The Temporary Detective

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  Isobel lay down on her air mattress, which was tucked into the opposite corner. It was hard to reconcile the slumber party atmosphere of two faux beds in one room with her first adult living space, but as far as she could tell, this was the standard of habitation for recent college graduates who insisted on living in Manhattan.

  She watched Delphi unload her wrists, piling up her silver bracelets neatly on the edge of her futon. “What do you think of Sunil?” Isobel asked.

  “Hold it right there!” Delphi held up a link of silver skulls. “No matchmaking!”

  “Don’t tell me you’re interested in that sleazy maître d’?”

  “Carlo isn’t sleazy, he’s Italian. They’re all romantics, and they all love blondes. Why?”

  “Because I told him Sunil was your boyfriend.”

  “What?!”

  “I didn’t like the way Carlo was talking about you,” Isobel said. “Very possessive and intrusive.”

  Delphi gave an exasperated sigh. “Italians are notoriously jealous! It’s part of their charm.”

  “I know,” Isobel said. “But if he’s interested in you for something more than a quick hookup, now he has to fight for you. And if he isn’t, he’ll leave you alone.”

  “What if I want a quick hookup? What if I don’t want to be left alone?”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe! And if I were looking for some fun, I’d take it with Carlo. If you like Sunil so much, why don’t you go after him yourself?” Delphi heaved herself up from the futon and stabbed a bright pink comb into her topknot. “Don’t poke your nose too far into other people’s business. If you pull that kind of stuff at your job, you’re liable to get yourself killed!” She flounced off to the bathroom, her pink comb bobbing in disapproval.

  Isobel’s phone rang. She swallowed down a lump in her throat and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Iz? It’s Percival. You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Liar.”

  She smiled ruefully. Percival, younger by seven years, had a level of emotional maturity that far surpassed hers. She could date her first awareness of it to one night when he was a tiny, bespectacled three year-old and they were both sick. She’d brought him some water in the middle of the night and made herself comfortable on the edge of his bed. Percival had stroked her hand and said, “You go back to sleep. You’re sick, too.” Not long after that, the indications of his uniqueness multiplied too quickly to count.

  “Why do I always mess everything up?” Isobel said.

  “What did you mess up?”

  She was grateful to him for not adding “this time.” Percival had a way of neutralizing her upsets, and just hearing his supportive, gently curious voice made Isobel realize how much she missed her little confidant and confessor.

  “Why have I never learned to stop the big cup that is my mouth from running over?”

  Percival laughed. “It’s part of your charm, Iz.”

  He was the only one allowed to call her Iz. And she was the only one who didn’t call him Percy.

  She picked at a seam on the air mattress. “Maybe it’s time to cultivate a new kind of charm.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re in a new situation, meeting new people. Your insecurities are bound to come out. Take that vulnerability and channel it into your acting. You can do it, I’ve seen you,” Percival said.

  “Thanks. I knew you’d make me feel better.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have waited for me to call you,” he chided.

  “Right as always. How are you? How’s school?” she asked.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’m coming to New York next week for my Columbia interview.”

  “Wait a sec,” Isobel sat up. “You’re applying this year? I thought you’d decided not to graduate early.”

  “I changed my mind. There’s nothing more for me here. I’m taking all my classes at the junior college, except Latin. My guidance counselor agrees.”

  “What do Mom and Dad think?”

  “They think it’s the right thing for me. So can I stay with you?”

  Isobel looked around at the apartment, which felt a lot smaller now that it was crammed with furniture. “I have to ask my roommate, and I don’t know what she’ll say, especially since I just pissed her off. It’s only one room.”

  “I could stay with Uncle Jake, but the cigar smoke might kill me.”

  “I’ll ask her,” Isobel said, as the bathroom door opened. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay. Love you, Iz. Hang in there.”

  “Love you, too,” Isobel said.

  “Who was that?” Delphi asked, rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

  “Percival.”

  “Who the hell is Percival?”

  “My brother.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.” Delphi shook out her curls. “What’s ‘I’ll ask her’?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t poke your nose into other people’s business,” Isobel said.

  “Am I ‘her’?” Delphi asked. Isobel nodded. “Then it is my business.”

  “He’s coming to look at Columbia for next year, and he asked if he could stay here.”

  Delphi pulled a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt over her head. “Depends. Is he cute?”

  “He’s fifteen.”

  “And he’s applying to Columbia?!”

  “He’s a genius. Math, physics, computers. And people,” she added.

  “Do you have a picture?”

  Isobel pulled a photo from her wallet. She and Percival were standing by the shore of Lake Michigan, their arms draped around each other, grinning at the camera.

  “Oh my God, it’s Harry Potter!” Delphi exclaimed.

  “With the wisdom of Albus Dumbledore.”

  Delphi handed the photo back. “I don’t know, though, it’s pretty tight in here. Where would he sleep?”

  “I could go back to the residence for a few nights,” Isobel said.

  “And leave me alone with Harry?”

  “Or you could spend the night with Carlo,” Isobel suggested.

  “Or Sunil,” Delphi said.

  Isobel took that as an olive branch. “Sorry. I was just looking out for you. No more meddling, I promise.”

  “It’s okay. I overreacted. But just so you know, I’m perfectly capable of handling the menfolk all by myself.”

  Isobel nodded gratefully. “Got it. So what about Percival? Can he stay here?”

  “Is he anything like you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Delphi smiled and patted her damp hair. “In that case, he’s more than welcome.”

  EIGHTEEN

  There was something comforting about being part of the big city masses reporting to work every morning, Isobel decided. Her first rootless week in New York had demonstrated how easy it was to feel inconsequential without some sort of routine and a place, no matter how small and shared, to call home. Even if the routine involved going to an office every morning instead of to an audition or, better yet, a rehearsal, it gave her a sense of usefulness. She was a real New Yorker, she was paying her dues, and she was finding her place.

  So it was a bit of a shock when she arrived at work a few days later to be reminded that her place was still the focus of a police investigation. The police, in the form of Detective Kozinski, served as an unassailable reminder.

  “Can you tell me who this is?” Detective Kozinski asked without preamble. She held out a grainy black and white photo of a tallish woman in a flowered skirt with a scarf over her head and a long jacket.

  “It’s hard to say,” Isobel said.

  “Quick impression. Familiar or not? Ring any bells at all?”

  “The skirt looks like one Paula Toule-Withers has, but it’s impossible to be sure, and it doesn’t really look like Paula. I mean, it doesn’t give the impression of Paula. Why? What is this?”

  “A still from the security camera. This woman exited the building
just after the fire drill started, and we haven’t been able to identify her.”

  “When did she enter the building?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “We don’t know,” Detective Kozinski admitted. “For whatever reason, she seems to have dodged the cameras coming in.”

  “Maybe she was dressed differently?” suggested Isobel.

  Detective Kozinski nodded. “We’re reviewing the tapes with that in mind.”

  As Isobel set down her coffee, she noticed that the drawers of the small credenza adjacent to Doreen’s desk were open. She looked questioningly at Detective Kozinski, who held up a key in response.

  “Found this in Doreen’s desk. It goes to that cabinet. There’s something in particular I’m looking for.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Doubt it,” Detective Kozinski said with a smirk.

  Isobel sipped her coffee and watched the detective remove stacks of papers without even looking at them. She slowed down when she reached the bottom shelf on the right. From this she withdrew a small, quilted toiletry bag and gingerly began to remove its contents. When she extracted a square tan plastic case, she gave a satisfied nod and dropped it into an evidence bag.

  Isobel knew immediately what it was. Unable to help herself, she jumped up from her chair and darted across the room.

  “What on earth do you need that for?” she asked, unable to contain her surprise.

  “Evidence.”

  Isobel stared at her. “Doreen’s diaphragm is evidence?”

  Detective Kozinski shook her head. “Just the case. We already have the diaphragm.” She considered Isobel for a moment, then said quietly, “She was putting it in when she was killed.”

  Isobel gasped. “Seriously?”

  “Any idea who she was going to meet?”

  Isobel shook her head. “I told you, I only knew her for three hours.”

  “If you happen to pick up any details about Doreen’s love life, let me know.” Detective Kozinski handed Isobel her card.

  “Why would the person she was going to meet want to kill her?” Isobel asked.

  Detective Kozinski gave her a curious look. “Why would you think that’s who killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” Isobel faltered. “Isn’t that what you were getting at?”

  “Not necessarily. We just want to know who it was. Maybe the person who killed her was jealous that she was meeting someone else.”

  Isobel laughed. “I’m sorry, but Doreen was not the sort of woman that men fight over.”

  Detective Kozinski gave Isobel an appraising look, as if determining whether or not she was that sort. “You got that in three hours?”

  “I got that in three minutes.”

  Detective Kozinski picked up the evidence bag and the toiletry kit. “If you get wind of anything, my numbers are on the card. Call my cell if it’s urgent.”

  Isobel looked into the policewoman’s clear blue eyes. “Does this mean I’m not a suspect anymore?”

  Detective Kozinski held her gaze. “Everyone’s a suspect. Just some more than others.”

  Isobel watched her go, then knelt by the credenza. Detective Kozinski hadn’t bothered to put back any of the papers and office supplies, so she began stuffing them back onto the shelves. Then, changing her mind, she rifled through them, searching for a date book, address book or appointment book of any kind.

  Nothing. If there was such a thing, the police must have grabbed it on round one. She heaved the last of Doreen’s property back into the credenza, which she left unlocked, since Detective Kozinski had taken the key. Then she returned to her desk and her latte.

  So, Doreen was on the make. This was shocking partly because she was such an unattractive person—although Isobel supposed it took all kinds—but more so because she’d been heading for a tryst in the middle of a workday. It settled one thing, however: Doreen never had any intention of participating in the emergency drill. But why was she putting in her diaphragm in the office bathroom? Why didn’t she wait until she got to her love nest? And furthermore, thought Isobel, if I were putting in my diaphragm, I’d definitely close the stall door, even if I didn’t think anyone else would be coming in.

  In her peripheral vision, she spotted Stan Henderson scurrying around the corner to his desk. Finally. Maybe now she’d be able to get a read on how he really felt about his ex-wife. Isobel looked at her watch. It was only nine forty-five. She would give him a little time to get caught up from his absence.

  Then she’d find a reason to pass by.

  “James! I was just passing by.”

  Ginger Wainwright appeared in his doorway, waving an invoice in her hand. “I see that you expensed a lunch with Felice Edwards of InterBank Switzerland. I’m glad to see you’re taking that kind of initiative.”

  But…? James thought.

  “But next time, no booze. It runs up the tab. I’m not a bottomless pit, you know.”

  “Understood.”

  “And just so you know, we’re phasing out InterBank Switzerland. Let’s see, who else are you working with?”

  “Gilbert Brothers Publishing, Dove & Flight Public Relations since the other day, and—”

  “Stay on top of Dove & Flight. You met Mike Hardy. You can take him out to lunch next month. He’s a sports nut. You two should get along well.”

  “Sounds great,” James said with more enthusiasm than he felt. “Hey, Ginger, I was wondering…do you remember a temp named Nikki Francis?”

  Ginger frowned and shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But that doesn’t mean anything. They come and go so quickly, you can’t expect me to remember all their names. That’s why God invented computers.” She flounced out the door and continued her morning rounds.

  “Anna? I was just passing by…”

  James returned to his computer and continued searching the employment records for Nikki Francis. His instinct told him Felice’s memory was more accurate than she gave herself credit for. Alcohol, as he knew only too well, tended to uproot the truth, while sobriety only buried it deeper. He plugged in Nicole, Nicolette, Nicola and every other name for which Nikki was a plausible nickname. He tried every conceivable spelling of Francis. Nothing came up.

  He stood up and paced the length of his tiny office. One of the reasons he liked Temp Zone was that Ginger had divided her modest space into actual offices instead of cubicles. This was becoming more and more rare, but Ginger was old school. It was why she stubbornly refused to hire over the internet. Her holdout technique appealed to a certain kind of client, allowing Temp Zone to enjoy a reputation for selectivity. He had no doubt that Doreen Fink’s murder was behind her decision to phase out InterBank Switzerland.

  He walked down the narrow hallway to the makeshift kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. Anna came in a few moments later.

  “Hey,” he said. “Enjoy your morning chat with Ginger?”

  “Oh, please. I’m so used to it by now, I respond on autopilot.”

  “How long have you been here?” James asked.

  “Too long,” Anna said with a groan. “One of these days I’m going to place myself in a nice, long-term gig and get the hell out of the recruiting business.”

  “Do you remember an employee named Nikki Francis? Actress probably in her late twenties, early thirties. She worked at InterBank Switzerland, at least for a while.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Tall, slender, attractive, but a little hard-looking. Short reddish-brown hair. Kind of androgynous.”

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t think so. And I’ve done most of their placements. Why?”

  “Not a big deal. She’s just someone I met over there the other day. Well, I’d better get back to it.”

  He had just reached the door to his office, when Anna called his name. He walked back to her.

  “There was an actress in her late twenties a few years ago who was tall and sort of coltis
h. Her hair was different and so was her name. Annika Franklin. Could that be her?”

  “Could be,” he said, his pulse quickening. “What happened to her?”

  “She was terminated.”

  “Why? Did she go permanent?”

  “No. We fired her, but I can’t remember why.”

  NINETEEN

  “Can I go with you to your emotional reality class next week?” Isobel asked Nikki, who had come in just before noon and was wearing a sensational pair of lemon yellow leather pants that showed off her long, slender legs.

  Nikki raised an eyebrow at Isobel. “Really? You didn’t seem so into it when I invited you.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and, like you said, singers aren’t always so truthful in their acting. I really should get back in class.”

  Nikki considered this a moment, then nodded. “All right, then. But you’ll have to ask Frank for the time off. It’s from ten to twelve on Monday.”

  “I can skip lunch on Tuesday and Wednesday. Is it okay if I bring a friend?”

  “Terence usually allows only one auditor per class, but I’ll ask. Is your friend a singer too?”

  Isobel shook her head vigorously. “Not at all.”

  They worked in silence for a while. Isobel had almost finished uploading and organizing the contents of Doreen’s flash drives. There were only a few files left to transfer, but the urge to procrastinate was strong. She considered trying again to see Stan. She had happened by twice already, but both times he was behind closed doors with Frank.

  She looked over at Nikki, who was manipulating an incomprehensible spreadsheet on her computer.

  “Nikki?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “Did Doreen have a boyfriend?”

  Nikki snorted. “That cow?”

  “Somebody might have found her attractive,” Isobel said.

  “Who? And believe me, from the way that woman talked about sex, it was obvious she wasn’t getting any.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you notice how obsessed she was? Doreen could find sexual innuendo in the most banal sentence. She was always making lewd, insinuating comments about other people’s sex lives. And whenever anyone did something she didn’t like, she’d threaten to spank them. Believe me, that didn’t go down well with Paula.”