Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith K Ivie

  Ingrid gasped. “You mean the murderer, don’t you? Karp or someone else could have lured him to the office for, say, a 6:00 a.m. meeting. Nobody else would have been in the place at that hour. The murderer arrives with a cup of Alain’s favorite amaretto coffee. They talk for a while, and Alain collapses. Then the murderer opens Alain’s calendar, since he’s already logged on, deletes the incriminating appointment and empties the recycle bin, just like you and Strutter did when you accidentally copied Karp on the e-mail. He wipes down a couple of keys, and away he goes with nobody the wiser. That could be it, Kate. That really could be it.”

  I tried to remember what, if anything, Diaz had said about security log sign-ins the morning of the murder. Had there been any before 6:00 a.m.? No, there couldn’t have been. Why would a murderer sign in? Now that I knew the security guards were on top of their game, I knew that anyone signing in at that hour would have had to be known to the desk guard, or he or she would have been personally escorted to Girouard’s office after he had been notified of a visitor by telephone. My heart began to pound.

  “It had to be Karp,” I said into the telephone. “He’s the only one who wouldn’t have had to sign in. He’s the only one with the elevator passkey who would know how to enter and double-delete an Outlook entry. He had the means and the opportunity, Ingrid, I just know it. How can I get onto Girouard’s computer?”

  “You can’t,” she said, and I heard her drumming her fingernails in frustration. “Diaz impounded it, but you could get her to have our IT staff check it out on Karp’s computer when you tell her about the book. Even if Karp double-deleted the appointment on his machine and Alain’s, they should be able to find it by the entry date. It almost had to be sometime the afternoon or night before the murder.”

  “Okay, that’s what I’ll do,” I said, jumping to my feet, impatient to get on with it. “I think this is almost over, Ingrid. We’re almost there.”

  “To think I actually quit Alain to post for a job with that rat-faced little weasel. I’ll be on the road by noon,” Ingrid promised. “Let me know how it goes.”

  At a few minutes before 9:00 I walked meekly up to the security desk in the Metro Building lobby and faced Charles Harris, Trinity College dean’s list student and nephew of Strutter. She stood next to me, obviously enjoying my discomfort. A small smile tugged at the corners of Charles’ mouth as he came out from behind the desk to give his aunt a deferential peck on the cheek.

  Strutter accepted the acknowledgment and turned to me. “Charles, I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine, Sarah Kathryn Lawrence. She’s serving a temporary sentence at BGB, probably as punishment for previous indiscretions,” she added somewhat unnecessarily, I thought. I glared at her.

  Charles regarded me levelly. “Sarah Lawrence, huh? I would have figured you for a Gertrude, myself. Do I need to see some ID, Ms. Lawrence?”

  I felt my cheeks redden but ate my crow with as much grace as I could muster. “I apologize for my unforgivable behavior, Charles, and for how long it’s taken me to express my regret to you. It was completely irresponsible of me. I only hope my foolishness didn’t cause you any inconvenience.” I held out my hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  Charles looked at Strutter for an okay.

  “Oh, go ahead,” she said, scribbling in the log book, “but you’d best check to be sure she doesn’t have a joy buzzer in her palm first. She had an arrested sense of humor. It got stuck somewhere around the age of twelve.”

  Charles laughed and took my proffered hand. “I’ll take my chances, Aunt Charlene. She doesn’t look too dangerous to me.”

  Another uniformed guard appeared, ready to begin his shift. I busied myself at the log book as Charles gathered up his textbooks and lunch bag and prepared to take his leave. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Lawrence,” he said politely, “if that’s who you really are.” Strutter swatted at him, but he ducked expertly as he headed for the employee exit at the rear of the building.

  “Nice kid,” I said as we walked to the elevator lobby. I really do feel bad for jerking him around like that.”

  If I had hoped for sympathy, I was out of luck.

  “Yes, anybody would feel bad for pulling a fool stunt like that,” Strutter agreed.

  We rode a Hellavator to the twenty-eighth floor and spoke briefly to Quen at the reception desk, then headed down the internal staircase. We bypassed thirty-seven and went directly to thirty-six, where Karp and the other firm administrators had their offices. After making a quick circuit of the floor to be sure we were alone, we returned to the file cabinet outside Karp’s office.

  Just as Strutter had said, a mug filled with pens and pencils sat on top of it. A large paper clip hung over the side, and Strutter fished it out. The end that had been hidden inside the mug bore two keys, one of which turned easily in the lock of Karp’s office door. Strutter replaced the keys in the mug and then stood guard at the door while I quickly scanned the spines of the horticultural references on the top shelves of Karp’s bookcase. There it was near the left edge of the second shelf, A Pictorial Guide to Poisonous Flora of the Northeastern United States. Following our pre-arranged plan, I took a large interoffice envelope from the pile on Karp’s file cabinets and a clean tissue from my purse. Carefully, I used the tissue to pull the book from the case by the top of the spine and inserted it into the envelope, then wound the cord around the two cardboard disks on the flaps to close it securely.

  I slid the remaining books together to conceal the gap, memorizing the position of the book I now held so that I could return it tomorrow. I glanced at Karp’s computer, hoping to find that he had left it on, but of course, he had not. I left the office and pulled the door shut behind me, checking to be sure it was locked. Then we scurried back up the stairs to thirty-seven, the only place we could risk being seen without raising the suspicions of any other BGB employee who might be about. Once there, I opened the envelope and carefully removed the book using the same tissue in the same place at the top of the spine. With the tip of one tissue-covered finger, I lifted the front cover.

  “Ex Libris Harold Justin Karp” read the bookplate, a gaudy affair, predictably featuring a border of exotic flowers. The name was in Karp’s own handwriting. Strutter and I smiled at each other. Five minutes later we were on Church Street headed for our cars.

  I drove straight to the Hartford police station, where I left the book, still in its protective envelope, with the desk sergeant. He informed me that Detective Diaz was out of state on urgent business, but he assured me that he would put it in Sergeant Donovan’s hands personally. I taped a note to the envelope explaining about the prints and Ingrid’s and my growing suspicions of Karp. I asked Donovan to call me himself or have Diaz call me on my cell phone as soon as they had anything to report.

  That evening Ingrid stopped by with Diaz’ copy of the book. She also dropped off a thick package of plant photographs, each of which was neatly annotated on the back with the plant’s name and precise location. Seen all together like that, we agreed that the array was daunting in its sheer comprehensiveness. Oleander, lily of the valley, hemlock and foxglove were all included, as well as several others that hadn’t even made the toxicology report. Perhaps Karp was reserving those for future use. I promised Ingrid I would get the photographs into Diaz’ hands after I completed my errand at the office on Sunday morning, and she left, promising that we would talk the next day to see what I had learned from the police analysis of fingerprints on the book.

  After my shower I took a crossword puzzle from the daily newspaper to bed. Jasmine curled against my thigh. Moses was having a fine time with the rest of the paper, diving under the sheets I had spread out for him on the floor. Oliver watched at a dignified distance. At a few minutes past ten o’clock, just as I was beginning to doze off, my phone rang. I looked at it dispiritedly. Lately, it had not been an instrument of good news, and I wondered what new difficulty was about to appear on my horizon. I picked up the receiver and was greeted b
y the usual burst of interference that signaled an international call.

  “Hello?” I said loudly. “Armando, can you hear me?”

  For one magical moment the line cleared. “Mija! Finally, I have managed to get through to you! You cannot believe how many times I have tried.”

  He was right. I couldn’t believe it, but I held my tongue. “Where are you, Armando? Are you still in Colombia?”

  Another burst of static met my ear interspersed with phrases like, “…for the moment …” and “…flying out Monday.” In another clear interval, he said, “Can you meet the plane?”

  My heart leapt, but I quelled undue optimism firmly. Maybe he wants me to meet the plane so he can introduce me to his new bride or show me photographs taken of him and an old girlfriend, I thought bitterly, or maybe he just wants me to give him a ride. I certainly had the feeling he had been taking me on one for the past few weeks.

  “Yes, yes. I’ll meet you,” I yelled into the telephone. “What’s the flight number, Armando?”

  After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he managed to make himself heard long enough to communicate that he and the crew would be flying out of Colombia on Avianca and would connect with United Flight 2048, arriving at Bradley International Airport at 8:45 Monday evening. I had just enough time to repeat the information back to him, and we were cut off.

  Well, I thought, staring at the lifeless instrument, at least we’ll have plenty to talk about on the ride home. It occurred to me that Armando knew nothing of what had been going on at BGB since he left for Bogota. That seemed fair, since I knew nothing of what had been going on with him either. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine our airport reunion. Would he be warm or distant? Would I be able to tell by looking at him if his feelings for me had changed during his absence? Would he tell me if they had?

  Moses sailed high over the edge of the bed and made a four-point landing on my stomach, startling me from my speculation. I opened my eyes and scratched him under the chin. He purred loudly, then flopped face down into sleep with all four legs extended. Jasmine huffed off to the far corner of the bed, and Ollie climbed up to join her. Time we were all asleep, was the clear message. I switched off the table lamp and dropped like a stone into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  Twelve

  On Sunday morning I dressed and fed my herd of cats early, impatient to be done with my errand at BGB. I wanted desperately to talk to Strutter about Ingrid’s and my new theory, but I knew she took her son to early church and Sunday school, so our conversation would have to wait until later. I had also tried to reach Margo but got her answering machine, a sure sign that she was sleeping late this morning. I left a message saying where I would be and that I would conference call her and Strutter when my mission had been accomplished.

  That reminded me to recharge my cell phone battery. While the coffee dripped through the filter, I fished the phone out of my purse and plugged it into its charger on the counter. The last thing I wanted to deal with today was more telephone problems, and besides needing to keep in touch with my fellow investigators, I was anxious to hear what Diaz and Donovan had made of the materials I had left at the station the day before.

  Once again Charles Harris staffed the security desk when I arrived in the lobby shortly before 8:00 a.m. carrying the book in a briefcase instead of my usual purse.

  “You’re working some long hours this weekend,” I commented as I dutifully signed the log book and noted the time. On weekends building visitors had to log in at any time of the day or night, not just before 7:00 a.m. While I jotted down my information, I cast my eyes over the few names above mine in the log. No one from BGB had signed in.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. It’s double-time pay on holiday weekends, so it’s a good chance to earn some extra cash,” he said amiably. “Besides, it’s easy duty. There are no deliveries or repair people checking in, and hardly anyone works on the Fourth of July weekend, so it’s good study time, too. You’re putting in some hours this weekend, too.”

  “Yes, but not much. Mostly I’m just checking messages and e-mails for Bellanfonte, stuff like that. Well, I hope you get out of here and have some fun today, too. All work and no play, you know.”

  “I’m off at noon, and I’ll be out the door two minutes after that,” Charles promised, and I headed once again for the Hellavators.

  Since Quen would not yet be at her post on thirty-eight, I got off at thirty-seven and slid my plastic security pass through the sensor outside the locked lobby door. It buzzed open, and I went swiftly through and on to my pod. The only light came from the windows of the exterior offices whose owners had left their doors open for the weekend. Clearly, I was the only BGB employee on this floor, but instead of finding the solitude comforting, I found it oppressive. I was anxious to be done with this and back out in the sunlight.

  I picked up the briefcase and headed for the back stairway down to thirty-six, which I negotiated in near darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, I thought I heard something and paused to listen. It must just be a case of nerves, I thought, and no wonder. Now that I felt certain Karp was the killer, the risks associated with letting myself into his office had skyrocketed. It was just as gloomy and uninhabited on this floor as it had been upstairs.

  I walked cautiously to the file cabinet outside Karp’s office, looking around me as I went, and fumbled in the pencil mug for the paper clip that held the key. It turned smoothly in the lock. I stepped into the office and closed the door behind me as quietly as possible. Everything looked precisely as it had the day before, but I looked around apprehensively.

  What overwhelming emotion would drive a nerdy little man like Karp to murder? Was it his secret passion for Vera Girouard or some misguided wish to punish Alain’s philandering on her behalf? Was it envy of Girouard’s prowess with women generally, compared to his own unsuccessful love life? I looked around the office for some clue that would reveal his motivation but saw nothing.

  Suddenly, I realized that was what was so troubling about this office. Everywhere else at BGB, the surfaces of desks and walls and cubicles were covered with photographs of friends and family, mementoes of trips and vacations, plaques and framed certificates and awards. Karp’s walls and desk held no personal memorabilia at all. Throughout the firm the floral offerings of the horticultural society, poisonous and nonpoisonous, stood in planters of every size and shape on windowsills, side tables, desks and floors, yet the office of the society’s president was unadorned. The only evidence of his interest in botany was the row of reference books on the second shelf of his bookcase.

  Reminded of my mission, I unzipped my briefcase and removed Diaz’ copy of the Pictorial Guide. At least this time I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, so fitting the book into the space formerly occupied by Karp’s copy was a simple matter. I took a few paces back to look critically at the result, trying to remember if the books had been lined up at the outer edge of the shelf or pushed back, and bumped painfully into the corner of Karp’s desk, causing me to stumble. Putting out a hand to catch myself, I knocked a stack of loose papers on the edge of the desk to the floor, where they fell in a jumble. I froze, panic rising in my chest. What had been on top? How would I ever get the papers back in the same order they had been? Now Karp would know for certain that somebody had been in his office, and after he learned about our visit to his landlady, he would naturally suspect Margo, Strutter and me.

  I got down on my knees and tried to think logically. The papers had fallen together for the most part, winding up face down on the carpet. Only a couple of sheets had fluttered off to one side. By turning the entire pile over, I should be able to keep them in their original order. But where had the odd sheets come from, the top of the pile or the bottom? Carefully, I turned the main pile over for some indication of the order in which they had been placed. If it was a “to do” pile, maybe the order was chronological with the most urgent on top for Karp’s immediate attention. I sorted through them gingerly, moving ea
ch sheet only enough to see the date of the one beneath.

  At first no pattern emerged. The dates on the notes and memos, when they were dated, seemed haphazard. They I noticed a second date written in Karp’s cramped, accountant’s handwriting at the top left of each item. I started over at the top of the pile. Bingo! The papers were in chronological order, not by the date they were written but by the dates Karp had assigned to them in some tickler system of his own with the items requiring the quickest attention at the top of the pile. Breathing a sigh of relief, I returned the main stack of papers to Karp’s desk and retrieved the stragglers to insert at the correct intervals.

  One of the sheets was a handwritten note on a large sheet of yellow-lined paper ruled in blue at the left, the type usually found in the oversized pads favored by lawyers. It had been folded in half, and I opened it in search of Karp’s date notation. There was none. Puzzled, I found myself reading what appeared to be a confidential memo written to Karp from Alain Girouard about the IT department.

  “Something has to be done about IT, and quickly. The situation is becoming very difficult, and I am relying on you to find a solution similar to those you have devised so effectively in the past. Please make it a point to schedule a conference to discuss other possibilities within the firm as quickly as possible. The upcoming opening in your department might work out very well. Keep me apprised.”

  The note was signed merely “AG,” and it carried no date. I wondered vaguely what situation could be so difficult with IT, which to my knowledge was one of the most highly competent administrative departments at BGB. Perhaps IT stood for something else. I scanned the note again.

  “Something has to be done about IT, and quickly.” Maybe IT stood for a person, a difficult client who was disputing his bill, or a disgruntled employee. Spotting the firm’s telephone directory on Karp’s desk, I leafed through it quickly to the T’s. Then I remembered that the firm alphabetized its directory by first name, which had always struck me as odd until I realized how many people one knows by first name only in a firm as large as BGB. I flipped back to the I’s and ran my finger down the short list: Ian Dougherty, Imogene Irons, Ingrid Torvaldson.