelli? I had no idea who CW might be. I stuffed the photo into my cross-body bag and replaced the Book of Crests on the shelf. Then I shut off the light and started for the door. As I approached it, I froze. The outline of a person was visible through the door’s thick frosted pane. As I stared, the knob slowly turned, hesitated, and then the door burst open. I found myself looking straight at none other than Kevin Grainger. He seemed as startled to see me as I was him.
He found his voice first. “Who are you, and what are you doing in this office?” he demanded.
All I could do was stare. Kevin Grainger cut a far more impressive figure in person. He was tall and well built, the gray suit he wore draping nicely on his frame. He had a firm chin, well-shaped lips, and his eyes, a rich cornflower blue, blazed with a mixture of fury and puzzlement as he assessed me.
I opened my mouth, but I was so startled that no words came out, just a plaintive squeak. He folded his arms across his chest and continued to glare. “Well? I’m waiting. Who are you?”
I found my voice. “Mr. Grainger, I presume?” At his curt nod, I continued, “I am so sorry. I’m—my name is Nora Charle
s. I own a specialty sandwich shop in town—Hot Bread. I came here today to pick up a catering contract, and I’m afraid my sense of direction is a bit off.” I offered him a small smile. “As you can see, I got a bit turned around. I just stopped in here to—to get my bearings.”
The fury seemed to subside and he ran his hand absently through his thick mass of iron gray hair. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to bark at you, Ms. Charles, but—well, I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. The occupant is out on leave.”
I nodded. “Alicia Samuels. Yes, I know.”
One brow rose. “Oh?”
“I’ve done some research on KMG,” I said quickly. “When I spoke with Ms. Simmons, she indicated you were in the process of naming a catering manager. From all I’ve read, Ms. Samuels seems a good fit—someone I’d enjoy working with.”
“Yes, well, to be quite frank, Ms. Charles, I’m not at all sure if she will be returning.”
“That’s too bad. She seemed perfect for the position. Her leaving is nothing serious, I hope?”
His frown deepened. “I’m sorry. I don’t discuss employees’ personal matters with outsiders.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that I would like to discuss the possibility of Hot Bread taking on more of your event catering, and since Ms. Simmons was my only contact here, I’m not quite sure whom I should approach.”
“Marshall Connor has the position for the moment. Not permanently, you understand, but he’s a very organized individual and he’ll be a good interim replacement. You can make an appointment to speak about it with him.” His hand waved in the air, an impatient gesture. “KMG has sustained a number of losses of key personnel recently. If you read the papers, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 21
