Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  Iris left and the receptionist appeared in Jaynie’s doorway.

  A Hispanic woman wearing a pink waitress’s uniform and a long ponytail stood behind her. The woman turned to watch Iris speed past.

  The receptionist said, “This lady would like to talk to someone about Alley.”

  Jaynie stood, smiled brightly, and extended her hand. “I’m Jayne Perkins.”

  “I’m Carmen Garcia.” She formally shook Jaynie’s hand, appearing to feel as out of place as she looked.

  “Please sit down,” Jaynie said.

  Carmen was holding a large manila envelope, which she abruptly handed to Jaynie. “Please take this.”

  The envelope was stuffed full and heavy. A label on the front was addressed to Iris Thorne at the McKinney Alitzer address. Jaynie recognized Alley’s handwriting.

  “I’m delivering this for Alley,” Carmen said.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From Alley’s briefcase.”

  “You have his briefcase?”

  “The police have it now. But I took this out first. Alley was killed in front of the coffee shop where I work. I saw everything. I picked up his briefcase. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to give it to his mother. Then the police came for it…Was that Iris? I remember her from the funeral, but there were too many police that day.”

  “The police should have this.”

  “Oh, lady. They’re mad at me already. Please, lady. The police don’t need his stuff. He’s dead already.”

  “Well, I guess there’s no harm. I’ll make sure it gets to Iris.”

  Jaynie got up and looked for someplace to put the oversized envelope. Her desk was covered from end to end. She tried balancing it on top of her filing cabinet, but it slipped off of the pile of reports and books stacked there. She pulled back the floor-length drapes that covered the window behind her desk, leaned the envelope against the wall, and pulled the drapes over it again.

  “Carmen, thank you for taking your time to come here. Can I validate your parking ticket?”

  “I took the bus.”

  “Oh, the bus. Well, I’ll show you out.”

  Jaynie turned down the corridor with Carmen in front of her as Billy Drye stomped down the opposite direction with a sales assistant on his heels.

  “I’m sick of shit-for-brains screwing me up!” He jabbed a finger in the air at the sales assistant.

  “He told me thirty-four and a half. Then he saw he made a mistake and blamed me,” she said.

  “Bullshit! I want this bimbo out of here,” Drye yelled.

  “Enough,” Jaynie said. “Let’s discuss this in my office. Sit down and I’ll be with you shortly.” She turned to finish walking Carmen out, but she was already gone.

  Iris sat in one of the stiff-backed antique chairs facing Stan’s desk with her legs tucked underneath the chair while she waited for him to finish his telephone call, politely pretending not to listen. Stan winked at her and grinned. She grinned back and sat straight to look purposeful and alert. He shrugged to show he was sorry about the call. She waved him on. No, no. No problem at all. Take your time.

  He finally hung up. He clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward across the polished wood.

  At least it wasn’t a remove-the-barrier-of-the-desk conversation.

  “Iris, could you flip the door closed, please?”

  But it was a close-the-door. Billy Drye watched her close the door. She smiled cheerfully at him.

  “Iris.” Stan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He locked his eyes on hers. “We’ve always been able to speak freely, you and me.”

  “We’re both up front, Stan.”

  “Then, I won’t beat around the bush. I called you in today because I’m concerned about you.”

  Iris sat straighter and relaxed her face to show there was no reason to be concerned. “I know I was late. My car—”

  He raised his palm.

  She stopped talking.

  “Iris, it’s not that.” He rolled his fist into a coil and pressed it against his lips. “You seem to be extremely upset about Alley. More than one would expect.”

  “All due respect, Stan, but how upset should I be?”

  “He was, after all, only a work friend.”

  “Stan, since we’re speaking freely, why don’t you tell me what you’re getting at?”

  “Something’s bothering you and it’s affecting your performance. I have an obligation to the firm.”

  “I don’t agree that my personal affairs are the firm’s business.”

  “Iris, I’ve always considered us to be… closer than just boss-employee. I’ve thought of us as friends.”

  She looked in his eyes.

  “Tell me what’s hiding that pretty smile?”

  She weighed the possibilities.

  “I only want what’s best for you… and the firm.”

  She found a piece of skin on her finger to pull.

  “Iris, I know that what’s bothering you is not just personal.”

  She tore the skin from her finger.

  “I can help you if you’d let me.”

  “Stan, I can’t address what’s on your mind if I don’t know what it is.”

  He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. It slid out silently on oiled rollers. He took something out and tossed it across the desk. It was the funeral program.

  Iris picked it up, rubbed her forehead, and laughed humorlessly.

  “You broke into my filing cabinet on Saturday.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He stood, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and faced it with his back to her. “Why are you interested in Worldco?”

  “Okay, Stan. I overheard you and Joe in the supply room on Friday talking about Worldco and something to do with Alley. I decided to do some looking around on my own to find out what was going on. But the stuff in the Worldco file was gone before I got here.”

  Stan moved to sit in the chair beside her. He leaned his elbows against his thighs and dropped his clasped hands between his knees. “Iris, let me help you.” He touched her arm.

  She pulled her arm away. “Help me? I haven’t done anything.”

  “The detectives are coming back today. What should I tell them?”

  “So that’s what this is about.” She stood and walked to the door. “If you’re worried about what to tell the police, give them this.” She sailed the funeral program across his desk. “It’s evidence. They’ll be thrilled. Tell them I stole your file. Tell them I put Alley up to siphoning funds from Worldco.”

  Stan shot from the chair. “What did you hear? You haven’t told me everything!”

  She put her hand on the doorknob. “Never show all your cards, Stan.” She opened the door. “You taught me that.”

  “Iris.”

  She stopped without turning around.

  “If you need me, call.”

  She walked back to her desk. She furiously tapped on her keyboard, checking the status of her portfolio. She’d won a little. It was enough. She started cashing out her accounts.

  Teddy looked over. “What? You crazy? The market’s down.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The cost of living is cheap in Micronesia.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Stan Raab flicked the corner of the business card with his thumb, testing the snap of the paper.

  “I have to hand it to whoever thought of this. It’s very creative. Alley, Director of Mexican Operations.” He laughed and shook his head. “The position doesn’t exist.”

  “What did Alley earn?” Lewin asked.

  “I don’t know—less than twenty grand, I imagine.”

  “Did he receive any sort of salary increase or promotion in the past few months?” Somers asked.

  “Maybe an annual bump. Let me get Jaynie to help us with these questions.” Raab picked up the telephone receiver, punched in three numbers, and murmured into it. “She’ll be right down. Detectives, I’m confused about the money angle. Was
Alley involved with money?”

  “We can’t say, Stan,” Somers said.

  “I can tell you have new information. The specificity of your questions has changed.” Raab looked at Lewin and smiled. “Am I right?”

  Somers answered. “The investigation’s just a few days older, Stan. Does anyone in the office drive a large black sedan?”

  “A black sedan?” Raab laughed and rose from his desk chair. He walked to the window and looked out at the brown sky. “Someone saw Alley in a black sedan?”

  “We can’t discuss that, Stan,” Somers said.

  “No. Of course you can’t. No, I don’t know anyone here who drives a black sedan.”

  Jaynie walked into the office holding a manila file folder.

  “There she is,” Raab said. “Our little organizer. Jaynie, you know our detectives?”

  “Yes. Hello again.”

  The detectives stood and extended their palms. Jaynie shook Lewin’s hand first, then Somers’s, holding it a second too long and giving him a quick, appraising smile.

  His face colored slightly.

  Lewin gestured for Jaynie to take his chair. He leaned in the corner against the filing cabinet and spotted Billy Drye at the water cooler outside Raab’s office. Drye filled a cup, drank it slowly, then filled another. Lewin walked to the door, leaned out, and glanced around. He spotted Teddy standing in his cubicle, looking at Raab’s office. He raised his thumb and index finger, shot Teddy, then turned to Drye.

  “It’s good to drink water,” he told Drye. “Flushes out the system.” He pulled the door closed. Drye’s face flashed with disappointment.

  “Stan, I overheard you mention a black sedan,” Jaynie said. “I remember seeing a black Mercedes with tinted windows in our parking section once or twice. I can’t remember in whose spot it was parked.”

  “Do you have records of employees’ cars?” Somers asked.

  “Yes. Employees list the cars they may be driving for the garage.”

  “Can you see if anyone drives a large black, sedan-type car?”

  “Certainly. I’m in the middle of something that has to go in the mail by three o’clock, so later this afternoon?”

  Somers fished a card out of his pocket. “Call me?”

  Jaynie took the card and smiled. “Be happy to.” She slipped the card into her skirt pocket. “You wanted to know about Alley’s salary?” She opened the file folder. “He was earning eight dollars an hour at the time of his death which is sixteen thousand, six hundred a year. He received a merit increase of fifty cents an hour about two months before that… about a thousand more a year.”

  Raab again sat at his desk.

  “May I?” Lewin reached over to take the business card that Raab was still holding. “Jaynie, what do you make of this?”

  She turned it over and looked at Raab, bemused. “Is this a joke? Director of Mexican Operations. Alley didn’t even have a business card for his own position. Guess he could have ordered these cards himself. He filled out purchase requisitions all the time, but they need a signature.”

  “Who signs off?” Somers asked?

  “Any of the managers, or Stan.”

  “How about Iris Thorne?” Lewin again leaned in the corner.

  “She’s not a manager. But it all depends on how closely the people downstairs look at the request.”

  “But Alley could have forged a signature,” Somers said.

  “Sure. I can have someone go through the copies of the purchase reqs. I’ll call you with that and the car information.”

  “Thank you, Jaynie,” Somers said. “We’ll let you get back to work.”

  Raab watched Jaynie close the door and sat silently, holding his chin between his thumb and index finger, until he saw her walk past the windows of his office. Then he clasped his hands together on his desk and leaned forward.

  “Detective Lewin,” Raab began in a confidential tone, “you mentioned Iris Thorne in relation to this business card. You must suspect her involvement.”

  “Her involvement in what, Stan?” Somers frowned.

  “In this Alley thing.”

  “Alley’s murder?” Somers asked.

  “Well… not exactly.”

  Somers raised his eyebrows. “What’s on your mind, Stan?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s an internal matter. Forget I brought it up, gentlemen.”

  “Go ahead,” Lewin said. “Let us decide what’s important.”

  Raab made a triangle with his hands, “We’ve had problems with the transfer of funds between accounts. A considerable sum of money has been… misdirected.”

  “Embezzled?” Somers said.

  “No, not embezzled. I wouldn’t use that word. We just can’t locate it. Gentlemen, this is really an internal matter. We’re conducting an audit now. It’s probably just a transposition of numbers or something like that.”

  “The Worldco file that’s missing wouldn’t involve these misdirected funds?” Somers asked.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “What does this Worldco company do? What’s their business?”

  “It’s an offshore corporation, a holding account set up in the Caribbean for tax purposes. It encompasses many different business ventures. Gentlemen, not that much money is in question. Just about… ah…ten thousand dollars. In this business, a sum like that’s not even material. I’m just seeing the bogeyman everywhere, like I told Detective Lewin the other night.”

  “Seems like whenever you see the bogeyman, Iris Thorne is around,” Somers said.

  Raab laughed. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Poor Iris.”

  “You’re insinuating that Iris had something to do with these missing funds and that Alley had some involvement as well.”

  “Well, all the Worldco documents have disappeared and this was left behind in my office.” Raab reached to hand the funeral program to Somers.

  Somers folded it, put it in his jacket pocket, and avoided looking at Lewin.

  “Iris’s handwriting is on it,” Raab said.

  “So, it’s not just a case of a transposition of numbers,” Somers said. “A crime was committed.”

  “If you put it that way… yes.”

  “Why did you say it was an accounting error?”

  “It’s embarrassing. It reflects on the integrity of my department. But our first level of investigation is an internal audit. Gentlemen, let’s leave it like that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about the missing money before?” Lewin asked.

  “I just found out myself.”

  “Stan,” Somers said, “you appear to have a good relationship with Iris. You said she’s one of your best people.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Why not approach her with these concerns?”

  “I did. This morning, in fact. She became very upset.”

  “Stan, we’re just a couple of street cops,” Lewin said. “This stuff is a little too highbrow for us. I think we should notify the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Detectives. But that step is premature. Like I said, we’re in the process of completing our own internal audit. Calling the SEC at this point is like asking the IRS to find an error on your taxes. I’m sure you appreciate my position.”

  “We have an obligation to report any crime, Stan,” Somers said. “I’m sure you appreciate our position.”

  “But that’s my point. I’m not sure a crime occurred. I don’t want to call the SEC until I’ve exhausted all possible avenues internally.”

  “What’s your relationship with Joe Campbell?” Lewin asked.

  “Joe?” Raab was out of his chair again. “You guys hop around, don’t you?” He faced the window, his back to the detectives. “I’ve known Joe since college. We were fraternity brothers. You saw this picture.” Raab crossed room and squinted at the photograph of fresh faces that hung on the wall. “Second row.”

  “You know his family?” Lewin asked.

  “Sure. N
ew York Italian. Moved out here when Joe and his sister were little.”

  “What kind of business is Campbell senior in?” Lewin asked.

  “Food distribution, mostly to restaurants. Gourmet meats, vegetables, deli items. He’s done well.”

  “Mob connections?”

  “Ha!” Raab ran his hand through his hair. “This is interesting.” He sat on a corner of his desk and looked down at the detectives. “You guys slay me.”

  “Please answer the question, Stan,” Somers said.

  “No.” Stan picked up the frame with the silver pins off his desk and rolled his fist against it, watching the undulating impression it made on the other side. “No mob connections.”

  “We’d like to talk to Joe,” Somers said.

  “Sure. I’ll take you to his office.”

  Raab moved to take his jacket off a hook on the back of the door. He put it on, pulling his shirt cuffs down so that they extended one quarter inch beneath his sleeves. He held the door open but the detectives stood aside to let him go first. He walked to the office directly across from his in the opposite corner.

  Joe Campbell was on the phone. He saw the detectives and said, “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” and hung up.

  “Joe,” Raab said. “Our detectives asked to speak with you.”

  Campbell gestured for the detectives to sit in the two chairs facing his desk. Raab stood inside the office and started to pull the door closed.

  “Stan,” Lewin said. “We want to talk to Joe in private.”

  “Of course.” Raab gave Campbell a meaningful look.

  Campbell’s eyes revealed nothing.

  Raab left, closing the door behind him.

  Campbell pushed the cap back onto his pen and slowly clipped it inside his shirt pocket.

  “Joe Camelletti,” Lewin began.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you change your name?”

  “It’s too ethnic. Too hard to pronounce.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Vito?” Lewin asked.

  “Talk to my attorney.” Campbell flipped through a Rolodex on his desk. He took the pen from his shirt pocket, pulled off the top, and wrote on a notepad. “Wendell Ellis. In Beverly Hills.”

  “But Joe,” Somers said. “You don’t even know what we want to talk to you about. We can probably resolve this right here and save all of us a lot of time. Tell us about your father’s underworld connections.”