The Temporary Detective

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  We are never angrier than when we’re angry at ourselves.

  James heard Bill’s voice in his mind and mentally punched him in the face. He was angry at Bill too, for keeping him away from the booze.

  You’re into your second month, he could hear Bill saying. Don’t blow it now.

  “Fuck you!” James exploded, and an elderly woman in front of him on the sidewalk turned around and shrieked. He growled at her, and she hurried away as fast as she could. He sulked all the way home on the subway, but instead of making the turn toward his apartment, he went in the opposite direction and paused outside City Liquors on 125th Street. He pulled out his cell phone and started to dial Bill, when an image of Isobel’s face flickered through his mind. He saw her delighted expression when he told her how nice she looked.

  He powered off his phone, pushed open the door to City Liquors, and went inside.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Isobel sat on a bench in Madison Square Park, thoroughly disgusted with herself. She knew she’d been awful to James. Even worse, she knew deep down he was probably right. While she was grateful for Nikki’s presence at InterBank Switzerland, there was something about her that didn’t quite add up. Given that, she wasn’t sure why she had felt the need to defend Nikki so ferociously. James was going to a lot of trouble to look out for her, and what had she done? Insulted him. And stuck him with the check.

  She kicked a crumpled soda can, but her conscience got the better of her, and she tossed it in the garbage, wishing the city would commit to public recycling bins. Her imagination had been so fired up by her conversation with Stan Henderson that by the time she’d arrived at the diner, bursting with theories, she’d forgotten she was mad at James. Maybe if she’d shown up angry, she wouldn’t have left angry.

  Why did they always argue? Their first encounter at Temp Zone was far and away the most collegial, and even that had been a skirmish. They obviously brought out the worst in each other. It was too bad, because there was something about him she found intriguing. A college dropout? His comment came back to her now. Why hadn’t he graduated? And why had he felt compelled to tell her he had a girlfriend? Did he think she was interested in him in that way?

  Isobel knew she was being irrational, but she felt as if she were flailing about on a patch of ice and couldn’t stop herself from falling. She would just have to wait until she landed, and hope she didn’t get too bruised. Then she would look at the facts with detachment and make her own decisions about who could and could not be trusted. Maybe she’d decide that Nikki was right and James was the one who should be approached with caution.

  She trudged back to the office, wondering what she could do to take her mind off him. Reformatting her résumé seemed like a good place to start. When she got back, she saw that Nikki had returned and was busy with a stack of invoices.

  “Hey, I spoke to Terence and he said it’s okay for your friend to come on Monday. Here’s his card.”

  “Thanks.”

  Isobel glanced at the address and wondered whether going to the class was still necessary. Probably more so now, given James’s suspicions. She needed to confirm whether the class really messed with one’s emotions that much, or whether Nikki was faking hysteria to excuse her behavior. She was glad Delphi would be with her, although she couldn’t quite believe that Nikki would invent a class in order to lure her to some parking lot, beat her senseless, and leave her for dead.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Isobel said, as casually as she could. “When you left here for that acting job, before you came on freelance, what was the show?”

  “It was a whole season of summer stock,” Nikki said, without hesitation. “The Oldyard Theatre in Ludlow, Vermont.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Two original plays that weren’t very good. And Summer and Smoke by Tennessee Williams.” She gave Isobel a wry smile. “I was miscast.”

  Isobel felt her anger toward James rise again. It was one thing to lie about a play you’d done, but why say you’d been miscast? James just didn’t understand how an actor’s mind worked. Yes, their names were similar, and yes, they both had yellow leather pants, but why would she start out at InterBank Switzerland using one name, and then come back after the summer with another? The evidence that Annika Franklin and Nikki Francis were the same person was still basically circumstantial.

  She reached for her flash drive, but it was gone, along with Doreen’s.

  “Have you seen the box of flash drives?” she asked Nikki.

  “Yeah, Frank came by earlier to take them back.”

  “There was another one that was unlabeled. Did you see where that went?”

  “I think he scooped it up with the others. Why?”

  “That had all my personal stuff!” She jumped up and sprinted around the corner.

  Isobel was so intent on getting her drive back that she was halfway into Frank’s office before she realized there was a woman speaking to him from his visitor’s chair.

  “It’s all done in a petri dish. You won’t even have to—” The woman whirled around, a furious look on her face. “Don’t you knock?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Isobel said.

  “What is it?” Frank barked.

  “I—um, my flash drive is in there.”

  Frank thrust the box at her, clearly annoyed.

  Isobel fished out her drive and turned to the woman. “You must be Mrs. Lusardi. It’s nice to, um, put a face to the voice.” Audrey Lusardi was as glamorous in person as she was in her photo, and even though she was seated, Isobel could tell she was statuesque. She wore a sweater with faux fur trim at the cuffs and boot-cut velvet jeans. In fact, she looked more like a naturally occurring actress than Isobel.

  “You must be that temp.” Audrey wrinkled her pert nose in distaste.

  “Isobel’s staying on until I hire someone permanent,” Frank said.

  “Frank, I only have a few more minutes,” Audrey said, giving her husband a meaningful nod.

  Isobel turned to leave, but Frank’s voice stopped her. “Hang on. Since you’re here, I need you to pull an invoice for me.” He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  “Where will I find—?” Isobel began, but a sharp shake of Frank’s head told her she’d have to figure that out herself.

  She closed his office door quietly behind her. She had no idea where to find the vendor invoice Frank had asked for. It was for a computer consultant named Lou Volpe, dated from March of that year. Lou Volpe—the man who had called for Stan on her first day.

  “Conchita? Do you know where I would find this?” She held out the paper for Conchita to see.

  “Nunca te ayudería, querida,” said Conchita. The phone rang. Conchita grabbed it and switched immediately to English.

  Thwarted, Isobel returned to her desk. She was so distracted that she cut the corner too sharply and kicked over a stack of folders on the floor by Doreen’s desk. Papers cascaded out.

  It was all the junk that Detective Kozinski had removed from the credenza. Isobel was sure she’d stuffed it all back, but apparently someone had taken it out again, and arranged it in haphazard piles on the floor. With a sigh, Isobel knelt on the floor and started shoving the papers back into the credenza. All the annoyances of the last two hours suddenly overwhelmed her, and she began pitching the piles into the cabinet with increasing force. A pale pink envelope slid into her lap from one of the manila folders. It was a fine weave, not office paper, and it was unsealed. She withdrew a matching piece of pink stationery from the envelope.

  It was an invoice of sorts, but it was not from or intended for InterBank Switzerland, that much was clear. The paper was covered in Doreen’s handwriting, and Isobel recognized several of the names written on the page.

  She also immediately and with certainty recognized the significance of the recurring dollar amounts next to each one.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Every time James tried to speak, the words cam
e out all wrong. He knew Jayla couldn’t understand him, because he kept trying to tell her that he wanted her to leave, but she kept saying, “Shhhh, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” After a while, he could barely understand himself. It sounded to him like he was speaking with a pillow over his mouth. Then he realized that he was in bed and his face really was crushed into a pillow.

  “Don’ want you to stay,” he muttered again.

  “Shut up and drink this.” Jayla heaved him over, propped his head up, and tipped a glass of ice water into his mouth. The sudden rush of cold made his teeth hurt, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He wanted to brush away her hand as she caressed his forehead, but his arms felt as if they were tied to the bed.

  “And take these. It’s Advil for your headache,” she said, prying his mouth open and dropping in two pills. Again, she held the glass to his lips, and he managed to wash down the pills.

  “Nothing to do but sleep it off,” she said.

  He watched helplessly while Jayla rummaged through his bag for his cell phone. She turned it on and scrolled through for the number.

  “Is this Bill? This is Jayla, James’s girlfriend.”

  He tried to object from the bed—not to her calling Bill, but to her calling herself his girlfriend—but his tongue felt like an out of control garden hose.

  “James has had a little relapse… Honey, he’s in no shape to talk! I guess you could come over, but…” She met James’s eyes. “He’s about to conk out. Maybe tomorrow? I just wanted to make sure you knew, in case he tries to hide it from you.”

  Jayla sat down heavily on the end of the bed, which sagged under the weight of her disappointment.

  “I know. I’m trying real hard and you are too,” she said. “We’ll all keep on trying. He needs us.”

  I don’t need either of you, James thought. He tried to form the words, but they came out like “Donneedya.” Jayla waved a hand to shush him.

  “Thank you for being there for him, Bill.”

  Jayla hung up and set the phone on James’s bedside table. She leaned over and rested her finger tenderly against his lips.

  “We’re just going to forget all about that little chat we had the other day. It’s a good thing I came back to get my appointment book, or Lord knows what kind of shape you’d have drunk yourself into. You are not fit to be alone, James, even if that’s what you think you want.”

  The long lashes fringing her cat-like eyes arched up so gracefully that he wished he could make himself small enough to recline in one. He wouldn’t mind simply floating through life, curled up on an eyelash with a Jayla’s-eye view of the world, enjoying the prettiest part of her, without having to deal with the rest.

  “I’ll spend the night tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll see.” She disappeared into the bathroom. He lay silent as the room spun and imagined himself settling down for the night on a bed of eyelashes.

  When the phone rang, he couldn’t tell whether it was his cell phone or his land line. They were right next to each other on his nightstand, and he threw out an arm to try to answer them both at the same time.

  “Hlo!” The receiver from the land line hit the floor with a crash, dragging the rest of the phone with it.

  “James!” Jayla scolded. “You’re going to fall out of bed!” With surprising strength, she pushed him back onto the pillows with both hands and placed a cool, wet washcloth on his forehead.

  “Who is this?” Jayla said into his cell. “Oh, Miss Isobel Spice! I know all about you. Now you listen to me!”

  The cold of the washcloth sharpened his hearing and the name cut through the fog in his brain. His mind was suddenly clear, although his body was still beyond his control. He tried to reach for the phone, but Jayla pulled away from him.

  “He doesn’t want anything more to do with you. No, he does not want to talk to you right now. Don’t call him again, you hear me? He’s through with you!”

  She threw the phone in the drawer of the nightstand. “You’ll thank me for that,” she said. “It’s for the best.”

  Maybe it is, James thought, as he slammed into a hard, black sleep.

  Isobel stared at the phone in her hand.

  “Well?” Delphi asked.

  Isobel shook her head. “I don’t know what just happened.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t. It was his girlfriend. She says he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore and never to call him again.”

  Delphi gave a dismissive snort. “That’s ridiculous. You work for him.”

  “I knew I should have waited until tomorrow.”

  Actually, Isobel thought, I should have called him this afternoon instead of waffling about it so long.

  When she realized what Doreen’s little invoice meant, her first instinct was to tell James. She had come so close to completing the call, standing on the corner of Twenty-third and Broadway, safely out of range of InterBank Switzerland. She had dialed his number five times, stopping just short of the last digit each time. But she couldn’t bring herself to apologize for the way she’d behaved at lunch, and she knew there was nothing else to be said until she did. She still wasn’t convinced that she was in the wrong, but her hesitation had ensured that the damage was done. Now she was on her own.

  “You have to go to the police,” Delphi said.

  “I know, but I wanted to show it to James to make sure I wasn’t reading too much into it.”

  “Reading too much into it? Give me that!” Delphi snatched the paper out of her hand. “Conchita Perez: $475, $475, $475, $475. Nikki Francis: $2,300, $2,300, $2,300, $2,300. Stan Henderson: $5,000, $5,000, $5,000, $5,000. Okay, I don’t know any of these people, but from what you’ve told me about all of them, especially Doreen, I’m willing to bet it’s a blackmail log.”

  “Eight hours ago, that’s what it looked like to me too, but now I’m not so sure. It could be anything.”

  “Trust your gut. On stage and in life. It always knows more than your brain. If you don’t call the police, you’re withholding evidence.”

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “What?”

  “His girlfriend sounded like she was personally mad at me.”

  “Who gives a shit what your temp agent’s girlfriend thinks of you? You just found something that could shed some light on the killer’s motive.”

  “Or that could be absolutely meaningless.”

  “That’s why you should leave it to the professionals to decide. And that does not include James.” Delphi padded over to the light switch and flipped it off. “I have to go to sleep if you still want me to get up at six and sign us up for that Cole Porter audition.”

  “I do.”

  “Then good night.”

  Within moments, Isobel heard Delphi’s faint snoring, but she lay awake, thinking first about how rude she had been to James, and then about the paper. Finally, she switched on her lamp and pulled it out again. She ran down all the names, figures, and dates. First was a name she didn’t recognize, with the repeating figure of $200, then Conchita, then two other names she didn’t recognize for $750 and $1,275, then Nikki, and finally, a bit farther down the page, Stan. Poor Stan. Doreen had hit him up for more than anyone else.

  Isobel still had Detective Kozinski’s card. Delphi was right. She would call first thing in the morning. She switched off the light again and lay awake, pondering the list. If James was right about Nikki’s past, it was pretty clear what Doreen was holding over her, and given her strange history with Stan, chances were good she knew something about him, too. But what could she possibly have on Conchita? And why weren’t Frank and Paula on the list? Had Doreen tried and failed to find any dirt on them?

  This led her to the disconcerting thought that had Doreen lived, she might have tried to blackmail her, too. Although, as Isobel drifted off to sleep at last, she couldn’t imagine what Doreen would have found to taunt her with.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ginger Wainwright w
as not pleased.

  “Will you be back on Monday?” she asked, without a grain of sympathy in her voice.

  James glanced at Jayla, as if she could advise him how best to answer, although of course, she couldn’t hear Ginger’s question through the phone.

  “I’m sure I’ll be feeling better by then,” he said.

  “Glad to hear it. Anna’s taking a personal day, so I really need you here.”

  James hung up the phone and lay back on the bed. His head was throbbing, and he felt worse than he had in a long time. Come hell or high water, he would be back at work on Monday. If he weren’t, he’d have to hate himself even more than he already did, and he didn’t have the energy for that.

  “You hungry?” Jayla asked.

  “I’m fine. You should go to work.”

  “I told them I’d be late.”

  “Stop hovering.”

  Jayla knelt by the bed and took his hand. “James, if you’re alone, the demons will come again.”

  He snatched his hand away. “You don’t know shit about the demons.” His eyes bored into hers until she turned away and stood up.

  “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “What are you planning to do—take me to work with you?”

  He divined the answer from her silence. She hadn’t told them she’d be late, she’d told them she wasn’t coming in. If only Jayla hadn’t come back for her stupid appointment book. He hated being rescued. He hated feeling grateful. And she twisted everything he said to make it seem like she knew what he wanted more than he did. What he wanted was for her to go away. But he supposed this was his punishment for being a coward. He probably deserved it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll call Bill.”

  Jayla eyed him doubtfully. “You will?”