"So why wouldn't the murderer have used the men's room to hide in?"
"The murderer heard me coming down the hall and might have thought he couldn't reach it before I'd see him."
"Of course a woman would naturally use the ladies' room," Brad said.
"Amanda."
"She doesn't smoke."
He'd dashed my hopes again. "Well, I don't think Debra does because I didn't see any ashtrays in her office."
Before I could say any more, he came up with a question. "What did you think of Epstein's information?"
My brain switched to what I'd heard half an hour before. "I think it's the most promising lead we have."
"I do too. I've also narrowed the list down to Ziegler or Powell. Not that I'm necessarily buying the smoker-as-killer theory, but as it happens, I planned to do more thorough background checks on the two of them."
"You already investigated Ziegler, and I interviewed Powell."
"Interviewed, yes, but I need to do more thorough checking on both of them."
"Let me help."
He thought for a long time. "Okay, which do you want, Ziegler or Powell?"
"Ziegler," I said promptly. "After all, you talked to Ziegler before, and I talked to Powell. If we switch places, maybe we'll each learn something the other didn't."
"I don't anticipate necessarily talking to either of them. What we need to do is find out where they lived and what they did before they were given their present positions."
"Skeletons in the closet, you mean." I grinned. "I can do that."
"As a starting point, call Amanda's secretary, and ask her for the company file on John Ziegler. Depending on how much information he provided when he was hired, you may have to look further back."
The thought of acting the sleuth again, doing something positive to take my mind off Carl, pumped me with sudden energy. I leapt to my feet and headed for the outer office again, eager to get started.
* * *
I'm not a telephone person. I preferred to talk to people face to face, especially if I had to ask questions. So I just jumped in my car and drove to Hammond headquarters. Brad's notes had listed the secretary's name, Toni Varig, so I asked for her immediately. Good secretaries being the helpful, efficient folk they were, she was in and available to see me.
Except that this particular secretary looked anything but helpful. Young, yes. Pretty, yes. Yet, as I should have suspected, as cool as Amanda herself. In fact, her pulled-in-a-bun hair and pinched face made me wonder if she'd been ill. However, the firmness of her jaw, straight line of her lips, and sharp glint in her eye, gave me the impression she would never allow any germs to invade her body.
Mindful that I wanted information and would have to use sweet talk to obtain any, I put on a broad smile. "I'm Olivia Grant, an associate of Brad Featherstone." She knew who he was.
No return smile but at least a polite response. "How can I help you?"
"Mr. Featherstone said you'd be able to supply some information about Mr. Ziegler, the vice president."
Although I'd have thought she'd question his being a suspect in Hammond's murder, she didn't even comment on the possibility.
"What kind of information?"
"The résumé he submitted for employment and his personnel file."
She frowned. "I'm afraid that information is confidential."
"Oh dear." I tried to sound upset and bewildered. "Mr. Featherstone assured me that Ms. Dillon wanted very much to assist in the investigation of Mr. Hammond's, er, untimely death."
"What does Mr. Ziegler's personnel file have to do with that?" Her cold tone made me expect ice cubes to slip out of her mouth suddenly.
"It's just routine, actually. That's why he sent me. I handle these minor matters, and it will only take a few minutes." I tried to look confident. "I'm sure Ms. Dillon would want you to cooperate."
Ms. Varig frowned some more, reached for the phone, and punched in a few numbers. She drummed her fingers while waiting. "A Mrs. Grant is here and says Mr. Featherstone requested—"
She listened for a while, said, "Very well," and hung up. "Excuse me while I get the file."
While I waited for her return, I speculated on why she'd given in. Was that Amanda she'd spoken to? Did Amanda say I had been added to the approved list for getting what I wanted? Lucky me for having a brother who cozied with the boss lady. Probably too cozy, but I didn't want to think of that.
When the secretary returned, a thin folder in hand, she warned me that the file couldn't be removed from her office. I might look in it but not remove anything.
I decided that arguing would be fruitless and not in mine or Brad's best interests. I felt pleased even to see the thing and smiled to indicate I'd obey her instructions. While my left hand opened the folder on the edge of her desk, my right hand dove into my purse for my pen and small, spiral-bound notebook.
I went straight for the oldest papers, and as I hoped, the bottom sheet was a résumé. Using the shorthand system I'd taught myself at fifteen, I made notes of the jobs Ziegler had held before coming to Hammond Jewelers, together with the dates of same. The other papers—and there were few of them—were interoffice memos regarding salary raises. Apparently, Ziegler had been doing a good job. Bully for him.
I closed the folder, pushed it across the desk, and stuffed my notebook and pen back in my purse. "Thank you so much," I gushed. "I'm sure Mr. Featherstone will be most grateful."
I left before I wanted to throw up.
I didn't wait to go back to the office to read what I'd written. It being a few light-years since I'd taken my own shorthand lesson, I wanted to read it while it was still fresh in my mind. I wanted to write out the names of Ziegler's previous employers, instead of relying on my penciled squiggles. So I sat in my car, updating the entries and studying them.
His earliest employment had been quite a long time before. Judging by his age and the dates, I figured those were part-time jobs while in college. Then, two more listings of short duration, both in New York City and, finally, a responsible job with a Wall Street stock brokerage. I soon noticed a gap in time between that job and his coming to Hammond. What was he doing those two years? Either no one at Hammond asked before they hired him, or he had a logical explanation that satisfied the powers that be. Only not yours truly.
Since I didn't think the expense account would pop for my flying to New York, I was forced to rely on the telephone after all, and I had to hurry, as they were three hours ahead of us, time-wise. I pulled out my cell phone and called the Wall Street brokerage. Hours later—or so it seemed—and at least four different recorded messages instructing me to press this for that, I finally heard a human voice and asked my question about John Ziegler's employment there. Then I waited another hour or maybe ten minutes, while a person of the female persuasion checked the records. She would tell me nothing.
"I'm sorry, but this record is confidential, and I'm not allowed to give out any information."
"Look, all I want to know is did Mr. John Ziegler work for your company, when, and for how long?" I also wanted to know the circumstances under which he left, but I was certain she would offer none of that, even if I were to ask.
"I'm sorry. I'm not allowed to say anything." With that she hung up, thereby getting rid of me.
My inventive mind substituted conjecture for the missing facts, and since we suspected him anyway, at least I did, I decided the man had something to hide.
Furthermore, that explained the company's reluctance to divulge information. In these litigious times, it was dangerous to say anything derogatory about someone, even if true. Still, what made Ziegler leave, and where could I find out? I had zero contacts on Wall Street or in all of New York, for that matter. In fact, I knew of no one in the Bay Area who could help either.
Oh, yes I did. Debra Hammond worked for an investment advisor, a very savvy one to hear her tell it. I'd ask her.
Once more, I turned to my cell phone, called Debra, and asked if I
could see her for a few minutes. I could.
As I drove, I perfected my pitch, and seated in her office, I put it to her as a serious matter, the results of which might enable us to nab her father's killer.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You want me to find out why John Ziegler left his Wall Street firm with a confidential job folder and two years of, apparently, no gainful employment?"
"Right."
"I never heard of John Ziegler's previous job. He's been with Daddy's company for a long time."
"I don't want to cast unfounded suspicion on anyone, but as I'm sure you know, everyone is a suspect in your father's murder, and the sooner we know everything about their background, the sooner we can eliminate them."
"Well, I can't help you. I don't know anything. I never even knew he worked on Wall Street before he came here."
I had my second question ready. "Isn't your boss, Mr. Yarnow, a, shall we say, expert in the financial field."
"You think he might have heard of Ziegler and know why he left that Wall Street firm?"
"It's possible."
"Why would he want to provide that information to me?"
"Because he's your boss and would presumably like to help you."
She gave that a lot of thought. "As a matter of fact, he's in his office today." She paused. "He's really a very nice person. Maybe I could ask him."
"Please."
She shrugged and got up from her chair. "Wait here."
Frankly, I had serious doubts this would work, but I felt I had to try. I pictured Debra asking, "Do you know a John Ziegler who used to work on Wall Street?" and Mr. Yarnow saying, "No." End of conversation.
However, to my surprise, when Debra returned to her office, Mr. Yarnow came with her. Although Kevin McDonald had admitted that he and Debra were engaged, I wondered why she hadn't had more than a business relationship with Yarnow, who was a lot handier than someone who lived in L.A. Plus, one of the handsomest men I'd ever seen. Think an American Hugh Jackman. Tall, slender, wavy-haired, square-jawed. And polite as well as financially savvy.
"Mrs. Grant? Debra tells me you want to know about John Ziegler."
I sucked in my stomach and wished I wore heels and that lucky suit I'd worn to Los Angeles. "Yes," I managed to say in a not-too-shaky voice. "If you can help us, we'd be most grateful. There seems to be a gap in his employment record."
"I know about that, but I'm not sure how much I can tell you."
"We'd like to eliminate him as a suspect in Mr. Hammond's murder, so we've been checking his background, and this gap showed up."
"Can you promise me this will go no further?"
"If what you tell me has nothing to do with this case, then yes."
"Nevertheless, how can I know that what I say won't influence your judgment?"
I sighed, wondering how to continue. "We're looking for a murderer, someone with means, opportunity, and motive. We know that Ziegler, like everyone else who attended the banquet that night, had both the means and opportunity. What we need to know is if he had a motive. If something in his past gives him a motive to have killed Hammond, then I can't promise it will go no further. However," I added quickly, "that doesn't mean it will necessarily get back to you or that it will cause Ziegler to be arrested or even questioned."
He thought a few more minutes before answering. "All right. If he's guilty, I'd want to know I didn't stand in the way of bringing him to justice. Frankly, I don't think my information will help one way or the other."
We all seemed to take a deep breath, and then Yarnow said, "Ziegler was fired from his job in a Wall Street firm because of certain irregularities. He may have churned some accounts, which ended up costing the company a lot of money."
"That's it?" I hoped for a whale and got a minnow.
"I don't know all the details, but besides firing him, they banned him from working in the securities business ever again." He raised a hand. "Oh, by the way, his name wasn't Ziegler in those days. It was Zachary."
I let an uncomfortable silence go by. "Thank you very much. You've been extremely helpful, and I don't think that—even if what you've said becomes public knowledge—it will be traced back to you."
We shook hands, and he left Debra's office.
She looked at me with a question in her eyes.
So I answered it. "I don't think what we just heard points to Ziegler or Zachary, as the murderer. Still, I'll tell Brad and find out what he thinks."
"Will you let me know?"
"Of course."
We hugged, and I left. As I drove home, I wondered if this had been just another wild goose chase. I was becoming an expert at asking a lot of questions and getting zilch in return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Back in the office the next day, I typed up my notes and placed them in the folder on Brad's desk. He didn't show up until after lunch, and then he deposited the other recorder on the secretary's desk.
I ignored it and followed him into his office, where he dropped into his chair, looking smug. "When you type my notes, you'll learn what I found out yesterday and this morning." Suspenseful pause. "I discovered that James Powell is just a little bit dirty."
"What do you mean 'dirty'?"
"James Powell isn't his real name. He did minor time in New York about ten years ago for embezzling."
"'Once a thief, always a thief,'" I quoted. I didn't like Powell, but that news surprised me. "And Kevin McDonald has been letting him buy diamonds? How come he didn't check him out before he hired him?"
"We'll ask him, but I'll bet the answer is he didn't. Lots of people are far too trusting and seldom check references before hiring employees."
"Surely, they wouldn't do that for someone handling funds and buying diamonds. McDonald seems too smart for that."
"I agree, but it happens all the time." He got up and paced the floor.
I plunked myself down in the chair in front of his desk. "So you're beginning to think Powell is our murderer?"
"Looks that way."
"Okay, what's his motive? He may have been embezzling from McDonald, but why kill the president of a rival jewelry company?"
"I don't know yet. We'll just have to find the link."
I grinned. "You haven't heard what I learned."
"About what?"
"About who, er, whom, er, Ziegler. Remember we said yesterday there were two smokers who might have been guilty, Ziegler being the other one?"
Brad returned to his seat. "So what did you find out?"
I gave him a long report about my conversations with Amanda's secretary, the person at the Wall Street brokerage, and Mr. Yarnow, not neglecting to point out my cleverness at going to Debra's office to do so.
I finished with, "You said James Powell isn't the man's real name. Well, Mr. Ziegler used to be Mr. Zachary, and he apparently stole money too."
Brad did some swiveling and shrugging. "That was before he went to work for Hammond. People often change their name in order to put the past behind them and get a fresh start. It doesn't make him guilty."
"You thought that implicated Powell," I reminded him.
"Just for the sake of argument, let's say you're right that the murderer is a smoker. Add that to what Epstein said, and what have we got?"
"There's something nasty going on in Harry's company, and Ziegler is the financial officer, so the arrow points to him."
"Maybe, but why would he kill Novotny?"
"I don't know. As marketing director, would Carl have known anything about the discrepancy in the records?"
"The first time Novotny came into our office, he said he suspected Ziegler of something shady, possibly buying up stock in hopes of a takeover."
"What has that got to do with diamonds and the diamond dealer? I don't recall Carl ever mentioning diamonds."
"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean he didn't stumble across them later."
"How? The videotape?"
"Right." Brad nodded. "Novotny already admitted h
e picked up Hammond's briefcase the night of the murder. He took it home with him." He got up and paced the floor again.
"Let's say he saw the videotape, and curiosity getting the better of him, he played it at his home. He sees some pictures of diamonds being purchased, and right away he figures out that something's screwy and decides maybe that's why Hammond got killed."
It was my turn to pace the floor. "That seems like a big leap of speculation."
"Not so big." He stopped in front of me. "If someone has been stealing diamonds or embezzling money, he might not hesitate to kill to keep from going to jail. Maybe Novotny saw an opportunity to blackmail him."
My voice rose an octave, and I pounded my hand into my other palm. "That's what he meant about doing something stupid." Yet, I didn't like the direction that was heading. Would Carl, nice, considerate Carl, do such a thing?
I couldn't stop. The idea made sense. "He tried to blackmail Ziegler and then realized the danger. Ziegler ransacked his house looking for the evidence, the videotape. Maybe threatened him too."
"Exactly. I think it finally dawned on Novotny that he might be in danger. The awards statue had been hard and heavy enough to kill Hammond, but the fireplace poker didn't do the job on him." He sat down again.
"Ziegler didn't find the videotape when he broke in again because I still had the briefcase in my car."
"Assuming," Brad reminded me, "that Novotny hadn't already removed the tape by then."
"Remember, he couldn't have done that because he accidentally switched briefcases with you." I leaned over the desk. "However, if Ziegler had found the tape, perhaps he wouldn't have had to kill Carl."
I began to feel guilty about having the briefcase. If only I had returned it to Carl that first night, Ziegler might have found the tape and not had to kill him. I didn't deliberately keep the briefcase. Carl left it in our office himself, but I had to plead guilty to forgetting to return it to him not once but twice. I groaned inwardly.
"The question," Brad said, "is who's got the videotape now? You returned the briefcase to Novotny the day of Hammond's funeral. Did Ziegler have to kill Novotny in order to get it from him?"
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 18
