You and me, thought Isobel. But Frank had been decent to her. More than the others. No reason to embarrass the man.
“Good luck with your acting,” he said.
“Thanks. You, too,” said Isobel. “I mean, with your new job.”
Frank touched his hand to his hat in a strangely old-fashioned gesture and left. Isobel checked the time and was surprised to see it was later than she thought. Almost five, and there were still plenty of papers to sort through. It occurred to her that it might make sense to stay after everyone else had gone and warm up in the ladies’ room. Dashing around town during rush hour in punishing rain with no umbrella wasn’t the best way to prepare for an audition, and if she went straight from the office, it was only two quick stops on the subway. Besides, she couldn’t remember which shift Delphi was working tonight, and Isobel still hadn’t told her about the audition. She was glad some instinct had made her bring her music to work. As long as everyone else left on time, she could linger, finish sorting, and have the place more or less to herself.
At quarter past five, Paula appeared at Isobel’s desk, her raincoat slung over her arm.
“I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but of course, it hasn’t.” Paula made no attempt to disguise her sneer.
Isobel returned her gaze coldly. “Good luck. I hear it’s lonely in the middle.”
Without another word, Paula turned on her heel and strode down the hall.
I’ve never been so happy to see anybody’s ass in my life, Isobel thought, casting her mind back to her very first day and the floral skirt Paula had been wearing. It reminded her of the security photo Detective Kozinski had shown her of a woman leaving the building in a floral skirt. As far as Isobel knew, she had never been identified. A wisp of a thought fluttered along the outer edge of her mind, a flash of half-delineated insight that didn’t alight long enough for her to grasp it. She closed her eyes and tried to bring it back, but it had vanished.
Down the hall, more people were abandoning their cubicles for the weekend, although the lights were still on in some side offices. Another advantage to staying late was that she’d be able to squeeze out a few extra billable hours on her last day. InterBank Switzerland supports the arts, she thought with some satisfaction. And who knew how long it would be before James sent her out again?
James! She had completely forgotten to call him back.
She grabbed the phone and dialed Temp Zone.
“Hello, this is James Cooke, and you’ve reached my voice mail…”
Oh well, she thought, replacing the receiver. She’d have to wait until Monday to hear whatever it was he wanted to tell her. There was no way she was going to call his cell phone again. Not after the last time.
By six fifteen, she had reduced the contents of Frank’s boxes to two medium-sized piles. As she carried Paula’s pile to her office, Isobel realized that this was the first time she’d actually been inside. It was perversely clean. The desk was neatly organized, and every book was lined up precisely one inch from the edge of the bookshelves. Several C-level business magazines, a testament to Paula’s not-so-secret ambitions, lay on a small table, fanned out like they might be in a doctor’s office before bored or nervous patients had scattered them about. Isobel was struck with the urge to vandalize the room, but she resisted. Paula was her own punishment.
Instead, she tossed her stack of papers sloppily on the desk. She smiled to herself and turned to leave.
Through the half-open doorway, she glimpsed Conchita emerging from Stan’s office. She hadn’t realized Conchita was still here. In no mood for another snarky good-bye, Isobel lurked behind Paula’s door and watched as Conchita shut down her computer, gathered up her things, sent a quick prayer heavenward, then wiped her eyes and headed down the corridor.
Isobel waited another moment before she left Paula’s office and returned to her own desk. She could hear the quiet murmur of conversation down the hall, interrupted by a spike of hearty laughter. The office had an oddly homey atmosphere after hours, as if it, too, were relaxing and lightening up for the weekend. She collected Frank’s papers and followed Conchita’s path toward the glass door and the elevators. Three men were lingering by the cubicles, including the stout, bearded man who had been rude to her on her first day.
“They’re finally moving me away from the goddamn traffic,” he was saying.
“Good thing, too,” Isobel said, as she passed by.
“What the—?”
While she waited for the elevator, she reflected on her time at InterBank. It had certainly been an education, in more ways than one. At least she’d be better prepared for her next assignment.
If signs of life lingered on the seventeenth floor, the sixteenth, home of senior management, was completely deserted. She found Frank’s new office easily. It was a spacious room, with recently purchased furniture and an attractive faux-Turkish rug. There were open cartons of books and stacks of papers piled on the floor. Frank had already set his nameplate and college diploma on the desk. Isobel placed her pile next to them and picked up the framed diploma.
Rutgers. Good theater department, she thought.
A door slammed somewhere nearby and Isobel jumped. The diploma flew out of her hands and she lurched forward to keep it from falling. She managed to catch it, knocking over a small carton of books and binders in the process. Her heart was pounding. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was, alone on the sixteenth floor. She gingerly returned the diploma to the desk and took a deep breath. Maybe staying late wasn’t such a hot idea. After all, someone had been murdered here once.
Okay, stop right there, Isobel counseled herself. Before you let your imagination run away with you, calm down, clean up the mess you just made, and go back upstairs. Even if it’s deserted now too, at least it’s familiar.
She righted the carton and began replacing its contents. Accounting books, ledgers, a small photo album.
And a small, tapestry-covered Filofax.
Even before Isobel picked it up, she knew whose it was. She held her breath and was suddenly glad there was nobody around. She picked up the Filofax and ran her fingers over the pink leather border. Then, steadying herself against the desk, she snapped open the cover and read the name on the identification page.
Doreen Fink.
Isobel closed the book again. She knew that within its pages were at least some of the dead woman’s secrets, maybe even the one that would reveal the truth of her murder. She would call Detective Kozinski immediately without looking any further.
Who was she kidding?
She flipped first to the address section and found the names and contact information she had been searching for all week: Kim Wong, Susan Hart, Lenny DeCarlo, and of course, Nikki, Conchita and Stan. Frank and Paula were listed too, along with Felice Edwards and many other names, most of which were unfamiliar. The Filofax also had a calendar section with three days per page. Isobel bit her lip and slowly thumbed through the pages to her first day at InterBank Switzerland.
There, in the space for one o’clock, Doreen had written the word “Drill,” and right next to it, the letter “S.”
FORTY-ONE
Clutching Doreen’s Filofax to her chest, Isobel sat with her back against the door to Frank’s office and tried to think.
On the day she was killed, Doreen had planned to meet Stan at one o’clock, during the emergency drill they both knew had been scheduled. The question was, had they met? Had Stan darted into the women’s bathroom just before the bell rang, had a brief argument with his ex-wife, and killed her?
Right from the start, Nikki, criminal though she herself turned out to be, had suspected Stan. But why would Stan kill the person who was helping him raise money for his operation?
Maybe she wasn’t. Percival was mathematically gifted, true, but maybe the numbers didn’t mean what he thought they did. Doreen must have known about Stan’s proclivities. It easily explained the annulment of their marriage. But maybe Doreen had seen it a
s a betrayal and had never forgiven him. Then Stan had told her he’d changed his ways in order to convince her to help him get a job. If Doreen found out that not only did he still like to dress up, he wanted the operation, maybe she’d started blackmailing him.
But according to Frank, Doreen had been pushing Stan for promotion. Why? Because in the end, she hated Paula more than she hated Stan? Or was she just perverse enough to toy with Stan, one day helping him, the next day hurting him?
And speaking of Frank, what was Doreen’s Filofax doing in his possession? There was only one explanation for that, and the realization made Isobel groan aloud. Stan and Frank were lovers. Frank had found out somehow that Stan had killed Doreen and was hiding the Filofax to protect him.
If that was the case, then why not destroy it? But Isobel knew the answer to that instantly. If Frank ever needed a hold over Stan, he could literally take a page from Doreen’s book.
Isobel’s head was spinning. She opened the Filofax again to the calendar page, only this time she noticed something she hadn’t before. In the same spot the day before the murder, Doreen had written the letter “P.”
Well. That was intriguing. Doreen had met Paula during her lunch hour the day before. If they hated each other so much, what was that meeting about?
Isobel stood up and stretched her cramped legs. Still holding Doreen’s Filofax, she paced the room, weaving around the boxes as she worked through her thoughts.
Doreen didn’t want Paula to have Frank’s job. She was trying as hard as she could to keep her from getting it, but the one thing she hadn’t been able to do was blackmail Paula. Yet.
But what if Doreen had finally found something? What if they’d met, and Doreen had laid out blackmail terms? Then, the next day, during the emergency drill—which Paula also knew about beforehand—Paula had waylaid Doreen in the bathroom and killed her before she ever got to meet Stan.
Isobel paused and looked at her watch. Six forty-five! She had completely lost track of the time. She was due at her Two by Two audition at seven thirty and she hadn’t warmed up, or put on makeup—or anything!
Filofax in hand, Isobel ducked out of Frank’s new office and instinctively turned the corner to the ladies’ room, which was directly below the one on the seventeenth floor. She was a mess. Her hair was lank, and the dark circles under her eyes had returned. She spun her voice up and down the scale, then sang out a tentative arpeggio. Her voice echoed off the bathroom tile, startling her. She sounded tired, but there was no time to warm up if she wanted to get to the audition. She would just have time to dash back upstairs, quickly refresh her makeup, and then hightail it out of there.
As Isobel turned to go, a sound stopped her. Someone had flushed the toilet in the ladies’ room above her, on the seventeenth floor.
She cast her mind back to the group that had been gathered by the glass doors. All men. She had an irrational impulse to bolt, but her things were upstairs: her coat, her bag, her music, her high heels. And she wasn’t ever coming back. She had to get them now.
It’s probably the cleaning lady I saw the other day, she reasoned. Or maybe it’s somebody from one of the other departments on the floor.
Except that they generally used their own bathroom at the other end.
She left the bathroom on the sixteenth floor and made her way quickly and quietly back to the elevators. She exited onto the seventeenth floor, pressed the entrance code into the keypad on the wall and proceeded through the etched glass doors.
There was no one in sight. Someone had turned off her computer. Isobel knelt on the floor to gather her belongings, which she had stowed, as always, under her desk.
A door creaked open. The door to the ladies’ room.
Isobel stood up. She knew the smart thing to do would be to stay low, under her desk, just in case it wasn’t the cleaning lady. But she didn’t. She backed up to the wall next to Nikki’s desk and stood flush against it. In this position, Isobel would be able to see who it was without the person seeing her.
She pressed her body against the wall and held her breath. After a moment, a tall, voluptuous woman with auburn curls, wearing alligator pumps, palazzo pants, and a purple silk blouse strode past her. Isobel’s eyes grew wide.
It was Stan Henderson. And she was beautiful.
FORTY-TWO
James was nervous. He couldn’t remember ever going on a first date without the safety net of alcohol. He knew this little outing to Xavier’s was going to test him in every way, and he hardly felt up to the challenge. Cranberry and seltzer. That was Bill’s recommendation. It looked like a mixed drink and was less likely to provoke comment than, say, a Coke, which, James had to admit, was threatening to replace alcohol as his addiction. On the other hand, he could just come clean and admit his weakness. Why not? He’d admitted it to Isobel and survived. But he was still afraid that an admission like that might start an avalanche. He was full of weaknesses. He was even too weak to talk Felice out of Xavier’s.
Out of the frying pan and into a bigger fucking frying pan, he thought. Why do I always wind up with these Mack truck women?
If he wasn’t going to drink, he at least had to look like he would beat the crap out of anyone who messed with him. Black silk shirt, thin maroon tie, the silver and garnet cufflinks Jayla had given him for his birthday. He stepped back and checked himself out in the mirror. Not bad. In the bathroom, he splashed cologne on his neck and pushed a small gold hoop through the hole in his ear. Then he sat down on the couch and took out his phone.
“Bill? It’s James. I’m checking in.”
“Hey, buddy. How did it go at the meeting today?”
“Something came up and I couldn’t get there. I’ll talk on Sunday at home group.”
“Good. You doing okay?”
James flexed his fingers and looked at his gold Columbia ring, which he had also added for the occasion. “Yeah. No. Here’s the deal. I’ve gotten into a situation. I’m going to this club tonight, Xavier’s. You know it?”
“I’ve never been a clubbing kind of guy. Always sounded like fun, though,” Bill said wistfully.
“It’s some hot new joint. It’s a first date, and I’m worried about the scene. I mean, everyone will be drinking.”
“Everyone but you,” Bill said firmly.
“I need some help here.”
“Eat before you go, so if you do slip, you’re slipping on a full stomach.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just being practical. Look, it would be easier if you didn’t go, or at least not yet. But let’s face it, it’s hard to avoid social alcohol completely. And if you can make it through tonight, that’ll be a big achievement.”
“Give me some things to think. Things to say.”
“What can you control?”
“What I drink.”
“So what are you going to drink?”
“Cranberry and seltzer.”
“And when she says, ‘Aw, come on, have something stronger. I don’t want to drink alone,’ you’re going to say…”
James rubbed his forehead wearily. “Here’s where it falls apart for me.”
“James. You’re not a sissy if you don’t drink.”
“In my world you are. And this chick likes to drink.”
“Too much?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“There you go! Couldn’t be better. Tell her the truth. Maybe she needs to hear it. Maybe she needs AA. You’re Daniel in the lion’s den, and you’ve got a lioness to convert, and you can’t do that drunk.”
Besides, if I get drunk, that will mean I can’t do it without Jayla, James reminded himself. Maybe, in the end, that was the only encouragement he needed.
“Yeah, all right. What are you doing tonight?”
“Going to bed early. I’ve got the kids tomorrow, and I want to make every minute count.”
“Okay. Take it easy, man. And thanks.”
“You too. Good luck. You can do it.”
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I can do it, James repeated silently, as he hung up the phone.
He put on his coat and picked up his umbrella.
“I can do it,” he said aloud. Then he shut the door behind him and raced down the stairs, out into the night and toward temptation.
FORTY-THREE
Isobel grabbed her coat from Nikki’s chair and threw it on. As she ran down the hall, she tucked the Filofax carefully in the inside pocket, and struggled to get the strap of her bag over her shoulder. It weighed a ton. In addition to all the extra stuff she’d brought along for her audition, she also had the personal items she had accumulated during her stay at InterBank Switzerland: two sweaters, a stack of pictures and résumés, a book of monologues, two pairs of shoes, and a travel coffee mug. She couldn’t understand how she had accumulated so much junk. And she still didn’t have a working umbrella.
At that moment, Isobel caught sight of Conchita’s sturdy, long-handed umbrella, which she had unaccountably left leaning against the filing cabinet.
“Muchas gracias, señora!” she said as she grabbed it.
The lobby seemed overly bright, and there was one lone security guard on duty.
“Sign out, please,” he droned.
She scrawled a squiggle underneath the squiggle Stan had scrawled just moments before. For the second time today, she peered out the front door of the building, trying to catch sight of the person she was trying to follow. Only this time, she had an umbrella. But it had finally stopped raining, and the umbrella became one more unwieldy thing to carry. Still, as she followed Stan toward the subway, keeping a healthy distance, she knew better than to dump it. Ditching an umbrella, especially one as nice as this, would only guarantee another downpour.
She saw Stan descend the subway stairs on the downtown side and started after him.
Suddenly, she stopped short. What was she doing? She had an audition to go to! She knew she only had a few seconds to make her decision. She could take the uptown train and go to the audition she was already late for, with no makeup on, not warmed up, for people who probably remembered her as a blithering idiot.
The Temporary Detective Page 22
