The Hunger Pains (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 2)

by Chelsea Field

  There was a pause, and I wondered if he was blowing smoke rings or something. Or maybe he’d grown a strawberry blond mustache since the photo I’d seen of him was taken, and he was twiddling it.

  “Wouldn’t you say that the individual who’d leaked the information would then be extremely interested in containing it?” he asked.

  “Not if they leaked the information in good conscience to stop an injustice or to protect people from being taken advantage of,” Connor said.

  “I assure you, Mr. Stiles, none of these individuals have a conscience.”

  I made a mental note to never use any of their products. Unless they really did design a phone operating system that could pick up dog poop.

  “The beauty of my strategy is that I would also, by way of monitoring the three, find out who the leak had been in the first place. So you can see I had my bases covered, with no need to resort to such rudimentary methods as murder.”

  “How did you know you had a leak?” Connor asked.

  “Ah. Now that would be telling.” The chair creaked again. “If that’s all I can help you with today, I have important things to go on with. Leaks to find. Products to launch. All that sort of thing.”

  “Give me the names, Coleman. Of the suspected leaks.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To humor me, of course. So I leave you to your important things.”

  I could hear the silent threat and was sure Coleman wouldn’t miss it either: So I don’t bring you up on charges of conspiracy or obstruction of justice in a homicide investigation or have the press drag your name through the muck.

  “All right. To humor you.”

  16

  Connor returned with a list of names. Jamison, McCarthy, and Daubney.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “We find out what each of Coleman’s suspected leaks were doing when Earnest’s apartment was broken into.”

  “You mean when I got hit on the head?”

  “Yes. Many people won’t have a solid alibi for one thirty to three in the middle of the night when Earnest was killed, but there’s a good chance they’ll have one around lunchtime. And Coleman’s given us a strong motive for someone on this list to eliminate Dunst, threaten Massey, and be hell-bent on finding that flash drive.”

  “Will you put the research team onto it?”

  “No. I want to get a handle on each suspect. To look them in the eye and see if they’re the type who could chop off someone’s finger and pop it in the mail.”

  Connor pulled over suddenly. “That’s Ms. McCarthy.”

  Coleman had identified her as his personal assistant and one of the potential leaks. Her name seemed familiar, and I was pretty sure she was the woman who’d wished Connor a wonderful Christmas the first time we’d come to Aptech.

  Trusting the dark, tinted windows to hide me enough that I wouldn’t be recognized, I watched as Connor exited the SUV and made his way toward her.

  Ms. McCarthy was bustling down the street with two large coffees and a heavy pile of dry cleaning over her shoulder. At five foot one in inch-high heels, she was dwarfed by the dry-cleaning bags, and her petite hands made the jumbo takeout cups look cartoonish.

  I hoped she wasn’t the one responsible for knocking me out cold and forcing me to sleep at Connor’s for protection. I’d never live it down.

  “Ms. McCarthy, we met yesterday. I’m a consultant with the LAPD, and I need to talk to you about an ongoing investigation.”

  She was unmoved by Connor’s credentials. Or his striking good looks. “Will this take long?”

  “Hopefully not. I have one question for you. Where were you on Sunday afternoon between twelve thirty and one?”

  “I was working, so I would’ve been on my lunch break. I usually pack myself a salad and go to Crescent Park to eat it.”

  That explained why she was so snotty. Working Sundays with salad for lunch wouldn’t cheer anyone up.

  “Did someone see you?”

  “Probably. There are always people about, but I don’t know any of them personally and couldn’t say who was or wasn’t there that day. However, if you’ve got nothing better to do, you’re welcome to go and ask.”

  “Thank you for your permission. One more thing.”

  She glared at him. “You said you only had one question.”

  “I lied. But this is the last of them. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Daubney and Mr. Jamison?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because I’m willing to bet you know everything that’s going on at Aptech.”

  Her glare subsided, just a bit. “All right. Daubney is in New York closing a deal, and Jamison keeps his own hours but is usually at Fitness First gym between eight and nine. On Lincoln Boulevard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to the office.”

  She didn’t wish him a wonderful Christmas this time. Instead, she hoisted the dry cleaning higher to stop it dragging and sped past Connor like there was a pack of mangy males hot on her heels.

  “So what did her eyes tell you?” I asked Connor when he climbed into the car.

  “That if I didn’t let her get back to the office, she’d stab me with one of her stilettos, wrap me up in the dry cleaning, and toss me into the nearest dumpster.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was still sitting in the SUV while Connor entered Fitness First gym. From what I could see of the place through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, they should’ve called it Indulgence First. There seemed to be more people lounging on daybeds around the pool than in it, and attractive waiters and waitresses flitted between them serving drinks.

  Suspected leak number two was Mr. Jamison, Aptech’s development manager. I wouldn’t be meeting the man in the flesh, but I did have a photo the research team had sent over just now.

  Jamison was the type you’d pass on the streets and never remember seeing. Thick caterpillar eyebrows crawled over deep-set blue eyes in a mild round face. A pair of rimless spectacles perched on his nondescript nose, and a halfhearted smile adorned his lips, telling me he was harmless. I was unconvinced.

  I heard doors swish open and then the whirring, beeping, pounding, and puffing noises of a gym as Connor tried to locate Jamison. So maybe some people were exercising.

  A few minutes later Connor introduced himself. “What were your whereabouts on Sunday between twelve thirty and one p.m.?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “Can I ask what this investigation is about?” I noticed Mr. Jamison wasn’t breathing hard. Either he was super fit or was one of the people lazing around the pool.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Connor said. “And if I were, it wouldn’t change your answer, would it?”

  “Of course not. But curiosity is a valuable human trait and one that matters in my line of work. Curiosity leads to exploration and exploration leads to innovation, so you can see it’s natural I would ask.”

  “Please answer my question.”

  “Certainly. Let me check my calendar.” Another pause. “Sunday wasn’t it? What time did you say?”

  “Between twelve thirty and one,” Connor said, sounding irritated.

  “It seems I was in a meeting with Kyle and York Development.”

  Didn’t anyone in the tech industry take weekends off?

  “Where was this?”

  “Their headquarters in Venice.” I presumed he meant Venice in Westside LA rather than Italy, but I could’ve been mistaken.

  “How many people can confirm that you were there?”

  “At least three, but I’d prefer you don’t follow this up unless it’s strictly necessary. I wouldn’t want them to get the impression that the police are investigating Aptech for anything.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Jamison.”

  Connor joined me in the SUV after some more beeping, thumping, and puffing noises.

  “What did his eyes tell you?” I asked.

  “That he’s not nearly so banal or pleasant as he lik
es to appear. I’m starting to think Coleman only hires sociopaths.”

  “Maybe it’s part of the recruitment selection criteria. He did assure you that none of them have a conscience.”

  “I was hoping he was wrong. If he’s right about that, then he’s also right that he wouldn’t have to worry about the leak. As long as he managed to convince each person that he was sincere in choosing them to take over anyway.”

  Which implied that whatever Coleman was up to, he had a good chance of getting off scot-free. “What do we do now?”

  “The research team has verified that the CFO, Mr. Daubney, is where he’s supposed to be in New York, and his flights and hotel corroborate that he arrived Saturday and ordered room service around the time you were attacked on Sunday.”

  “One ruled out, two to go.” If our theory was correct, it meant I’d been knocked out by someone with caterpillar eyebrows or a pint-sized grump. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “Yes. We have to confirm Jamison’s and McCarthy’s alibis and run a background check on the pair of them, but I’ll delegate that to the team. Even if their alibis don’t hold up, we need more evidence. I’m going to update Hunt and see if I can expedite the identification of that finger.”

  “What should I do?”

  “That’s up to you. But it’s been at least an hour since we ate, so I’m sure you must be starving.”

  It had been at least two hours since I’d eaten, but I was trying to lose weight, so I left Connor to deal with Hunt and caught an Uber ride to Mrs. Dunst’s house. She embraced me. “Isobel, darling, come on in.” The phone rang in the hall as we entered, but she made no move to answer it. Instead, she asked, “Have the reporters been harassing you too?”

  “A little,” I admitted. Actually, I’d had more calls in the past twenty-four hours than the entire year prior.

  “What’s the world coming to? Don’t they have better things to do? I’ve got a right mind to disconnect the phone altogether.”

  “It’s because of Earnest’s website. I know he never tried to convince you otherwise, but it was very well respected. He’s practically a celebrity in some circles, and they want to know what happened to him. They care about what happened to him.”

  “They have a funny way of showing it.”

  “Well, it might not be the reporters themselves that care,” I amended, “but they’re only so persistent because there’s lots of people who do. Otherwise it wouldn’t be such a big story.” I dumped my bag on her dining table and put the kettle on.

  Mrs. Dunst moved to the cupboard to get tea bags and sugar. Maybe she’d noticed me sizing up her grinning squirrel canister.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  I found some cups, took the tea things from her, and gave her another hug. I still felt like a fraud, but her need was painfully obvious and I hoped I could use my fraudulent position to do some good.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess. I’m so lost without him that it’s hard to even know the answer to that. Everyone’s been lovely to me, and I’m overwhelmed by their support. I just wish the police had caught the son of the bitch who did this to my Earnest before we bury him tomorrow. I have a feeling he’d rest easier that way, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. “He spent his life seeking out justice. It seems like he should get his.”

  We moved to the dining table and sipped our tea in comfortable silence for a while.

  “Can I give you a casserole?” Mrs. Dunst asked. “People keep dropping them off, which I appreciate, but I’m not hungry. They don’t seem to understand that grieving saps your appetite and eating is the last thing I feel like doing.”

  “Why don’t you freeze it? It’s fair enough if you don’t feel like eating, but you probably won’t feel like cooking for a while either.” It was a shame my grief didn’t affect me the same way. Instead, I kept craving comfort food.

  She got up and opened the freezer door. Every inch was filled with neatly packed containers. “Seriously, Izzy, I have more casseroles here than I could consume in a decade. Please take one. Or two. Or five. I don’t want them to go to waste, but if I have to eat them all, I’ll go mad.” She looked at me helplessly.

  “Okay. I’ll take some,” I relented. Then, thinking of the comfort food thing, I asked, “Is there anything that you do feel like eating?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even ice cream? Or cookies? I make some mean cookies.”

  “I guess I might eat some cookies.”

  “Then I’ll bake you some and bring them over soon.”

  A small smile crept its way across her face. “Only if you swap them for more casseroles.”

  I laughed. “We have a deal.”

  A few hours later, I caught another Uber ride home. Thanks to my former years as a barista, I was able to balance the two casserole trays in one hand as I crossed the landing, digging for my key. There was a small package waiting by the door, wrapped in Christmas paper. I put the trays down to inspect it, wondering if it might be from Etta or even my family in Australia. But there were no postage marks or stamps, just my name scrawled in black marker.

  Curiosity piqued, I slid a finger under the tape and unwrapped a small jewelry box. Who would be gifting me jewelry? Surely not Connor? Or Levi? I flipped the lid open. And screamed.

  Footsteps pounded toward me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The human thumb.

  “What’s wrong?” The voice was Etta’s. She sucked in a breath. “Oh.”

  She must be staring at the thumb now too.

  “What does the note say?”

  I hadn’t even seen a note. But she was right. It was pinned to the inside of the lid.

  Don’t lie about the flash drive again.

  “Are you okay, dear? You look a little pale. Maybe you should sit down.”

  “Um.” The jewelry box shook. Oh. It was me doing the shaking.

  “Let me see.” That voice was not Etta’s. It was a deep rumble. Like Mr. Black’s.

  A giant hand took the box from me. I surrendered it with relief, and the spell binding my eyes to it broke. Which allowed me to see Mr. Black looming over me. That was almost as scary.

  “At least it’s been preserved,” he commented. He was wearing one of the white shirts he favored and dark blue jeans. I figured white shirts could be bleached to remove the bloodstains.

  Except according to him, he was scared of blood.

  His alleged fear didn’t extend to severed body parts. He was examining the thumb carefully. To be fair, I hadn’t noticed any blood on it.

  “Looks like it was removed from someone already dead,” he said, snapping the box shut. “I’d say they were embalmed first.”

  I didn’t want to know how he could be so confident about it.

  His gaze fell on me like a heavy blanket. With cement blocks attached. “Do you owe money to somebody else?”

  I concentrated on taking breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Nice and slow.

  “Let’s get her inside.” That was Etta again. “Is there anyone I should call for you?”

  In. Out. At least I couldn’t see the thumb anymore.

  Etta unlocked the door and ushered me into the apartment. “Give me your phone.”

  I handed it over.

  “Connor? It’s Etta here. I’m calling about Izzy. She’s uh, found a human appendage on her doorstep. You might want to come over.”

  17

  Mr. Black made me an unexpectedly good cup of tea before excusing himself. He didn’t want to be here if the police came. Again I tried not to think about that too much.

  Etta walked him out. She’d once told me she chose an upstairs apartment because her doctor said as long as she could walk up a flight of stairs, she was healthy enough to keep having sex. She’d also pointed out that she could walk up and down them multiple times a day. Now whenever she escorted an attractive man ou
t to his car, I couldn’t help but remember her story.

  “You’re looking better,” she told me when she returned. “Got some color back in your face. What should I do with these casseroles?”

  “In the fridge is fine, thanks,” I said, unable to envisage ever eating again. Be careful what you wish for. I’d washed my hands half a dozen times, but they didn’t feel clean yet.

  Maybe this was the beginning of a brilliant new weight-loss program. Send people severed appendages to look at whenever they felt hungry. It made me wonder where McCarthy or Jamison got their supply of severed fingers from.

  Connor arrived with Commander Hunt, both wearing grim expressions. I couldn’t tell if the grim thing was because of the human body part they’d come to collect or Oliver’s poster on the door.

  “Where is it?” Connor asked me.

  “Right here, gentleman,” Etta said with a flourish like she was on a game show pointing out their prize. “As you can see, it’s been preserved and removed neatly postmortem.” Now she was listing the prize’s features. Or showing off her borrowed knowledge for Connor and Hunt’s benefit.

  “Very good,” Hunt said, studying her with interest.

  She preened under his gaze. How peculiar. Usually she went for men at least twenty years younger than her. Hunt was only about five.

  “Could be from the same body,” Connor said. His attention was still on the finger. “Male, white-collar worker with a similar skin tone.”

  Hunt forced his eyes back to the thumb. “Yes. It’ll be easy enough to check. The finger pad is intact.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from asking if he’d figured out whom the first one was from. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about the first one.

  “Can we find out how it was delivered?” Hunt asked. “I don’t suppose this building has surveillance?”

  “No,” said Etta and Connor at the same time.

  “I normally might have noticed,” Etta continued, “but I was out all morning while the painters finished in my apartment, and Oliver, that’s Izzy’s housemate, wasn’t home either.”