The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Dede—wait!” She looked around to find the voice that was calling her. “Over here,” I said, waving through my open car window. I cut the ignition and stepped out.

  As I darted across the slick pavement, Dede appeared appropriately accosted. See, I had to find a way to follow up on what James had told me last night. Even though I'd told Ian I wouldn't go inside the Metropolax Company again, a “casual” conversation in the parking lot seemed like my perfect loophole.

  Earlier at work, I relayed to Ian what James had said: how Suzie might have “had something on Fritz.” I reminded Ian that if Fritz Sachs and John Fredriksen were friendly—as was the impression Ian got when Fredriksen asked him not to cover the Metropolax break-in, and the fact that Fredriksen had obviously been invited to the Christmas party—then perhaps he might know something useful. Reluctantly, Ian agreed to broach the subject subtlety the next time he spoke with Fredriksen and see what he could learn. What Ian probably didn't realize was: that was my Plan B.

  Plan A was now. For the past half hour, I'd been parked in the lot of the clock building, watching as the Metropolax staff exited, one by one. James had ambled to his car with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Kendall had scurried through the burgeoning flurries with a knit cap pulled over her crunchy orange hair. Bill had semi-swaggered to his BMW, holding a folded newspaper over his head to shield the snow. Finally Dede emerged, carrying with her two large shopping bags that appeared to have ribbons and bows flying from the top. She had just popped open the trunk of her black Audi when I called her name.

  “Caitlyn?” Dede said, as I stopped short in front of her, catching my breath and wiping cold wet snow from my eyes. “You startled me, honey. What are you doing here?” She hefted both shopping bags into her trunk. “Donations for the gift drive at the children's hospital,” she explained.

  I tipped my head to steal a glance before she closed the trunk. From the sprouts of colored tissue paper and ribbons spilling out, her story looked legit. “Dede, sorry to bother you when you're on your way home. I just had a quick question.”

  “All right.”

  The snow began falling earnestly now, and it was like a stopwatch clicking in my ear. When I saw Dede hug herself, visibly shivering from the cold, I knew my time with her now was going to be very limited. So I didn't dance around the subject, just got right to it. “Dede, the truth is, James Williams recently told me something kind of disturbing. He said that you told him Suzie Diamanti had, well, some issue with Fritz.”

  “W-well...” Rendered momentarily speechless, Dede's pudgy face lost its merry dimples. She cast a few hapless glances around the parking lot.

  “Yet,” I continued, “you told me that something was bothering Suzie, but you had no idea what it was. Now why would you say that, if you knew full well the issue had to do with Fritz?”

  “Shh! Please, honey, keep your voice down,” Dede urged, and darted a concerned glance over her shoulder and mine. More quietly, she said, “Look...what business is this of yours anyway?”

  Hmm, she had me there. Just the other day, I was sitting in her office asking for a receptionist job, and now I was standing here acting like Inspector Clouseau's well-meaning American niece? I knew I'd better come up with some incentive for the woman to talk to me.

  “Maybe you're right and it is none of my business. But the truth is, when I heard about Suzie Diamanti's bizarre departure—and of course I'd read about that robbery, which apparently occurred on the same night—well things just don't add up. And I guess you could say I've taken kind of an amateur interest in the case.”

  “Case?” Dede said, confused. “What case? You mean the robbery?”

  “Yes, but more than that...okay, I'm going to be honest with you,” I lied. “You were right when you interviewed me. Receptionist work isn't my calling. So I did some thinking and decided that I might want to be a private detective.”

  “Really? Well that certainly is different. And I wish you all the luck in the world with that, honey, but I still don't see why you're butting into our company's business.”

  “Because from various things I've heard, I'm concerned that something may have happened to Suzie—beyond a simple resignation. Her disappearance is shaping up to be something of a mystery, and I guess you could say I'm taking on the case as practice. You know, to see if private detecting is the right fit for me.” Dede was visibly stunned, probably at least in part by what a flake I'd turned out to be. “Look, I don't want to involve the police if I don't have to,” I said. “Is there anything you could tell me that would put my curiosity at ease?”

  Finally she sighed then pressed the button on her keychain to unlock the car doors. “Here, get in. It's freezing out here, you're getting soaked.”

  Once we were seated inside her plush Audi, Dede turned on the heater and began her confession. “All right, I'll tell you the truth. But please, Caitlyn, don't say anything to anyone. I don't want to lose my job.” I waited. She sighed again. “I overheard Suzie on the phone. It was about a week before the robbery. I went into the ladies' room to—”

  Abruptly, she stopped. Squirming uncomfortably, she appeared to be debating whether or not to “come clean” and I couldn't help wondering what on earth she'd been doing in the ladies' room that was so shocking.

  “I went to sneak a smoke,” she admitted finally and hung her head in shame.

  “Okay...well, what's the big deal about that?”

  “Just that I promised my son I would quit. And I had, too, for a little while. Unfortunately during that time, I'd even become one of those dreaded sanctimonious types.” With a self-effacing laugh, she said, “You know, the born again type, lecturing everyone. I think James Williams liked me a lot better before that. But anyway...that day, I was just dying for a cigarette. Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you'd have to be a smoker to understand the feeling. I knew I couldn't go outside, because someone would see me. And after all my lectures, I was too embarrassed to admit I was being a hypocrite. The ladies' room seemed like my only option.” I nodded along, as she continued her tale.

  “I had just taken out my pack of cigarettes and lighter when I heard someone coming. I panicked and ran into a stall. But I'd left the cigarettes on the sink, so I knew that whoever it was would figure they were mine—unless I hid. So I hopped up on the toilet and waited. It turned out to be Suzie. I could see her pretty blond hair through the crack of the stall door. I knew she was on the phone because she was whispering. Now, mind you, before she started talking, she called out, 'Is anyone here?' but I kept silent. I didn't realize she was asking because she was going to have a phone conversation that was...of a sensitive nature, you could say...

  “I don't know who she was talking to, but I heard Suzie say: 'All I have to do is first go to HR about it, it has to be documented. But there's no doubt it's sexual harassment. I know I've got a case. We're going to make money on this!' Well, honey, I can tell you that I just about froze hearing that. I think a lump formed in my throat the size of a golf ball.”

  “But why?” Call me an idiot, but I still didn't get it.

  Eyes wide, Dede explained, “Because she was obviously talking about Fritz! Who else could she be talking about? Shortly after that, she flushed the toilet and left. I admit it: I never approached Suzie about what I heard. In fact, I was dreading her coming to see me with whatever this sexual harassment claim was about. I mean, I like my job—and I need my job—the last thing I wanted to do was to cross my boss. I didn't want to deal with some messy sexual harassment law suit—talk about stress. You have no idea how much stress it is for an HR department to deal with a harassment or discrimination claim. And I am the whole department!”

  “But, Dede, even if she came to you, you'd only be following procedure. Whatever the law required. Surely, Fritz Sachs couldn't blame you for that.”

  “Oh, honey, you don't understand Corporate America. Sure, he would allow me to do what I'm required to do. B
ut believe me, it would leave a bad taste in his mouth, and he would want to drive me out eventually. For revenge. That's how the world works, honey, as much as I try to look at the bright side of life.”

  “So what happened then? You encouraged Suzie to resign?”

  “No! Nothing like that! What I did was, well, avoid her. She did say she wanted to talk to me about something, and I told her I was backed up with meetings and Blue Cross issues. That's why when she resigned so abruptly a few days later, I was shocked. I wasn't lying about that, Caitlyn. But what I neglected to admit to you was that I was also greatly relieved. It seemed like a potentially bad situation had gone away on its own.”

  Maybe not, I thought. Probably not.

  “One last question. When you heard Suzie say this on the phone, were you surprised? I mean, is that the kind of thing you picture from Fritz? Does he seem like a creep like that?”

  “Fritz is...an elusive sort. I really don't know him very well. He's only here part of the time. Much of the time he's traveling on business. I mean, I knew he had somewhat of a wandering eye with the way he used to stare at Jennifer's cleavage, and let her get a pass on everything. Did I ever see him harass Suzie or be inappropriate to her? Absolutely not. But if she came with a claim to investigate, we would have to investigate. End of story.”

  After I thanked Dede for her time and candor, I stepped out of her car and let her drive away. Something struck me though. Something I hadn't even thought earlier at Christian's, because I'd been so preoccupied with what James Williams had inadvertently revealed. Or had it been inadvertent? What I thought was: Why had James suddenly brought up Suzie and Fritz, a connection he had never mentioned prior? And why if she was so sensitive about this whole thing, had Dede gossiped at the coffee pot to the staff? Wasn't she concerned it might get back to Fritz?

  Possibly the answer to that question lay in the basic psychology of blabbing gossips who are pathological in their blabbery (I might have made that word up, but I'm sticking with it). Basically, they couldn't keep their mouths shut even if air turned to fire. And they usually didn't plan to change. That still didn't explain James, though. Was James just trying to take the focus off of himself? What did anyone really know about him, anyway?

  Just then headlights gleamed against my eyes. I squinted to make out who it was. A pale yellow van that set my heart aflutter. How sad, I know. Frantically, I looked for Maria, as I hurried toward the side entrance. Soon the big clock would gong seven times. And it would hit me as a delayed reaction that there was no loophole this time—and now Ian was going to be pissed.

  Chapter 31

  I caught up with Maria in the lobby as the rest of her crew stepped on the elevator. You are never going to believe this, but she actually looked happy to see me. “Caitlyn! Where have you been? I didn't know what happened to you.”

  I sidestepped the question. “Hi! How are you?”

  “I'm fine...” Her eyes dropped down, landing on my blue pants, which were not in keeping with the uniform. “Are you working tonight?”

  My makeshift plan as of five minutes ago had been to slip in with the cleaning crew and pretend to be useful (a.k.a. my usual), while snooping through James's desk. But now, I changed my mind. A revelation overtook me at that moment.

  Over the past two weeks, I had started more sentences with the words, “The truth is,” than I could count, and each time, the sentence had ended in some form of a lie. Sooner or later, all this deception had to end. Otherwise how could I ever get back to myself?

  Biting my lip, I jumped on the elevator with Maria right before the doors shut. I waited until it was just the two of us left in the elevator and said, “Maria, listen, there's something you should know.”

  “What?” she said, as the elevator doors sprung open.

  “Let me start from the beginning. Have you ever read the Big Clock Chronicle?”

  “The newspaper? Yes. Mostly on Sunday for the coupons.”

  “Well, I work for the Chronicle. I don't really work for Spotless Find.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “You don't?”

  “No. I'm here sort of undercover, for a story.”

  “¡Dios mio!” she said and slapped a hand to her thigh. “That explains it!”

  “Explains which part?”

  “Why you're so bad at cleaning!” she replied. I had to give a laugh at that.

  “Yes. Well. Anyway...”

  “But I don't understand,” Maria said. “Why would you be undercover here?”

  “It's kind of a long story,” I told her, lowering my voice in case anyone was still inside Metropolax. “But the short version has to do with that robbery, a couple of weeks ago?” She nodded. “I have reason to believe that the so-called break-in was really a cover-up of another crime.” Again, Maria's dark eyes grew wide. “I think something may have happened to Suzie. Remember Suzie? You said she was always friendly to you when she worked late. That's why I'm here—to find out what, exactly, happened that night.”

  “Do you think she was hurt?”

  I spoke soberly when I replied, “Maybe worse than that.”

  “But why would you think—”

  “Like I said, it's a long story.” I didn't want to be impatient with Maria, because she had every right to question me. But time was limited, and I could explain it all at our leisure, once the case was solved. “My conclusions are based on things people have said, possible evidence I've found, things like that. Listen, Maria, I promise not to get in your way, and hopefully this is the last time I'll need to come here. Please, can you just let me look around?”

  After a hesitant pause, she blew out a breath and said okay. “But remember, I don't know anything about nothing.”

  “Of course,” I promised her. “By the way...” I took out my cell phone. “...what's your number? I'd like to have it just in case I ever need to call you. Please?”

  Once Maria acquiesced and traded numbers with me, we went through the door and split apart. Like the offices, the cubicles were marked with nameplates, so I just had to wrap around the maze of partitions until I got to James's nameplate.

  And I don't really know what I was looking for, but just something, anything, to shed light on who James Williams really was. Did he have anything of Suzie's? Did he have a day planner in which he doodled her name with hearts, and then angrily crossed it out? Maybe a receipt for a gun tucked away in here? Or maybe a machete? Something blatantly psychotic like that would certainly be helpful.

  His cubicle was a large L that backed up on Bill's identically configured work space. Out of habit, I checked over my shoulder several times. I wish I could call this kind of cautious paranoia a new quirk. But the fact was, it was a genuine trait of mine—although the events of the past two weeks had certainly heightened it. I pulled out James's chair, plopped down and began going through his drawers. I was careful not to ransack or toss things out of place. Luckily, the drawers were pretty cluttered and messy to start with, so I doubted he would ever notice that they'd been touched.

  Once I got past the expected barrage of notebooks, pens, paper clips, highlighters, and crusty containers of Whiteout, I pulled out two pill bottles. I tried not to look at the labels, because that seemed like an extremely wrong thing to do.

  (But apparently James suffered from anxiety and nasal allergies.)

  I felt some cloth, pushed toward the back of the second drawer. When I pulled it out, it un-scrolled across the desk. A Red Sox flag. I reached back into the depths of the drawer, and managed to pull out three more just like this one. Suddenly I recalled what Bill had said, how he and James had become friends because they were both Boston fans. I kept digging. Out came a Red Sox paperweight. A Patriots mug lined with dust. A Celtics pencil sharpener.

  The last drawer contained a folded sheet of paper that sat on top of everything else. I opened it and saw that it was an advertisement for a speed-dating event coming up in Minneapolis next week. James had circled the date and time in marker. Behind
a few stacks of papers, reports, and spreadsheets, I came upon a Red Sox cap, smushed toward the back of the drawer. No, make that two Red Sox caps. And more Celtics crap.

  I put everything back and closed the drawer. Knowing James was a Boston fan, I wasn't particularly surprised by this inventory. No one (who wanted to live) would ever say that Boston sports fans were less than exceedingly loyal. So where did this leave me?

  Just then, a loud vibrating buzz startled me. Instinctively, I jumped from the chair and whipped my head around, certain I'd been caught in the act—BUZZ. BUZZ. Suddenly I realized what it was. A phone on Bill's desk, rattling against the table. I walked over and read the screen, which was lit up with the alert: Text Message from “S”

  Bill's phone had the preview feature that displayed the first few words of each text. So, below the alert were the words: You can't keep ignoring me.

  Impulsively, I picked up the phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  I gasped. Jumped at least an inch off the floor, as I sent the phone clattering on the desk. Guiltily, I swiveled around only to knock into a stack of envelopes with my hip, and send them dropping to the floor.

  “Oh my God!” I clutched my chest. “Bill—you scared me to death.”

  Standing at the entrance of his cubicle, Bill wore a strange expression. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  I swallowed hard. Instead of calming down, I found my heart still racing. “What are you doing here? Working late?” Or lurking late? I wondered.

  “No, I forgot my phone,” he explained and stepped forward to grab it from his desk.

  “Oh, yes, it was buzzing a lot, so I picked it up just to turn the volume down. Um, it was hard to concentrate.”

  He slid his phone into his pocket. “Concentrate on what?”

  “Uh...cleaning, you know...dusting, emptying trash cans...”

  “Jesus, Caitlyn, when are you going to quit this job and get something decent?” he said, and bent down to pick up the envelopes I'd spilled all over the floor. I felt compelled to help and so I leaned down, too. That was when I noticed one of the envelopes, addressed to “Christopher Sachs.”