Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  That was the problem with college friends, thought Isobel. They remembered all your stupid behavior and never hesitated to out you at some particularly inopportune moment. At least there was nobody else in the room. Isobel tuned out Katrina as she rattled on. As much as she liked Katrina, right now Isobel was finding her maddening. Even the fact that Katrina’s hair should have—but didn’t—clash with the pink of her Chanel jacket irked her.

  “Okay, okay, I get the point,” Isobel said, irritated. “Are the police here yet?”

  “Yes. And the medical examiner. That’s what I came in here to tell you. They want to talk to you.”

  “I found him, so I’m automatically the prime suspect. For now.”

  Katrina threw her head to the ceiling and mouthed “drama queen.”

  Isobel turned back toward the kitchen counter, but Katrina pulled her around. “And leave the coffee.”

  Isobel set her hands determinedly on her hips. “What if somebody pours it out? Or, worse, drinks it?”

  Katrina pursed her lips, then with long, graceful fingers, reached for the carafe.

  “Wait!” Isobel snatched a dishcloth from the counter and handed it to her. “There might be fingerprints.”

  Katrina rolled her eyes. “Somebody’s been watching too much ‘SVU’.”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  “Fine. We’ll bring it with us and tell them what you suspect.” Katrina wrapped the cloth around the handle and looked thoughtfully at the carafe. “I suppose it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that someone killed him. He was an asshole.”

  “And I’m not a drama queen,” Isobel insisted.

  Katrina gave her an annoyingly smug look as they left the kitchen together. “Well, maybe not as much as you were in college.”

  “Do you have any particular reason to think the coffee was poisoned?” asked Detective O’Connor, a towering blue-eyed blond with a light Irish accent and a refined turn of phrase. He would have been attractive if his head weren’t just a bit too small for his body. His partner, Aguilar, was a short, chubby Filipino, with deep-set dark eyes and a crew cut. Together, they were a walking sight gag, although the small empty office they’d commandeered offered little room for pacing.

  “Not really,” Isobel said. “But it’s the last thing he ingested.”

  O’Connor nodded. “We’ll test the remains in the cup and the pot. So, you settled him in the conference room, he asked for coffee, and then?”

  “He didn’t ask for coffee. I just brought it. I also set out soda and water on the side table.”

  Aguilar turned his penetrating gaze on Isobel. “He didn’t ask for coffee?”

  “No, but he looked like he could use a cup.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Isobel shrugged. “It just seemed like he wasn’t totally awake yet.”

  “So you brought him the coffee, and then what?” O’Connor asked.

  “I set it in front of him, and he said thank you.”

  “But you don’t know if he ingested any.”

  Isobel hesitated. “I guess not. I just assumed he did.”

  “Never assume. It makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.” O’Connor nodded genially at Isobel. “Rule number one of police work. But we’ll test the coffee all the same.”

  Isobel tried to smile, despite the fact that she’d been hearing that tired old adage from her father since she was about eight.

  “What happened next?” O’Connor asked.

  “I went back to the kitchen and unwrapped the fruit and pastries. When I came back, he was face down on the table.”

  “So, let me guess, you assumed he was dead,” said Aguilar.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” Isobel retorted.

  “What do you know about Jason Whiteley?” O’Connor asked. “It interests me that your first instinct was that his death was a homicide.”

  “Why should that interest you? It’s only an assumption.” She cast a smile at Aguilar, whose eyes glinted dangerously.

  “There’s a difference between assumption and instinct,” O’Connor instructed. “Rule number two of police work is to follow your instincts.”

  Thinking back to her experience at the bank, Isobel knew he was right. Her assumptions had gotten her into trouble, while her instincts had led her to the killer. But she felt a demon possess her, and she asked, in her most ingenuous voice, “Could you elaborate on the distinction between the two? I think I was absent from class that day.”

  Before O’Connor could respond, a commotion erupted in the hall.

  “Since when does a temp need a lawyer?” Barnaby Flight’s snarl penetrated the standard-issue office door, only to be quashed by a deep, resonant voice that simultaneously calmed and excited Isobel.

  “I didn’t say I was her lawyer, I said I was her—” The door swung open, and James Cooke stood there, filling the frame. “Representative,” he finished.

  Aguilar jumped to his feet, as did Isobel.

  “James!”

  “This is a police matter,” Aguilar said sharply, his hand on his gun. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’m Isobel’s representative at Temp Zone. As her official employer, I have as much right to be here with her as the employees of Dove & Flight have to be with that fat loudmouth who didn’t want to let me in.”

  Isobel thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross O’Connor’s face, but it dissolved so quickly, she couldn’t be certain.

  “We were just discussing the difference between assumption and instinct,” O’Connor said in his most polite voice. James glanced at Isobel, who shrugged innocently.

  O’Connor returned his attention to Isobel. “An assumption is a conclusion drawn from bits of information. Instinct is blind gut feeling. The reason assumptions are so often wrong is that the information is incomplete, and therefore misleading, while the subconscious rarely concerns itself with fact.” He turned to his partner and sighed. “Sometimes I’m glad I majored in English. But only sometimes.”

  Aguilar looked momentarily confused, and O’Connor continued to James, “Now, I could assume that your presence here indicates a fear that Ms. Spice was the cause of this young man’s death and that you think she is in need of protection, both from us and from herself.”

  Isobel shot James a deadly look.

  “However, my instinct tells me,” and here O’Connor stood up, so Isobel could see that although James easily outweighed him, the detective was half a head taller, “that Ms. Spice is not responsible for his death, and that it might prove interesting to let you stay, as long as you sit in that chair and don’t say a word.”

  James shut the door in Barnaby Flight’s astonished face and settled in the designated chair.

  “ID, please,” Aguilar said.

  James fished in his wallet for his driver’s license and handed it to Aguilar, who wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  James cleared his throat. “Sorry. Came straight from the gym.”

  “I believe we were discussing your relationship with Jason Whiteley,” O’Connor said to Isobel.

  James was on his feet in a flash. “Jason Whiteley?”

  O’Connor, Aguilar and Isobel looked at James in surprise.

  “Maybe we should be discussing your relationship with Jason Whiteley,” O’Connor said, his voice hardening.

  “Did you know the deceased?” Aguilar asked, his pen poised hopefully in mid-air.

  “Did he work for Schumann, Crowe & Dyer, the consulting firm?” James asked.

  “Yes.”

  James glanced self-consciously at Isobel. “My ex-girlfriend works there. I met him once or twice.”

  “I see,” said O’Connor, as Aguilar scribbled enthusiastically on his pad. “My instinct to let you stay has been rewarded already. We’ll come back to you in a moment.” He turned to Isobel. “Ms. Spice? What about you?”

  “I had never met him before this morning. All I know is that Schumann, Crowe & Dyer is
a client, and Jason Whiteley is—I mean, was—their internal communications director. He was here for a meeting with Aaron, Liz and Katrina.”

  “Last names,” prompted Aguilar.

  “Aaron Grossman, Liz Stewart and,” she paused. Aguilar looked up. “Katrina Campbell. But I’m sure she had nothing to do with it. I’ve known her since college.”

  “Old friends,” murmured O’Connor thoughtfully. “Had you heard much from any of them, either about Whiteley or his firm?”

  Isobel stole a look at James, who had sat down again and was frowning at his hands.

  “It was my understanding that they were, um, difficult.”

  “In what way?”

  “Demanding. Expected a lot of press coverage without offering much that was newsworthy. But I’ve heard them say that about other clients, too,” she added quickly.

  “What was the purpose of today’s meeting?” O’Connor asked.

  All Isobel knew was that Katrina was nervous about it, but her instinct told her to protect her friend. As pleasant as Detective O’Connor was, she guessed he could apply the screws if need be, and she decided it would be wise to follow rule number two of police work. Besides, she certainly wouldn’t want to lead him to any false assumptions.

  “I don’t know what the meeting was about. I’ve only been here two weeks. I’m just answering phones, organizing and helping make press calls.”

  And serving the occasional poisoned beverage, she added silently.

  O’Connor turned to James. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Jayla Cummings. And like I said, she’s an ex. We broke up about three months ago,” James said, as Aguilar scribbled. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

  “Look at it from our point of view,” O’Connor said. “You barge in here, insist on being present for Ms. Spice’s questioning, and surprise of surprises, we find that you were better acquainted with the deceased than she was. I think I’m entitled to ask a few questions. Wouldn’t you say so, Aguilar?”

  Aguilar mumbled an affirmative response and squinted at his notepad as if he were having difficulty deciphering his own handwriting.

  “What is your present relationship with Ms. Cummings, and what, to the best of your knowledge, was hers with Mr. Whiteley?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since we split. She’s seeing someone else now, which is fine by me. I think she got along okay with Whiteley. To tell you the truth, she hardly ever mentioned him. I couldn’t tell you what kind of work they did together.”

  “And you, I gather, are a personnel recruiter?”

  “Yes. With Temp Zone.”

  “How long have you known Ms. Spice?”

  “Three months.”

  “And in that time, has anything occurred that would make you overly concerned about her? You see, I’m still trying to account for the vehemence with which you insisted on being admitted.”

  Definitely an English major, thought Isobel. She glanced at James, and their eyes locked for a moment. She wondered whether he would tell O’Connor about the bank murder.

  “I would be concerned about any employee who called to tell me there was a dead body in the conference room,” James said evenly.

  Aguilar looked up from his pad. “You called him?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Isobel said. “It was such a shock.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and a little bearded man in a white coat and latex gloves stuck his head in.

  “No blood, no vomit, no feces, no facial distortion. Likely cardiovascular arrest. We’ll conduct an autopsy, of course, but it seems straightforward.”

  “Well, that’s that, then,” O’Connor said to Aguilar. “We still need to take statements from everyone else.” He waved Isobel away. “Please ask your friend Ms. Campbell to come in.”

  “I’m finished?”

  “Easy come, easy go. We know where to find you if we need you.” The detective inclined his undersized blond head shrewdly at James. “And you, too, although it appears your concern for your client was misplaced.”

  FOUR

  “I don’t care what he says, there’s nothing straightforward about a healthy young guy like that having a heart attack,” declared Isobel.

  There was no possibility of privacy at Isobel’s desk, which was in an open area near the foot of the spiral staircase, so she and James had taken refuge in Katrina’s office while Katrina talked to the police.

  “Healthy-looking,” James said. “He wouldn’t be the first twenty-eight-year-old to drop dead from one thing or another.”

  “Okay, maybe, but—” Isobel stopped. “That’s awfully precise. How do you know how old he was?”

  James opened the door, glanced out into the hall, which was now fairly deserted, and shut it again.

  “Promise to keep this between us?” Isobel nodded, and he continued. “I didn’t know him just through Jayla. We were at Columbia together. We were actually in the same fraternity until they shut it down.”

  Isobel looked aghast. “Why didn’t you tell the police? That’s withholding information! What if they find out?”

  James thrust a warning finger at her. “You just promised to keep this between us, and dead men don’t talk. Besides, I wasn’t lying about meeting him through Jayla. Until then, I hadn’t seen him in years, so I figure that’s enough for the purpose.”

  Isobel eyed James. “What are you hiding?”

  He clenched his fists. “I’m not hiding anything. I just—come on, look at me! Big black man barges in out of nowhere, knows the dead guy. You don’t know cops.” James shook his head emphatically. “What he was saying about assumptions is bullshit. Cops arrest people like me on assumptions every day.”

  “So were you and Jason friends?” she asked. “And why did they shut down the fraternity, anyway?”

  James paced the small office. “He was a smarmy dickhead preppie. Fraternity was shut down after one too many alcohol poisonings. A Barnard girl died after drinking half a bottle of tequila. It was one of the things that led to… Well, you know I left Columbia, right?”

  Isobel nodded. She knew James had struggled with alcoholism since dropping out of college. She thought he’d managed to stay sober for the last three months, but she couldn’t be sure.

  James looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. “After that incident, I was given a little nudge by the administration.”

  “They kicked you out?”

  “Yeah, strike three.”

  “What about Jason? Did he get the boot?”

  “Nah. He was a straight-A student, and as far as I know, he never had a problem with alcohol. He was one of those guys who could drink gallons when he felt like it and abstain when he didn’t.”

  Isobel could hear the envy in James’s voice and knew he wished he had that kind of control.

  “So what happened to Jason after they shut down the fraternity?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. He probably just moved into a dorm. Or maybe he joined another fraternity. What the hell is this, anyway? An interrogation?”

  “Sorry!” Isobel held up her hands. “You know me, I’m just curious. And you have to admit, it’s a funny coincidence.”

  James let his bulk loom over her, and she was suddenly aware of the tangy, not entirely unpleasant odor of his sweat. The back of her neck responded with an unfamiliar tingle.

  “Don’t think for a minute that I had anything to do with this guy biting it over his morning coffee,” warned James. “For one thing, I haven’t seen or spoken to him since Jayla’s office Christmas party two years ago. For another, it was a heart attack. Accidental death. There’s nothing to investigate here, so park your roadster, Nancy Drew.”

  He moved away from her to give another listen to the hallway, and she felt oddly let down.

  “Right. You’re right,” she said lightly.

  He turned around to look at her. “I also want you to promise that you’ll accept the medical examiner’s evidence
and not go snooping around. Okay?”

  Isobel could feel a tiny argument forming in the back of her mind, but she squelched it. In her admittedly limited experience, an office death meant a murder, not an accident. She wanted to follow police rule number two and trust her instincts, but she knew James wouldn’t leave until she promised not to ask questions. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself.

  “Okay, I promise.”

  She hoped crossing one’s legs counted the same as crossing one’s fingers, because her hands were on Katrina’s desk, and James would almost certainly notice if she suddenly moved them behind her back.

  Jason Whiteley, of all people.

  James had managed to be polite the few times they’d crossed paths through Jayla, but the truth was there were few people he despised more. Jason Whiteley stood for everything James hated about the Ivy League: entitlement, wealth, and, most significantly, protection from the abuses of a society that wasn’t as color-blind as it purported to be. James both loathed and envied the ease with which Whiteley had moved in the world they briefly shared. No matter which fraternity James joined, who his friends were, or how many touchdowns he managed to score for Columbia’s pathetic excuse for a football team, he would always be the charity case from down the block. The worst of it was that people like Whiteley forced James to recognize the small, desperate part of himself that felt he, too, was entitled; he, too, should be wealthy; and there was no reason he shouldn’t also be protected. Why couldn’t he have had a prominent venture capitalist father to stand by his side before the school disciplinary board and talk him out of trouble?

  As James made his way up Madison Avenue to Temp Zone, he reminded himself that whatever his failings, he was still alive, and Whiteley was not. For all Whiteley’s privilege, James had beaten him in the game of life. Whoever has the most birthdays wins. James Cooke was a survivor. And for that, he suddenly felt guilty. Not for surviving—but for feeling superior that he had.