“I have to admit, working in an office where somebody was killed makes me a little nervous,” Isobel said.
“We’re all on edge.”
“Do you think it was somebody who came in from outside?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Frank tapped a pen on his desk blotter. “I’m trying not to think.”
Isobel attempted what she knew was a clumsy segue. “Well, at least there are emergency drills to help keep us safe. How often do those happen?”
“Every six to eight weeks. But they’re not really designed to prevent random murders.”
Isobel laughed self-consciously. “Right. But still, it’s good to have them. Who schedules them?”
“The building management.”
Isobel nodded. “Sure. I figured. Although I suppose any of the firms in the building could request one if they wanted?”
Frank gave her an odd look. “Why would anyone want to do that? They’re a pain in the ass. They disrupt the day.”
But they provide lovely cover if you want to kill someone, thought Isobel.
“No, of course, you’re right,” she said. “But do they at least let you know in advance when there’s going to be one?”
“They’re pretty good about that.”
Ah, thought Isobel. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“So everyone knows beforehand?” she asked.
“Not everyone, just the fire marshals. Each floor has two marshals, one male and one female. It’s their job to make sure everyone is out safely.”
“Who are ours?”
“Paula and Stan.”
“So they were the only people who knew about the drill the other day?” she asked.
“And Doreen. She was the one who coordinated with the management.” He shook his head in confusion. “Why are you so worried about emergency drills?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s part of my job and what isn’t,” she said, trying to look earnest. Not entirely false, she thought—although not entirely true, either.
“Well, if you get a call alerting you to an emergency drill, now you know who to tell,” Frank said.
Whom, Isobel thought involuntarily, invoking her one-second delay. “I should probably get back to my filing,” she said instead. Also not entirely false, but mostly she wanted to digest this information elsewhere and with elsewhom.
“I still have some administrative things to go over with you, and I want to make sure you’re clear on your duties as my assistant. Let’s talk later, around two.”
Isobel walked out past Conchita, who had stopped crying and was murmuring into the phone in Spanish. She didn’t look up when Isobel passed.
So, three people had known in advance about the emergency drill: Paula, Stan, and Doreen. That was one person too many to be conclusive, but not a bad place to start. Doreen had said she was on her way to lunch. Had she forgotten about the drill? Maybe she was trying to avoid participating. As Frank pointed out, emergency drills were a pain. Why not be absent if you could?
Isobel rounded the bend and tripped over the stepstool she had left in front of the open filing cabinet.
“Damn!” She rubbed her shin.
“That’s precisely what I said,” said Paula. She was standing next to the stool, her eyes stormy and her arms folded across her chest.
“Sorry,” muttered Isobel. “I was talking to Frank.”
“Well, next time close the drawer, please. And move the stepstool aside.” Paula pushed past Isobel and headed back toward her office. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“What were you doing in that drawer, anyway?” she asked, a strange glint in her eye.
“Filing the stuff you gave me,” Isobel said, resisting the temptation to add “duh.”
“But the documents I gave you are all from this year. That drawer has last year’s files.”
She grinned maliciously at Isobel and disappeared.
FOURTEEN
Felice Edwards, it turned out, was just his type. Smart and sexy like Jayla, but not as intense, and nothing perky about her. She was the kind of grounded, earthy woman who knew how to have fun, but relished her independence. And, apparently, her alcohol.
“I really shouldn’t,” Felice said with a flirty grin, when the waiter came around again. “And I hate to drink alone,” she hinted.
James cleared his throat and counted to ten, double-time. “No, thanks.”
“Well, what the hell! It’s been a wacky week at the office.” She turned to the waiter. “Another glass of Merlot, please.”
“And I’ll have another Coke,” added James.
Felice leaned toward him, her blouse slipping alluringly to one side, exposing the top of a juicy-looking breast. “I never drink at lunch, you know. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. But I really need to unwind. I’m telling you—a murder in the office? Not in the job description, you know what I’m sayin’?”
She took a bite of her grilled chicken sandwich, tearing off the extra meat with a fervor that James could have put down to hunger, anger, relief, or a nicely brewing buzz.
“I’m sure it’s been a zoo over there,” he said.
Felice wasn’t in need of much prompting. She had jumped at his invitation to lunch so quickly that he wondered if she’d been expecting his call. He hadn’t necessarily intended to meet her today, but she had made that assumption, and he had gone with it. When he stood up to introduce himself in the restaurant, he noticed, with some satisfaction, the telltale shift of light in her eyes that women always thought they were hiding, but never were. Felice found him attractive, and there was no ring on her left hand. That was the real reason she was having a second drink, he thought. She was trying to turn a business lunch into a date.
“The police need to know everything they can about all the employees, so naturally they came to me,” she said proudly.
“So, where are they are heading with this?”
Felice shook her head. “They don’t give up much, that’s for sure. They interviewed me for a long time, then they took my files and that was that.”
“I’d like to know everything I can about all the employees, too. I guess that makes me no better than the police.”
“Better looking,” Felice said sweetly.
James gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, thank you. But seriously, I want to know more about the people Isobel is in with. I’m worried about her. And, uh, all the other Temp Zone employees you have.”
Felice eyed James. “Isobel’s the only one on the books right now.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m trying to get a handle on how safe it is for her to be there. As her employer. Given the murder.”
Felice sipped her wine. “How safe is it for any of us? Isobel’s only temporary.”
“But do you think it was somebody in her department? Or somebody who came in from outside? Or maybe from another company in the building?”
“Slow down, buddy!”
James made a mental note to start counting to five between questions.
Felice bit off another chunk of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “The police asked me the same things. I wish I thought it was somebody from outside, but to know Doreen Fink was to want to kill her. So I think whoever did it probably works for us.”
“If she was so awful, why didn’t you just fire her?” James asked.
Felice shrugged. “Her boss liked her. We got tons of complaints about her, but he wouldn’t let her go.”
“Couldn’t you overrule him?”
“The complaints were never actionable. It’s not like she was helping herself to people’s wallets or making mistakes that cost the company millions. You can’t fire a person just because she’s a pain in the ass. If you could, we’d none of us have jobs!” Felice tossed her twisted coiffure and laughed heartily.
“Maybe one of the people who complained about her finally snapped and killed her.”
“Maybe. Maybe, James.” She leaned for
ward again as she said his name. She was more than a little buzzed now. He closed his hand over hers, and she gave a little shiver of delight.
“Come on, Felice. I know something’s cooking in that sweet noggin of yours!”
“Oh, I have an idea. I’ve got a few. Trouble is, I don’t know which one is right.”
“Okay, then tell me about these people. What are they like?”
She dipped her head coyly. “It wouldn’t be ethical to talk about my employees that way,” she said. As the waiter came up behind her, James caught his eye and gave the nod. In a moment, he had refilled Felice’s empty glass. James didn’t care how much this little lunch was going to run Ginger Wainwright. He was close to getting some real information, and he was counting on Felice’s loose lips to start letting in the water.
She took another long sip of wine. “Ooooh, that’s divine!” She set down her glass. “Okay, I’m telling you this because,” she paused for a dainty hiccup, “because Temp Zone has always given us good help. And because you’re a brother. But this goes no further, understand?”
“Got it,” said James.
“Paula Toule-Withers. Uppity British bitch. Divorced. Wants Frank’s job.”
“Who’s Frank?”
“He’s the Senior VP. Doreen was Frank’s secretary. Oops, administrative assistant. We’re not supposed to say secretary. Like you can’t say stewardess anymore, either.”
“Right. Go on.”
“Frank is up for promotion from Senior VP of Procurement Support to Senior VP of Procurement. Doesn’t sound like much of a promotion, but actually it is. Paula is angling for Frank’s job, but she knows we’ll bring in someone else.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because there aren’t any women Senior VPs, and she’s a bitch. Can’t fire someone for that, but you can decide not to promote them. Doreen used to rag on her. Said she’d never go anywhere, and she’d better get used to it.”
“Okay, who else?”
“Let’s see, Stan Henderson. Kind of a wet dishrag. Doreen brought his résumé to us. Knew him from high school. High school, can you imagine? He’s pretty harmless, so I don’t think he could have done it. Besides, she got him the job. Then there’s Conchita Perez. Puerto Rican. Very Catholic. Wants off for every damn saint’s day. Oh, I’m not supposed to say damn and saint together, am I? Sorry about that.”
“I’m not religious,” James said with a smile.
Felice gave a delighted giggle. “Me neither! Well, Conchita thought Doreen was evil. Said she made good people do bad things. Whatever that means. There’s also Nikki Francis. Came in sideways through a temp agency about a year ago, right before I started. I think it was Temp Zone, actually. She does the billing for the department, but she’s freelance. She’s an actress. Dating a guy in Equities and thinks nobody knows.”
“An actress, huh?” They’re everywhere in this town, thought James. “What’s she been in?”
“Not much of anything, so far as I can tell. Can’t be very good, can she? She complained the most about Doreen,” Felice said, massaging her brow. “Man, I’m getting a headache. Doesn’t usually happen to me on two glasses of wine.”
“Nikki complained the most?”
“Yeah. Funny that somebody who isn’t even full-time would push so hard to get Doreen fired.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Nothing actable. Actionatable. Actionatingable.”
“Actionable.”
“She got real snarky with me too, when I said we couldn’t do anything. Said something kind of weird, now that I think about it. Said Doreen was poking around too much in people’s personal business and it was going to bite her fat ass. I asked her what she meant by that ‘xactly, and she said one day Doreen would open her big mouth so wide, someone else would have to shut it for her.”
Felice sat back on the banquette and undid the next button on her blouse. “I’m not feeling so good. Do you think you could take me home now?”
FIFTEEN
Isobel couldn’t bear the thought of undoing two hours’ worth of filing, so she dumped the remaining contents of the box into the bottom of last year’s drawer and kicked it shut. She wasn’t even supposed to work for Paula anyway, and she didn’t believe for a minute that Doreen had happily done anyone else’s work but her own. Paula had a secretary, and when Conchita had used up both sleevesful of tissues, she could finish the damn filing.
Isobel surreptitiously plugged her flash drive into her computer, then transferred her résumé into a folder she had created and innocuously named “Background.” Her printer was cheap and unreliable, so she had decided to take Nikki’s advice and avail herself of the office equipment. She recalled Nikki’s comment about InterBank Switzerland supporting the arts and smiled to herself as she sent ten copies of her résumé to print.
Nikki appeared a moment later. Isobel was about to call out a greeting, when she noticed the slump of Nikki’s shoulders and her swollen, red eyes. Nikki sat down heavily at her desk with her coat still on. Isobel walked quietly past her to the printer and collected her résumés, but she couldn’t ignore Nikki’s obvious distress.
“You okay?” she asked.
Nikki nodded. “Acting class. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Isobel sat down and began stapling the résumés to her headshots.
“Nice picture,” Nikki said, glancing over.
“Thanks. Is your acting class always so traumatic?”
Nikki gave an insulted sniff. “It’s not traumatic. It’s exhilarating.”
“Well, you look pretty miserable,” Isobel said.
“I’m not. I feel cleansed.”
“Oh.”
“It’s an emotional reality class,” Nikki explained. “We do a different emotion each week. You bring up a past experience that triggers that emotion, and then you filter your monologue through it.”
“What if your monologue doesn’t have anything to do with that emotion?”
“Half the time it doesn’t. But half the time your words don’t reflect what’s going on underneath emotionally. Life is subtext.”
“Well, yes, I know, but it seems kind of manipulative to work it that way.”
“What do you know about it?” Nikki snapped. “You said it yourself, singers can’t act.”
Isobel had only said that to the police to keep them from suspecting her. True, that was the stereotype, but she prided herself on her acting ability, particularly her comic timing. She gave Nikki a dirty look and turned back to her computer.
“I’m sorry,” said Nikki a few moments later. “We did sadness today. I guess I didn’t get rid of it all.”
“I happen to be a very good actress,” Isobel said stiffly.
“I’m sure you are.”
“How often do you take this class?” Isobel asked.
“Once a week. I also do scene study on Thursday nights.”
“What’s the next emotion?”
“Joy.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Isobel.
“Can I see your résumé?” Isobel handed it over. “Not bad,” Nikki commented. “You don’t list any acting teachers except your college ones. You should take class.”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“Terence Hoff.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Isobel retrieved her résumé and made a mental note to steer clear of Terence Hoff.
Nikki was not providing the sort of distraction she’d hoped for, and Stan Henderson was still MIA, so Isobel resigned herself to typing and emailing memos, taking phone calls and sneaking peeks at online casting notices. She ate lunch by herself, grabbing two hot dogs and soaking up the fall warmth in Madison Square Park. At two o’clock, she poked her head into Frank Lusardi’s office.
He was on the phone, but he signaled for her to wait. She glanced around his office, and her eyes lit on a framed photo of a glamorous woman in a floral print dress. Expensive-looking sunglasses sat on her forehea
d, pushing back long, wavy red hair.
Frank hung up the phone and nodded at the picture. “My wife.”
“She’s stunning,” said Isobel, wondering how someone that beautiful could sound so shrewish.
“That’s why I married her.”
“And so stylish.”
“If shopping were an Olympic sport, Audrey would be a medalist,” he said.
“Do you have kids?”
“Bit of a sore subject.” Frank grabbed a small box of flash drives. “Let’s go.”
Nikki was gone when they returned. Frank set the box on Isobel’s desk.
“These are Doreen’s files. I need you to load them up onto your computer so you have access to everything for the department.” He indicated Doreen’s desk, which was still taped off. The police had emptied its contents and taken her computer the first day. “I understand why they took everything, but we still have work to do.” He tapped the box. “Fortunately, she’d just done a backup. Inventory lists, vendor contact information, and miscellaneous forms. For correspondence, take a look at the format Doreen used and be sure to copy it going forward.”
Minus the bad grammar, thought Isobel.
“You’ll have to check in with Procurement every other day to see what needs to be ordered and for which department. Your contact person is Candy O’Hara. Her number is on the wall there.” He pointed to the sheet of phone extensions.
“Okay.”
Frank put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, and this is very important. If Edmund Jeffards calls, put him through immediately. He’s the Head of IBS North America. Jeffards. J-E-F-F-A-R-D-S. Got it?”
“Yes,” Isobel said. She wrote down the name and circled it twice.
“If you have any questions, please ask me. Only me. Not Paula. All right?”
Isobel didn’t need to be told twice to avoid Paula. As soon as Frank was gone, she sat down and picked up the first drive, labeled “Correspondence.” She was about to insert it into the computer, when a familiar deep voice startled her.
“Isobel.”
James was towering in the space between her desk and Nikki’s.
The Temporary Detective Page 8
