The Temporary Detective

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “We know Stan found her attractive,” Isobel reminded her.

  “We know Stan married her.” Nikki rolled her chair away from her desk to look at Isobel. “Not the same thing. And don’t forget, the marriage was annulled. I’m guessing one look at Doreen naked sent Stan running back to City Hall.”

  “Maybe,” Isobel said, “but I still think Doreen must have had somebody.”

  “What on earth makes you think that?”

  Isobel was about to share the diaphragm tidbit with Nikki, but James’s warning flashed through her mind. She couldn’t quite convince herself that Nikki was dangerous. Still, it was probably best not to confide.

  “It just—I don’t know—boyfriends and murders seem to go together so often.”

  “I never heard her on the phone with anyone who could have been a boyfriend,” Nikki said. “And her conversations weren’t exactly discreet.”

  Isobel remembered overhearing Doreen massacring metaphors on her first day. Nikki was right; if she’d had a boyfriend, it would hardly have been a secret. But how did that explain the diaphragm?

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Isobel said. She stood up and stretched her legs. “I’m going to take a little break.”

  Now that she’d exhausted every possible distraction except trying Stan again, she headed back his way. Maybe he and Doreen had had some kind of latter-day reconciliation and were finally consummating their non-marriage. In any case, there was a reasonable chance that he held the key to the diaphragm, whether Doreen was putting it in for him or for someone he was jealous of.

  Conchita Perez was seated at her desk, her eyes closed, her head tilted toward the ceiling, and her lips moving in a silent appeal. She opened one eye when she heard Isobel approach.

  “Hola,” Isobel said cheerily.

  “Hello.”

  “Is Stan…?” Isobel noticed that Frank’s office door was open now and Stan’s was closed.

  “He’s in his office and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I just wanted to see if there’s anything he needs,” Isobel said.

  Conchita bristled. “I’m his assistant.”

  “I know,” Isobel said quickly, “but on the first day, I did a few memos for him, and I thought maybe—”

  “That was only because I was out. He doesn’t need anything from you,” Conchita said, with surprising force.

  For the first time, Isobel caught a steely determination in Conchita’s eyes, and she decided not to press her luck. She pointed at Frank’s door instead and lifted her eyebrows at Conchita, as if to ask permission to enter. Conchita shrugged and looked away.

  “Frank?” Isobel said, glancing in through the door.

  He looked up from his computer. “Yes?”

  “Would it be all right if I came in late on Monday morning? I could be here by twelve thirty, and I won’t take lunch on Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  “Is this some acting thing?” he asked, with a disdainful emphasis on the word “acting.”

  “More or less.” But rather less than more, she thought.

  “Nikki’s out on Monday mornings, so Conchita will have to take all the phones. If it’s okay with her, it’s okay with me.”

  Great, thought Isobel. When she returned to Conchita’s desk area, she caught sight of Stan retreating into his office. He shut the door firmly behind him once more. Conchita was gazing after him with a wistful expression that easily took five years off her. Isobel cleared her throat.

  “Could you cover for me on Monday morning? I’d be happy to return the favor sometime.”

  Conchita scrunched her eyes and dipped her head to keep the tears from falling.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Isobel.

  Without a photo, James couldn’t be certain that Annika Franklin and Nikki Francis were the same person. One thing was clear, however; Anna’s recollection was correct. According to Temp Zone’s records, Annika Franklin, whoever she was, had been fired, first from her position at Credit Exchange Bank, and subsequently from Temp Zone. There were no details about the reason for her dismissal, but there was a note that read, “Do not rehire.” Prior to her position at Credit Exchange Bank, she had indeed worked at InterBank Switzerland, although there was no indication that she’d been fired from there. James stepped out into the hall. He could hear the other reps talking among themselves or on the phone, and above them all, Ginger loudly trying to convince someone to take advantage of her services. James returned to his office and closed the door. Then he used his cell phone to dial the number for the director of human resources at Credit Exchange Bank.

  “May I speak with Gretchen Bryars?”

  “This is she.”

  “Gretchen, this is James Cooke with,” he hesitated ever so slightly, “Temps in Time. We’ve had an application from someone who worked for you once. Name is Annika Franklin.”

  “Don’t hire her,” Gretchen said, firmly and immediately.

  “Ah, I thought there might be a problem,” James said. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “We hired her from an outfit called Temp Zone. They have an excellent reputation, but this woman was bad news. She was an actress, or said she was.”

  “What exactly did she do? Was there something specific?”

  “Absolutely. She stole money.”

  “Really?” James didn’t know what he’d expected to hear, but it wasn’t this.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we were never able to prove anything, which is why no charges were pressed. But we’re reasonably certain that she was siphoning off cash under cover of the accounting department. She was supposed to be handling receivables, but she was helping herself to the payables, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why weren’t you able to prove anything?” he asked.

  “She had created a spurious vendor and cut checks to them. But she set it up very cleverly, with a post office box in another state and checks endorsed with a company stamp.”

  “What makes you sure it was Nikki—I mean, Annika—if you weren’t able to prove it?”

  “The rest of the personnel in that department were long-term, full-time employees, and they all claimed they’d never heard of…Computer Accessories, that was the name of it. Plus, the invoicing was all done from her terminal. I suppose we didn’t know for sure until we fired her, but it stopped as soon as she left, so you can draw your own conclusions.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Tall, with long, very straight auburn hair. Sharp dresser. I remember admiring one pair of trousers of hers in particular—leather pants in a buttercup yellow.” Gretchen laughed. “Of course, I don’t have the figure to pull those off!”

  “Do you know what happened to her after she left?” James asked.

  “I know Temp Zone let her go. I had a long conversation afterwards with Ginger Wainwright, the owner. She reassured me at great length that her company’s reputation came first, and she would never keep on a dishonest employee.”

  “Do you still use Temp Zone?” he asked. He knew they didn’t, but he was curious to hear the reason.

  “I don’t. Their fees went up, and I get a better deal from Temporama, although honestly, the help isn’t as good. Tell me about your outfit. What did you say it was called?”

  “Um, Temp…” James scrambled to remember the name he’d made up on the spur of the moment. “Temps…” James quickly hit a button on his keypad. “I’m sorry, Gretchen, but I think I’m getting another call. I appreciate your help. I’m sure we won’t be hiring her.”

  “Oh, one other thing,” James heard Gretchen say, as he was about to hang up. He brought the phone back to his ear.

  “You referred to her as Nikki,” she continued. “That’s what she was called here, as well. Nobody ever called her Annika.”

  James smiled triumphantly and fist-pumped the air. “Thank you, Gretchen. Thank you very much.”

  TWENTY

  It seemed like Conchita was never going
to take a lunch break, and there were only so many excuses Isobel could invent to pass by Stan’s office. She planned to give it one last shot for the day, but Paula stopped her.

  “You’re spending an awful lot of time wandering about. If you don’t have enough work to do, I’d be happy to fill out your dance card.”

  Isobel didn’t feel like defending herself. Instead, noticing the return of Paula’s flowered skirt, she said, somewhat slyly, “Nice skirt.”

  That brought Paula up short, as she’d hoped it would.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply.

  Isobel shrugged. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that Detective Kozinski showed me a security photo of a woman leaving the building in a hurry right around the time Doreen was killed, and she was wearing a skirt that looked an awful lot like yours.”

  Paula narrowed her small, brown eyes. “Yes, she showed me that photo too. But as you well know, it wasn’t me. The physique was all wrong.”

  “It wasn’t that wrong,” said Isobel, an inner devil taking hold of her. “Besides, the perspective is always funny in those security photos.”

  “Nonsense. I was busy executing my duties as fire marshal.”

  “Which are…what, exactly?” asked Isobel, feigning politeness.

  “Making sure everyone on the floor is proceeding downstairs accordingly. I am not permitted to exit until I have confirmed that everyone else has evacuated the premises.”

  “How selfless. But, of course, it explains why you came into the bathroom when you did.”

  “Exactly. I was looking for Doreen. I’d forgotten about you,” she said with a sneer.

  “Then again,” Isobel said, unable to stop herself, “as one of the few people who knew in advance that there was going to be an emergency drill, perhaps you popped in there a bit earlier to stab her and were just coming back to make sure she was dead.”

  Paula’s eyes flashed fire, and for a moment, she looked positively dangerous. She leaned closer to Isobel, who instinctively took a step backward.

  “I would be very, very careful about making accusations, Sarah Bernhardt,” Paula hissed. “Doreen took her lunch every day at one p.m. sharp, preceded always by a trip to the ladies’ room. Emergency drill or not, everybody on this floor knew precisely where they could find her at that particular moment.”

  “Everybody except me,” Isobel said.

  “Then what were you doing in the bathroom?”

  “Using it,” Isobel retorted.

  “You ignored an emergency drill to use the loo?” Paula gave a thin, witchy laugh. “The police must believe you’re an absolute moron to do such a thing. Then again, that isn’t much of a stretch.”

  Isobel shook her head in disbelief. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

  “Let’s see…where to start? Perhaps with the fact that you just baldly accused me of murder?”

  “Bullshit!” The word exploded from Isobel with surprising force. “You’ve been horrible to me since my very first day.”

  “I find all women in your position distasteful,” Paula said.

  “Temps?”

  “Temps, secretaries.” Paula clenched her fingers into fists. “I’ve fought hard to get where I am, and I’m not nearly where I want to be. Why? Because as long as there are women willing to be underlings, men will think that’s where we belong.”

  “So who do you think should have these jobs? Children? Midgets?”

  “Men. And women too, as soon as there are enough of us balancing out management.”

  “So you’ve taken it upon yourself to be nasty and unhelpful to every secretary or temp who comes along until they…what? Vie for your job?” Isobel laughed at the absurdity of Paula’s reasoning. “You’d better give that a little more thought.”

  Isobel stalked back to her desk, confused and angry. Was Paula deliberately egging her on? Didn’t she realize that admitting her dislike for secretaries only corroborated Isobel’s suspicions? At what point did distaste morph into hate?

  And at what point did hate turn murderous?

  Isobel knew she had gone too far in actually accusing Paula. But by provoking her, she had gleaned one interesting bit of information. It was common knowledge that Doreen took lunch every day at one o’clock with a stop in the bathroom first. The emergency drill may have provided a lucky stroke of cover, but the killer didn’t need to have known about it in advance. It was enough that Doreen was a creature of habit.

  That widened the field considerably.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Okay, but here’s what I don’t understand,” Delphi said, attacking her toes with nail polish in her signature delphinium blue. “If you’re putting in your diaphragm in the office bathroom—which, I agree, is weird to begin with—why would you take it out of its case at your desk? Why not bring the case with you into the bathroom?”

  “Maybe she was doing the tampon trick?” Isobel suggested. “You know, where you slide a tampon up your sleeve so nobody sees it.”

  “I know, but a diaphragm? And what about the jelly? Did she put the tube up her sleeve too?”

  “Not everybody uses the jelly. I had a roommate in college who refused. Her boyfriend used a condom too, and she felt it was overkill.”

  “Aren’t you overlooking the obvious?” Delphi asked, admiring her left foot and turning her attention to her right.

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe she was taking it out.”

  “But Detective Kozinski said—”

  “Why would she be straight with you?” asked Delphi shrewdly.

  “Maybe she thinks I can help.”

  “Okay, but think about it. Taking the diaphragm out makes more sense on every level.”

  “Well,” Isobel said thoughtfully, “it would explain the missing jelly tube, and it seems right that she could have had sex the night before with…whomever, it doesn’t matter…and just forgot to take her diaphragm out until that moment.”

  “Exactly,” Delphi said. “She suddenly remembered, and she didn’t want to leave it in any longer because that can be dangerous. So she took it out and was probably going to wrap it in toilet paper and stash it up her sleeve until she got back to her desk to put it back in its case.”

  “I honestly can’t imagine who in a million years would have wanted to sleep with her. And Nikki seemed pretty certain that Doreen wasn’t getting any.”

  “You believe Nikki?”

  “On that? Yes. Although Nikki is moody, no question.” Isobel paced into the galley kitchen and poured out what was left of the Diet Coke. “Paula is a dragon, Conchita is a religious nut, Frank is preoccupied, and Stan is a hologram.” She leaned on the counter. “What do you think?”

  “Look to the religious nut. They’ll do anything in the name of God.”

  “I just can’t see Conchita driving a pair of scissors through somebody’s chest. She’s like a little Hispanic grandmother. If you saw her, you’d know what I mean.”

  Delphi capped her nail polish and waved it at Isobel. “Don’t be fooled. Those little Hispanic grandmothers are tough!”

  Isobel looked at her watch. “I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. And more Diet Coke. Wanna take a walk?”

  “Can’t, I’m still drying,” Delphi said, wiggling her toes.

  Isobel grabbed her coat and walked down the three flights to the newsstand on the corner. The newsman was just cutting open the plastic binders around a stack of copies of Backstage and was happy to unload one on Isobel. She stopped at the deli for another bottle of Diet Coke and a bag of pretzels and headed home, waving cheerfully to two male prostitutes in drag, who were camped out on the stoop a few doors down. They waved back and continued to chug from bottles ineptly concealed in brown bags. Isobel liked the “local color,” as she called it. Familiarity had eased any fears she may have had, as the unknown became known and thereby less menacing.

  Delphi was talking agitatedly into her cell phone when Isobel got back.

  “Just tell
her to stop! Aster, look…I know, but Pansy has always had her issues with Mom, and I think if she’s going to…fine, don’t listen to me, you never do. No! Poppy’s got her own shit to deal with right now. That guy dumped her… Well, I don’t know why she didn’t tell you. I have to go. Right. All right. Look out for Zinn, okay? Bye.”

  Delphi skipped her phone across the floor like a stone on a lake.

  “You are so lucky you have a brother,” she said to Isobel. “What did you get?”

  “Provisions,” said Isobel, holding up the pretzels and the soda. “And a copy of Backstage. Let’s see if there’s anything good.”

  They settled down on the floor and began to leaf through the listings.

  “Look,” Isobel pointed, “here are some auditions for Othello.”

  Delphi shook her head. “I’ve got to get into the groove first. My Shakespeare class doesn’t start for another couple of weeks.” She flipped the page. “Here’s a production of High Society. That could be fun! It’s on Friday. Wanna go? I can sign us both up in the morning.”

  It was tempting. Isobel loved Cole Porter, but she wasn’t keen on going to another musical audition with Delphi. On the other hand, without Delphi signing her up, there was no way she could make it, as it would require both being late to work and ducking out during the day. Until and unless Delphi decided to give up musicals altogether, there was no avoiding going to auditions with her.

  “Sure, let’s go for it.”

  “Are you interested in straight theater at all?” Delphi asked.

  “Not as much. I’m always waiting for the song cues. What about you? Have you, uh, always done musicals?”

  “Yeah. I got to play a lot of great roles in high school. I really love to sing.” Delphi twirled the silver stud in her nose and glanced self-consciously at Isobel. “But I don’t have the kind of training you and Sunil have. That’s why the Shakespeare idea interests me.”