The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Who is this one for?” I asked Bill.

  He glanced at it, then took it and set it with the others on his desktop. “Oh, that's for Fritz. His mail gets screwed up with mine sometimes. Because he has the same first name as my last name.” Bill came to his feet. “I'll drop it as his office tomorrow.”

  I was still struck by what Bill had just told me. “So Fritz is short for Christopher?” I said.

  Bill didn't bother to answer that. “Well, I'll let you get back to work.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, “Fritz” was typically a nickname for “Frederick.” But then, who could really say? Since when was “Bud” a nickname for “Walter”?

  He paused before stepping out of his cubicle. “Listen, Caitlyn...you should really be careful.”

  I gulped, suddenly afraid. “W-what do you mean?”

  Bill gave a half-hearted shrug as his eyes met mine. They seemed to narrow in on me. Unexpectedly, a shiver chilled the back of my neck. “Just watch out,” he warned. “It's slippery out there tonight.”

  Chapter 32

  The next day was December 21st. Three days until Christmas Eve, and only two days until I flew home to New Jersey. I still hadn't done laundry, wrapped any Christmas gifts, or packed a single thing. On top of that, the holiday gala at R&D Labs was tonight and I'd already promised Amy that I would attend. How had I managed to squander so much time away? Fortunately, today was my day off from the Chronicle, so I would use it playing catch-up.

  By late afternoon I had washed two basketfuls of laundry, which were now folded across my bed waiting to be put away. I had cleaned my entire apartment and given Cappy Blackburn a bath. After wrapping presents, I'd realized that I needed a gift for my brother, Kevin, so I'd driven to the mall in the next town over. Intending only to run in, pick up something football-related, and run out, I wound up in a Christmas Shopping Time Warp. By the time I left the mall, three hours had evaporated and I had somehow accumulated not only a gift for Kevin, but two more for my mom, a new satin-lined dog bed that Cappy didn't need, a silver ring for myself, and a gift certificate for Lucy.

  The certificate was to a store called Season's Apparel, which I knew would have tons of sales after the holidays; I figured Lucy could stock up on double or triple the amount of Christmas socks that she normally would. Although it was a spontaneous purchase, getting something for Lucy was the only decent thing to do. The woman seemed so lonely, especially lately. Surely a big factor was the time of year, but with her crush on Professor Helmuson going south like that...well, it would be wrong not to remember her at the holidays with a card and a small gesture. Even though I'd moved on from her little hissy fit the other night, we hadn't actually seen each other since that morning she'd come to apologize.

  Earlier I had gone down to Lucy's apartment and run into our landlady, Mary, running evergreen garland up the banister. “Hi, sweetie. Oh, Lucy's not there.”

  “Oh?”

  “She went home to California for the holidays. She was looking for you before, but you were out.”

  “That must have been when I was at the mall. Her car's still in the driveway,” I mentioned.

  “She took a taxi to the airport.”

  “Oh, right, that makes sense.”

  “But she wanted me to give you this,” Mary said, pulling an envelope from the deep pocket of her knitted cardigan.

  “Thanks! And I have these for her—shoot, I'm sorry I missed her...”

  “Here, I'll hold them for you if you want,” Mary offered. “Lucy said she's planning to come back before New Year's, so I'll probably see her before you do.”

  “Well, okay, if you're sure it's not trouble.”

  “Of course not, don't be silly! When are you going home?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Merry Christmas to you and your family then, if I don't see you, sweetie.”

  “Thanks, Mary,” I said with a smile and gave her a hug. On my way upstairs, I tore open the envelope and read the card.

  Dear Caitlyn,

  May this be your most unforgettable Christmas yet!

  Your friend, Lucy

  It was around 4:30 PM when I plopped down on the rug in front of my Christmas tree and breathed a sigh. “Cappy, I'm exhausted!” I said, glancing back at her. She was sitting perfectly straight, like an obedient little show dog. “Aw, you're such a cute angel,” I commented, as I turned to face my laptop which was sitting on the coffee table. Suddenly Cappy let out a little yelp. I looked over. Again, she snapped into position. Now I could see that it was a performance for my benefit. And it was then I realized she was waiting to be rewarded.

  “Oh my gosh!” I said, climbing to my feet. “Sorry, I forgot I promised you a treat!” With her tail wagging exuberantly, Cappy trotted after me to the kitchen. I tossed her one of her favorite snacks—a bone that supposedly tasted like peanut butter, yet inexplicably smelled like turpentine. She gobbled it so fast, I had to laugh. I'd promised it to her two hours ago when I'd been bribing Cappy to stop barking at the vacuum cleaner.

  Before I left the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of wine. I carried that back to my place in front of the tree. Now that I'd returned to my real life for a few hours, I went back to focusing on matters that were only slightly more global. My investigation into the Metropolax Company still churned hotly in my mind. I did yet another search on Ebay and other similar sites for the stolen supplies. Next, I searched for Suzie's car. But I did not find any plausible matches.

  I thought about Ian's theory: that the use of the nickname “Sox” was to differentiate between two individuals who worked at the company and had the same name, whether it be first or last. Now I could add Fritz Sachs to that list since apparently Fritz was short for Christopher, a name he shared with Bill.

  It irked me that I still had never seen this man in person. I decided to do a Google Image search of the name “Fritz Sachs” and see what came up. When no exact matches appeared, I tried the name “Christopher Sachs.” All I got was pictures of a guy in his early twenties holding a red plastic cup. I was stumped. I assumed that an executive like Fritz would have at least a couple of photos out there: something from a company brochure or an event he spoke at, some remains of corporate propaganda with Fritz's image on it.

  I kept scrolling. Clicking “Next page” and scrolling. Rinse and repeat. Nothing! Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised. Not everyone had photos circulating out there. Take me, for instance. I doubted there were too many photographs of me on the Internet, since I didn't use PretendR or upload items from my digital camera onto any of the popular picture-sharing sites. I wasn't a member of any clubs or a gym and couldn't recall the last time I'd even had any sort of professional picture taken. Out of curiosity, I entered my own name in Google Image search just to confirm my assumption.

  Gee, I wish I hadn't done that. I ended up finding several unflattering candid shots I didn't know had been taken or posted by some so-called friends of mine. Events I had been present at, a birthday party, a bridal shower. Is nothing sacred, people? I thought, annoyed, as I scrolled and clicked in faint horror. You know, I really didn't appreciate Googling myself and finding images of me talking with my mouth full or looking bored in the audience of a graduation ceremony. Disgusted, I closed all the images. I couldn't do anything about it, so what was the point in torturing myself?

  But I was still on this Google kick. I started searching for random people, like my old boyfriend, Sean, my eighth grade piano teacher Miss Detmer—whatever happened to her?—even Lucy. I wished I'd thought to ask Lucy's mom's first name, since Lucy said she was an actress. Hey, maybe I could find out what Ian's wife looked like!

  But first, I spontaneously typed in “Monica Fong” and discovered that she apparently belonged to every single social media site in existence. (I had to conclude that the logic to “social media” had now been lost to irony.) I saw that Monica also had a blog, which I never knew about. I must confess, I was pleasantly surprised, thinking
that she might have a whole new interesting side to her that only came out in the blog. After skimming a few entries I found that her writing style was just as flat and boring here as it was in the newspaper. Her most recent blog entry was about the Joe Slock case. Not this again, I thought, rolling my eyes.

  Unlike the in-depth feature article Monica had wanted to write, this piece was more of a recapping all the facts of the case, right down to their most microscopic minutia. God, what was Monica's obsession with this story of one corporate asshole with two identities—

  Then something made me pause. A thought I should have had before, a realization that should have hit sooner. My hands stilled on the keyboard, almost frozen, as all the jumbled notions in my mind swam to the surface and found some kind of order, a pattern, like synchronized swimming—and there it was. The answer.

  And as it happened, a knock at my door.

  Chapter 33

  “Is that what you're wearing?”

  “Amy! I think I figured out what's going on here!” I said. Then caught her question and looked down at my running pants and faded Golden Girls tee shirt. Then noticed the hem of a black chiffon dress, extending from beneath Amy's coat, and the pearl earrings that matched her necklace. And I suddenly realized why Amy was standing at my door in the first place. “Oh, my God! What time is it?”

  “Six o'clock. You still wanted to go together, right?”

  “Yes—I'm sorry, I'll go change!” I scurried to my bedroom where freshly laundered clothes were still piled all across my bed. I didn't bother picking through the piles because that was my everyday wear; the holiday gala at R&D Labs was a semi-formal affair. When I stepped inside my closet, I pulled the drawstring to shed some light on the situation, and began pushing hangers back until I found my red dress. “Sorry,” I said again, “I went to the mall before and was cleaning my apartment. Then I started looking up stuff on the computer...I didn't realize it was so late already.”

  Gingerly Amy took a seat on my bed, so as not to mess up the laundry. “That's all right. How long do you think it will take you to get ready, though? Because my mother needs me there by 6:45.”

  “I can make it, I can make it!” I insisted and rushed to my dresser to get all my undergarments together. With my arms full, I hurried to the bathroom to change. I was careful not to let the dress touch the floor, but my stockings slipped from my grip until they were trailing on the floor behind me like a train.

  “Amy, listen, I think I solved the case!” I called through the bathroom door. “Well—not completely...”

  “What do you mean?” She must have moved, because her voice was closer. “What did you discover?”

  “Okay. Now just bear with me. Give me a chance.”

  “This a very defensive introduction,” she pointed out.

  “Okay, fine. Here it is. Fritz Sachs and John Fredriksen. What do they have in common?” Before she could answer, I said, “Too much—that's what! I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner. Do you remember the case of Joe Slock? It was all over the news last year?”

  “Yes. Let me think. He was a bigamist who defrauded investors in his company, something like that?”

  “Right. Companies,” I corrected. “That was the thing: he owned two companies, but under different identities. Now, I don't know all the particulars, but I remember Monica Fong babbling on at a staff meeting once about how what Slock did had all these financial implications, including some tax benefits I didn't really pay attention to—”

  “This all sounds solid so far,” Amy said sarcastically.

  “Just listen!” I said, as I shimmied into my stockings somewhat carefully, so as not to tear the overpriced, tissue-thin nylon. But with my mind buzzing about other matters, I couldn't give the task as much concentration as it apparently required—and a big gaping run split down the side of my leg. “Damn it!” I yelled.

  “What's the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing, my stockings, it doesn't matter.” After I peeled them off, I balled them up, tossed them in the wastebasket, and reached for my dress. “Let me finish telling you,” I said. Pulled the dress over my head and jumped into it. “I'll go back to the beginning. Bill's physical description of his boss, Fritz. In his fifties, paunchy with a bad toupee. Aim, that's John Fredriksen to a tee!”

  “All right...”

  “Also, both apparently travel a lot for work. Fritz is the one who didn't want the police to look into the robbery at Metropolax. And according to Ian, the reason we didn't cover the story, was because Fredriksen didn't want it covered. Don't you see? Both men wanted the story buried! Now—the night of the Christmas party at Metropolax, I told you how I saw Fredriksen arrive on the elevator? And James and Kendall were waiting for me downstairs in the lobby? Well, I remember in the car ride home, James mentioned that Fritz had arrived, and entered the lobby around the time I was still upstairs. Don't you see? It's the same man!

  “I wondered why Fritz didn't have a photo of himself on the wall. Dede said he was an elusive type, and you know, Fredriksen hardly ever discusses his personal life. Plus—Fredriksen's personal cell number was etched on Suzie's desk blotter. And according to James, Suzie 'had something on Fritz.'”

  “You're saying that what Suzie 'had' on Fritz was the knowledge of his true identity?”

  “Yes, or his double identity. See, there was someone from Suzie's past whom she had tracked down, that's why she came to Big Clock in the first place,” I said, recalling the phone conversation I'd overheard months earlier.

  Finally, I swung open the bathroom door and emerged, fully dressed except for stockings.

  “Oh, your hair looks pretty,” Amy remarked then.

  “Really?” I said, surprised, running my hand over the thick “wavy” mass. “I was thinking of putting it in a ponytail—”

  “No why? I think you should wear it this way.”

  “Okay, I will. Oh! I should wear some makeup...” I turned back to the bathroom, and quickly swabbed some mascara on my lashes, some gloss on my lips. “But, Aim, what about my theory?” I pressed, unable truly to focus on much else.

  She appeared reluctant, as if she were hesitant to burst my bubble. “I don't know, Caitlyn. It's an intriguing theory, but it doesn't seem probable. I would think that if one were trying to live a double life, he wouldn't live both in the same town. Especially if the town has a population of 4,300. And why would Fritz bother staging a break-in at the company, and then bury the story?”

  “But can't you see how it would all make sense?” I burst. “Suzie must have been blackmailing Fritz! That's why he hired her, gave her the job. Remember, Kendall said that Suzie's numbers didn't even add up? That she was a terrible accountant? Why else would Fritz give her the job of 'Senior Accountant,' the big office, the whole nine, if she wasn't even qualified for the job?”

  Amy shrugged. “Unless he just signed off on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At R&D, the HR department does all the hiring. That's a big part of their function. So the scientists and doctors don't have to expend time screening applicants.”

  “I guess...” I said halfheartedly.

  “And there's another possibility that you have not considered,” Amy pointed out.

  “What?”

  “Perhaps Suzie was not bad at her job. It seems that you only have Kendall's word for that. Did anyone else ever confirm the information?”

  “Well, no...” I paused, to think back, as I slid on my silver bracelet and new ring. Reached for my earrings.

  “Then, isn't it possible that Kendall was the one making the mistakes? And blaming it on Suzie?”

  “Or,” I added with another sudden notion, “maybe they weren't mistakes. Maybe the numbers didn't add up...because they weren't supposed to...”

  My voice drifted off, as I considered my next move. Unfortunately for Amy, this move did not involve her car or the road to R&D. “Aim, please don't kill me,” I implored, “but I'm going to have to meet you at
the party. There's somewhere I need to go first.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, sounding cautious.

  “Hang on...” I reached for my phone and texted Maria. Then I looked up at my sweet, unendingly patient best friend, and said, “Amy, I'm sorry about this, I'll make it up to you. Listen, the next movie I drag you to because I have to review it for the paper, will be my treat,” I promised, and as I hoped, she cracked a grin.

  “You're too kind.”

  I smiled at her. “Wish me luck.”

  Chapter 34

  “Thanks for helping me!” I said to Maria as she let us into the clock building with her Spotless Find access badge. Five minutes earlier, I had been sitting in my car, waiting for her to show, shivering in my red dress and heels. As soon as I stepped out of my car, a few snowflakes began to fall. I prayed the flurrying wouldn't last, because whatever fell would surely freeze over, making the streets icy and slick. Maria parked her white Lexus next to my car and got out.

  Wait—a Lexus? Not to make assumptions, but how on earth could Maria afford a Lexus on a cleaning woman's salary? I couldn't imagine that she was wealthy in her own right, because if so, she surely wouldn't work for Spotless Find. Unless Maria just enjoyed hard, often thankless work? In any case, I did possess a semblance of restraint and therefore didn't ask. Simply said, “Nice car,” to which she replied with a quick thanks and didn't elaborate on it.

  As we stepped into the lobby, I was sure that icicles had formed on my earrings. My teeth were actually chattering against each other. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asked me, as we headed to the elevator. I explained about the holiday event hosted by R&D Labs then thanked her again for coming to my aid tonight. “I promise I won't be long,” I told her when we stepped off the elevator.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she murmured doubtfully. “What are you looking for anyway?” How could I say that I was looking for some shred of anything that would connect Fritz Sachs to John Fredriksen? Such a bizarre statement would only bring confusion and a mountain of questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Let's face it, what I was contemplating was a pretty outrageous theory. I couldn't just spread it around without some iota of proof. “Is this about Miss Suzie still?”