by AB Plum
“How well did you know Miz Jones?” His hands lie crossed in his lap.
“She came for a job interview yesterday. I sent her an email later saying her job skills don’t—I mean didn’t—meet our requirements.”
“What position did she apply for?”
“My EA—Executive Assistant.” His unwavering bluish eyes stand in such sharp contrast against his skin that I find myself leaning toward him like a cobra toward a mongoose.
“How did she know about a job opening?” His spine is straight—several inches from the back of his chair. His onyx hair gleams in the anemic sun.
“She said a friend told her.”
“Did she give you the name of the friend?”
Sensing the quicksand, I hesitate. He waits, studying me with those weird eyes.
“She said Andrew Miller, but I knew she was lying. It’s why I would never have hired her.” I volunteer nothing else. Let him dig for what he gets.
“Who is Andrew Miller?”
“A former EA.”
“Why wouldn’t he recommend Miz Jones?” Impatience leaks into his genteel tone.
“Tragically,” I lower my voice and drop my gaze to my clasped hands, “Andrew died two years ago. Killed in a car wreck on the way to Tahoe.”
“Could he have told her about you before he died?”
“Unlikely,” I drawl.
“Why unlikely?”
“Unlikely because Miz Jones said they’d talked about career opportunities last week.” I swivel my gaze pointedly at my watch.
Patel’s face goes from unreadable to blank as a clean sheet of paper. “How would you assess her emotional state when she left?
“Her emotional state?” I shake my head. “I’m not a shrink, Detective Patel. If pressed, I would say she left thinking she’d gotten the job.”
“Why would she think so?” Implicit in the question is another one unspoken.
I give voice to his deduction. “Did I lead her to believe I’d hire her?”
Whether he thinks my question is rhetorical or whether he thinks his trap has sprung, he lets my question hang. I sigh. “I said I’d check her references, then get back to her. If that statement left her euphoric or depressed, I won’t speculate. I’d already spent too much time with—”
“Why did you even give her an interview?”
Caught off guard by his interruption, I snap, “What?”
“How many job applications do you receive a day? How many did you receive yesterday? Does your AA sort them? Why did she—or why did you select Miz Jones to interview? What did she include in her application that caught your attention?”
His rapid-fire questions burrow under my skin like fire ants, stinging and biting, driven by instinct, nothing personal, simply doing what fire ants do naturally.
In that instant, the game changes. The buzz in my head grows louder. This clotheshorse with the weird eyes sees more than I want him to see. I need to stop treating him like a moron, and I need to get him out of my office. I need to take control.
Leaning back in my chair, I stop short of lacing my hands behind my head. I smile a faux sincere smile. “Ten to twelve applications a day cross my desk. Around December and May, I receive a couple of hundred.”
I stop and arch an eyebrow. Do I need to explain why?
“College students,” he says. “How many applications did you receive yesterday?”
His precision in phrasing the question earns him points in my eyes. I reply as precisely. “Three. Miz Donnelly handed them to me late morning. It was a fairly hectic day ahead of me. I had several important meetings before noon, so I skimmed the applications. My mind, I’ll confess was on more important matters. I chose Miz Jones because of business priorities.”
No murmurs of sympathy for my hectic day. “Did you review her application before she arrived?”
“I had too much on my plate. I caught Miz Donnelly’s slip-up within minutes.”
“What time did the interview begin? End?”
Now I sit up straight and lay my elbows and hands across the desk. “We set up the interview for 2:30. She arrived at 1:50. My meeting ran long. Miz Donnelly offered my apologies, but Miz Jones waited until I was able to get away at 3:00.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Half an hour later?” I frown as if trying to remember. “No, forty-five minutes later. I was late for my next meeting.”
“Why did she stay so long—if you were so busy and you realized immediately she wasn’t a fit for the job?” No tells in his body language or voice support my suspicion of his hostility.
“Professional courtesy.” Since I don’t want him suspecting I have anything to hide, I add, “she’d waited for an interview. I thought the least I could do was treat her professionally.”
No smile, but something—laughter? surprise? admiration?—flashes in his eyes.
“Frankly,” I say, tenting my index fingers and tapping my bottom lip, “I felt sorry for the woman. You asked about how emotional state when she left? I’m still not sure, but I will offer an opinion of her emotions when she came into my office . . .”
The offer dangles in front of him for one, two seconds. His delay is a pathetic ploy.
“Any insight you can offer.” His tone carries echoes an adolescent sneer.
My chest tightens. Wanting to test him, I open my palms wide. “As I said, I’m not a shrink. I wouldn’t want to mislead you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but your thoughts may prove the key to finding her killer.”
Killer? I fight the longing to sing the word. “I assumed she took her own life.”
His black eyebrows come together, and he appears younger, almost childlike. “Suicide? Did you see any evidence she might harm herself?”
“Nothing concrete. . . but . . .when she showed up for our appointment, I picked up a sense of deep desperation. The lie about Andrew was surely the act of deep, deep desperation.” Nothing like leading the cop. I lean across the desk as if he and I are best friends.
“Deep, deep desperation,” he repeats, reminding me of AnnaSophia using the same technique to drive me crazy.
“Surely you’ve noticed in your business that desperate people rarely make eye contact. Their handshakes convey all the confidence of wet spaghetti.” The cliché elicits no response from him, so I continue sewing my seeds. “Or they’re fidgety. Not only do they not sit still, they never get comfortable in their own skin. They twitch. Scratch. Massage their arms. Pat their hair.”
He nods. Assuming that’s a signal to continue, I do so in a firmer, more authoritative voice. “I notice how people walk into my office. Head up. Head down. How they sit. Take yourself, for example. You sit straight and tall. Miz Jones slumped.”
“Slumped,” he speaks slowly as if learning a new multi-syllabic word.
Tempted to roll my eyes, I nod. “She’d been without a job for nine months.”
“That’s a long time in Silicon Valley,” he states the obvious, lowering my opinion of him another notch.
“I think her despair had morphed into desperation.”
“Interesting.” Patel nods as if he’s learned the secret of the universe. “What time did you send your email?”
His abrupt change stops me from answering too quickly. In situations like this, there’s a fine line between eagerness and anxiety. Head cocked, I gaze into space with narrowed eyes. The snow in the Monet glows.
“After 5:00.” I exhale. “I sent everyone home at 4:45.”
“You have an extraordinary mind for time, Mr. Romanov.”
Smiling, I place a hand on one side of my mouth and whisper sotto voce, “You didn’t hear this from me, but we’ve negotiated an acquisition of my company. Time is paramount.”
“I see.” His monotone carries no hint of admiration or amazement.
His indifference is annoying until I remember he’s a cop. He knows nothing about how the tech sector in this valley works. I smile beneficently. “Eve
ryone’s worked so much overtime our brains are ready to erupt like volcanoes. I told my wife I’d go home early last night so I thought it only fair to send the worker bees home early as well.”
“I’m sure they were all very appreciative.”
More appreciative than he is for my time, but I nod. God, we’re bobbing heads like puppets. “The last thing I did before leaving was to send the note to Miz Jones. I didn’t want her awake all night wondering if she had landed a new job.”
“Uncertainty can certainly induce insomnia.” Patel inches forward and places his hands on his thighs as if about to stand.
A part of me feels a jolt of disappointment at his banality. It’s not often I meet strong verbal jousters. “Any other questions, Detective Patel?”
“What time did you arrive home last night?” He eases back into his chair.
“Five minutes before seven.”
He frowns.
In case he doesn’t connect the time disparity between leaving the office and arriving home, I add, “Traffic was miserable. So bad, in fact, I called CHP to report a reckless driver.”
“I’m sure they appreciated your sense of civic responsibility.”
For less than a millisecond, the antennae at the back of my head periscope up. Irony? Sarcasm? Disrespect? A marble statue shows more facial expression than the Indian.
“Did you leave your office at 4:45, Mr. Romanov?”
What happened to his generally linear questioning? Is he jumping from one area to another because he’s confused or because he’s trying to lure me into a trap?
“After five. I sent the email before I left.” I push away from my desk and stand.
“You arrived home a bit before seven. How long did writing your rejection note take?”
“Two minutes. Keying in the note took about two minutes. Composing it took longer. I’ve already said I thought the poor woman was teetering on the edge of a quagmire.” In case he needs more proof of my altruistic nature, I inject a rush of faux sympathy into my tone. “I didn’t want to write something that would push her over that edge.”
“I’ve seen your note. At least the note I assume you sent.” He lays in front of me the piece of paper I’d left in Tracy’s cold, dead hand.
I pretend to read it, nod—God, again with the nodding. I raise my eyes to find him studying me with his mongoose-intensity. “This is my note. Did you find it at her home?”
“I prefer not to answer that question. I’m sure you appreciate the value of discretion.”
Definitely sarcasm this time, but I smile. “You need say no more, Detective.”
“I’m sorry to say, I do. I’m still unclear what time you left this facility.”
“A man with a mind like a steel trap,” I joke, relating the time with astounding patience. “By the time I wrapped my surprise gift for my wife, I think it was close to 5:45 when I left.”
“Thank you.” He finally gets to his feet. Shaking my hand, eye contact penetratingly aggressive, he adds, “I’d like your address, Mr. Romanov. And a phone number for your wife.”
Chapter 28
SHE
Muted morning sunlight dribbles into the office of Professor Ari Hoffman. If the cliché is true about neat offices and dull minds, the detritus in Ari’s office shows why he received a MacArthur Fellowship Award.
His laptop, on a stack of journals, sits in the only inch of clear space. Yellow, orange, green, and pink sticky notes plaster a stand-alone monitor, flanked by human biology models. An aquarium filled with turquoise and silver-neon fish occupies one full wall. Stuffed bookshelves soar upward. If I hid behind the lush, dangling tendrils on the spider plants, would anyone ever find me?
Dressed in a bulky black sweater over my yoga pants, hair tucked under a black safari hat, I feel naked without my red Stanford sweatshirt and baseball cap.
Strains of Mozart trigger memories of Ari’s monk-like room in Minneapolis. What happened to those long days and nights we spent together?
My throat closes. Edward happened, then Michael happened. So sorry, Ari.
I stand straighter, knock on the jamb, and call his name. Will he help me?
“Welcome to my chamber.” A disembodied voice, followed by a laugh, floats from under the desk. “Clear off any of the chairs, Miz Laine. Put stuff anywhere you like.”
Chairs? I gaze around and swallow a laugh. “I don’t want to disturb anything.”
“It is hard to recognize chairs from the flotsam.”
“I—I don’t have much time.” Stomach fluttering, I glance at my watch. Skipping yoga class has given me a free hour and a half, but every word I rehearsed begging Ari for help has faded from memory.
I may not be an idiot, but I am a fool. I turn to tiptoe out of the office. Why did I imagine Ari—after all the years—would help me figure out how to escape Michael? What was I thinking? Fantasizing?
“Running away, AnnaSophia?”
A piece of sculpture at the end of the hall blurs. A rushing fills my ears.
“C’mon.” A vice clamps onto my elbow, turns me slowly back into the office, and guides me behind his desk. He’s four, maybe five inches taller than me—though his out-of-control black hair adds at least a foot to his height.
“Sit here. Don’t want you fainting. My mouth-to-mouth resuscitation’s pretty rusty.”
His words come from far away. His stocky, fire-plug shape makes me feel steadier, but I shuffle like a hundred-year-old woman just removed from life support. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t move.” He keeps a light hand on my shoulder and lowers me into the chair. “I’ve got water in the fridge.”
Don’t move? Is he crazy? My mind jitters. I have to move. Get out of here. Return to the SUV. I close my eyes. Get out. Now.
I feel the coolness of a plastic bottle in my hand. I gulp water and avoid his gaze.
“In case you’re worried about carbon footprints, I imbibe from a canteen. The plastic bottles I keep for students and visitors.” The skin around his eyes crinkles, and his smile invites me to laugh with him at his nerdiness.
A laugh requires too much self-control, but I drain the water bottle, study it, then pronounce, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“And yours is safe with me.” He hikes his hip on the edge of his desk, knocking off several journals which he ignores. “I’d decided you were never coming in for a visit.”
“How’d you know it was me in your class? Laine isn’t such an unusual last name.”
He nods. “Neither is Marja in a college environment. I remember your mother well.”
“She always liked you.” She adored Michael. Edward reaped her disapproval.
“Her first name and last name on the roster piqued my interest. But I picked you out the second day of class.”
“How? I mean, you’re a genius, but how?”
“Owww.” He slaps his left hand over his right lung. “That genius remark smarts.”
My laugh is weak, but my breathing slows and I say, “I thought I was being the genius—using an alias.”
“Why is that, Mrs. Ro—”
“Professor Hoffman?”
The light, breathy voice carries no threat, but I jump, ready to dive under the desk.
“Hello, Grace,” Ari shifts his broad shoulders, shielding me from the girl’s view.
“Good morning, Professor.” in the hall, a tiny, blue-haired Chinese girl peers over her thick glasses. She requests an appointment later that day, and Ari readily agrees to eleven. She inputs something on her smart phone, then stuffs it in her backpack, thanks him, and leaves.
He gets up and closes the door. “No guarantees we won’t be interrupted, but . . .”
“Do you know all your students’ names?”
“Most. Grace is pre-med. She’s taken all six of my classes.”
“You were explaining how you recognized me. I thought my disguise was perfect.”
“Your disguise is good. Especially smart to hide your hair.”
>
My hand goes automatically to the safari hat. I tug it lower. “And the shades?”
“Good choice.” He pauses, sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Sunglasses, head covered. Clothes two sizes too big—your coed-persona. I could still spot you on campus a mile away.”
“You could not.”
“Your walk, mostly. You carried your head really high. With your chin out. Shoulders back. And you walked fast. Loped, more accurately. Like a jungle cat—though I’d never seen any jungle cats except in the zoo.”
“Three days a week I walk across the lecture hall and take my seat. I’ve never gone past you when you weren’t surrounded by mobs of students.”
“Uh-huh, but you definitely stand out in the crowd. Plus, you never sit in the same seat. You always sit close to the doors—an escape in case you want out fast?” He shrugs. “I’m a biologist. Trained to observe.”
I hug my waist to control an involuntary shiver. He is trained to observe. Coming to him was a mistake. I recap the empty water bottle and lean forward, legs trembling.
Not a good idea to stand. I summon a bright, distracting voice. “Just wanted to stop and say hi. See if you remembered me. Tell you how much I enjoy the class.”
“Great, but why the alias? Why the disguise—your word, by the way.”
Damn. I press my lips together. His knee juts out at an angle that blocks passage to the door. If I charge past him, he could easily fall off the desk. I shift in my chair—a schoolgirl summoned to see the principal.
Except I came voluntarily.
“Michael’s name is so well known, I prefer to travel incognito.” I strike a movie-star pose, head tilted toward the ceiling, knees turned away from him, fingers at the side of a fake, pouty mouth.
“Think he’d ever guest lecture in one of my classes?”
His sudden change of subject closes my throat, but I swallow only once, before saying, “I imagine so. He likes speaking in public.”
“I’ve heard him. Several times. Dr. Amy Chin invites him once a semester to speak to her residents about drug interactions.”
Really? I bite back the question. “You should ask him.”
