As I pass through the bustling cubicle maze on the fourteenth floor, a stern looking fellow in his early to mid-forties, but well-aged, taps my shoulder, nearly causing me to drop my things. Tyler Hanson, head of Marketing. “Are you lost?” he asks, more an accusation than an attempt to help.
Time to slip into character. I think Martine McCutcheon from Love, Actually will do nicely. It’s the perfect mix of eager, nervous, and bumbling. Maybe a little Anna Kendrick for the voice, though. A cockney accent would be a little too much for Omaha.
“No? Maybe? I mean probably,” I stammer. “Is this Accounts?”
“No, this is Marketing. Maybe you’d better move along, little girl.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry. It’s just it’s my first day and Mrs. Stevens in Receiving told me to bring this file to Mr. Ortez in Accounts, and I was supposed to bring him coffee too, but now it’s getting cold because I can’t find his office, and-”
“Paulo Ortez?” he asks, cutting me off. If you can keep a frantic rambling going long enough, they’ll always cut you off and give you what you want just to make you go away. “He’s two floors down, but he doesn’t drink coffee.”
His intimidating stare grows suspicious, so I let the color drain from my face and gasp deeply.
“Who are you again?” he asks.
“Shit,” I say, feigning terror and glancing at the empty space in my four-cup holder. “Shit shit shit.” I quickly cover my mouth and shoot my eyes even wider. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to swear it’s just…” I clench my fist and let out a sort of grunt/groan hybrid. “I gave Mrs. Stevens the wrong cup. She’s going to be pissed and now she has the wrong drink and Mr. Ortez is going to have the wrong drink and I don’t even know what floor I’m supposed to be on. I am so dead. Please don’t tell anyone. I can’t lose this job. I need it. I have student loans to pay off. I have my rent. I swear I won’t mix up anyone’s drinks or go to the wrong floor again. I just-”
“Enough,” he says. “He’s down on the tenth. Just please stop your incessant yammering.”
He turns to walk away, but I follow.
“Thanks, sir. I really appreciate it. If you need anything, anything at all, faxes sent, files collated, coffee fetched, just let me know. Honest. I would have been fired for sure.”
I stay on him like a lonesome puppy, gushing my thanks until finally he breaks down and forces me onto an elevator, mashing the tenth-floor button and waving goodbye to me as the doors close. By no coincidence are we standing next to the executive elevator when he grows exasperated with me. It isn’t terribly hard to corner a person when he’s afraid of the lawsuit that might come if he touches you. Nor is it a coincidence that I end up “lost” on the floor of the most micromanaging, short-tempered exec on the board and at a time when he is most likely be in no mood for games, right before lunch. No sooner do the doors close then I push the button for the top floor and say a silent thank you to the puppet Hanson.
I put my frantic face back on as the elevator dings and opens upon an impressive second lobby hundreds of feet in the air. The walls have mahogany paneling, and there are large glass windows all around, indicating the offices of this important person or that. This I expected. It looks much like the executive floors I’ve seen on TV. What takes me by surprise is the fountain, nothing large, but still there, over forty stories up. It seems extravagant, but I suppose a company as successful as Thomson’s can afford an extravagance or two.
Just beyond the fountain, between it and a wall of pure glass stands a round, solid wood desk, and at that desk sits a woman in her mid-thirties, flaming red hair pulled back into a neat bun. She’s older than I anticipated. The faceplate embedded in the front panel reads simply Beverly McFaden. Nowhere on her desk does it say she serves as his secretary, a sign of Mr. Thompson’s high esteem for her. What’s more, her faceplate, upon closer inspection, appears to be no plate at all, which could easily be swapped out, but a permanent feature carved into the desk itself.
As she stares me down, I look past her into the room beyond. Thompson’s office. I can see the very tip of his graying head sticking up above the back of his leather chair, but he’s turned away from me. I glance quickly, nervously around, ostensibly trying to find a specific office, but my primary focus is not names on doors. I’m hunting security cameras in corners. There are a couple, one already staring me down. They have my face, but they had that the moment I stepped in the building. So long as I do my job properly, no one will suspect foul play or think to even check the footage.
“Can I help you?” asks Beverly with that same clipped, practiced perkiness she had on the phone.
“I was running errands for Mister Hanson,” I say, because screw that guy. “You know, running files, getting coffee, and he said I should get one for Mister Thompson on account of his vacation being interrupted and he would probably want something to jump start him on account of his age, though I imagine Mister Hanson probably didn’t mean for me to say that last part, and if it ever gets back that I did, he’ll probably fire me, so could you keep that under your hat because I really need this job and…”
I gasp for breath. Beverly still hasn’t interrupted me, and I don’t think I have much more of this sort of BS left in me.
“And you are?” she asks, thumbing through an appointment book we both know I won’t be in.
“Bette. Bette Davis,” I say and kick myself for not coming up with something less absurd earlier.
“Bette Davis?” she asks, raising the most skeptical eyebrow I have ever seen, and that’s including the time I was fifteen when Houston caught me sneaking home past midnight and I said that I was volunteering at an animal shelter.
“Yeah, like the actress but with a ‘y’ instead,” I add quickly, hoping the detail makes it more idiosyncratic and thus more believable. “It’s stupid. I’ve been getting that look my whole life.”
“And who let you into the elevator, Betty?” She strikes the name like a hammer against an anvil.
“Please,” I say. “I just need to drop off this coffee and say, ‘Mister Hanson thought you could use this.’ That’s all.”
She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and teeth, hums a bit, and scrawls something down on a notepad. “He isn’t seeing anyone today,” she says without looking at me.
“It’ll only take a second.”
When she regards me again, my blood turns to frozen cherry slushy beneath her withering gaze. “He isn’t seeing anyone today. At all. If you would like to leave the coffee, I can take it in as soon as he’s ready.”
“Sure,” I say, and pull it from its holder. “Just remember the message. About Mister Hanson.” Because screw that guy. As I move to hand her the cup, I step down as hard as I can on my heel, forcing it to snap. I stumble, and coffee flies everywhere, spilling across her desk, soaking through papers and possibly ruining her keyboard. I worry my pratfall may have looked a little cartoony, but Beverly seems too angry to notice how absurdly I fell. Coffee puddles on the marble floor of the foyer into creamy mocha pools. The hydrogenated oils that made up the fake whipped cream will no doubt be a pain to clean up and will make the floor slick for the rest of the day. I hate to draw attention to myself, but I don’t want to risk anyone else but Mister Thompson taking the cup and having the wrong person keel over dead. That wouldn’t be professional, and I have a name to make for myself.
“Shit,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. I hope it comes off as deeply horrified and apologetic and not some bad rehash of Natalie’s bit from Love, Actually. Maybe if I swear enough, she’ll remember the profanity but not the face. “Shit! I’m so sorry. Damn it! Shit!”
“Get out of here,” Beverly says through clenched teeth.
I wave my hands apologizing, placating, collecting my broken shoe and files.
“Should I use the elevator?” I ask.
Beverly says nothing, only points angrily in the general direction of far away. I nod, stumble to the elevator, and climb in.
The poisoned coffee was a bust, but there are other ways to kill a man that will not arouse suspicion.
Chapter 6
JAMIE
NO ALLIES FOR PROTECTION
The press conference went well enough. There were several people I struggled not to picture naked, a pox upon Bill’s lecherous instincts, but thanks to the podium, I doubt anyone noticed. A mob filled with reporters wrote down every word the Marquis fed me and then pressed for more, even after I clearly said no questions. At that point, there was nothing to do but keep shouting “no questions” back at them until I could make my way inside. It put me in a bit of a foul mood, which worked in my favor. Though I had to deal with more than a few stares as I walked the halls, people at least had respect enough to keep their distance until I could slam Bill’s office door shut and lock the bolt.
Everyone seemed to buy that Bill had barricaded himself in the office and barred all visitors as a temperamental side effect of having his vacation cancelled, which was good because it allowed me to sit in his office and, after receiving tech support assistance from the Marquis, get the real Bill Thompson on conference call to handle any issues that may arise. The Marquis likewise had done a stunning job shutting down the shadow government’s spy program because I saw no drones all morning, and the only helicopter to go by was the KETV Channel 7 traffic copter. That gave me plenty of time to take note of everyone I saw walk through the executive lobby, particularly those who gave my office any attention. I would be a fool to think that something as simple as a keycard lock would keep out an assassin.
There were a couple of deliveries, a frantic intern whom I could feel Bill’s lust hunger for, a number of confused executives. Nothing itched at my paranoia, though. I decided I should also take notes during any conversations Bill had with anyone over the phone. Spotting the killer was important, but so was finding out who was behind it. After all, that piece of information was worth an extra five grand.
There were several meetings regarding the rumor mill and how it may have started. Everyone blamed everyone else for being the inside source. The head of accounts thought it was the head of sales because “she seems like the type of person to do that.” The head of sales thought it was some attention seeking kid in the mail room. That kid said it was probably IT because of access to company e-mails. I’m inclined to believe him, but the Marquis said the kid was probably an idiot and I should ignore him. Just to be safe, I checked with IT to see who they suspected, and they pinned their suspicions on the VP, because in movies, it’s always the second in command causing trouble. The vice president, Nick Presario, thought it was probably just some blogger wanting to legitimize his own wild speculation, and everyone else jumped on the bandwagon and it’s all a big game of Telephone by this point. To his credit, Nick seemed as surprised at the rumors as he was at the idea that I or Bill or whoever was taking leave. Either way, he claimed he was glad to have me “when it hit the fan.”
I ran all of these by Bill, and he agreed generally. Jenna Donaldson in sales did seem the type. The Bill part of me wanted to ask if she was the type to do other things but I shut that part down by chomping hard on my tongue. How did he even function? When the pain finally replaced his inconvenient urges, I forced my thoughts back to the topic at hand.
The snot nosed kid in the mail room was always causing trouble for Legal by posting wild nonsense on the Facebook. IT, he said, could theoretically pull off tapping everyone’s e-mails, but since Bill had never said word one about anything related to the rumors, there would be nothing for the IT snoop to read and report on. Finally, Nick Presario constantly pushed for big changes, mostly slashes to product or employee quality to boost profits. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to want to take charge more directly. I pressed Bill for anyone else who might want him dead, and having already run down a list of a half-dozen theories, the paranoia part of his brain must have kicked into high gear. Suddenly everyone had some possible motive. His secretary Beverley. She asked for a raise several months ago and he said not now, maybe later. The maintenance man. Bill once blamed a fart on him, only later to find out he had an interest in a woman who was riding in the elevator with them at the time. When someone wants you dead, suddenly everyone looks like an assassin.
“Bill, do you honestly think Elevator Guy would have you killed over a fart?” I asked. “Be reasonable.”
“There’s nothing reasonable about hiring someone to kill another human being, so why should the motive be?” he said.
“Then do you think Elevator Guy could afford to have you killed?”
“I don’t know,” said Bill. “Not a top of the line killer, but maybe some friend who’s strapped for cash or maybe a drug addict who needs money for a fix. A hit for a hit, right?”
“I think if it were that sort of assassination, they would have made their move already. Drug addicts aren’t known for their patience, and they certainly aren’t going to wait several days when there’s a piece of sweet relief waiting for them on the other side of that murder.”
Bill didn’t seem entirely convinced, but I pushed on. After all, he wasn’t the one staring down the barrel of a gun. I was. And coming back or no, that’s unpleasant if the killer isn’t a dyed in the wool professional.
“Let’s change our plan of attack, Bill,” I said. “How about instead of looking at who might want you dead or who could afford what quality killer or why someone might want you dead, we look at how people respond to the rumors or how they feel about you being back at work?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that makes a bit more sense.”
There was an awkward pause. “Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“What are your thoughts on how people have responded?”
“I don’t know,” said Bill. “I haven’t seen them. You have.”
He had a point. I was really hoping to use his familiarity with these people to weed out suspects, but he wasn’t here to help, to see who was behaving oddly. And because I wasn’t physically seeing people, technically, I couldn’t see who was behaving oddly either. Damn again. I hated leaving myself vulnerable before I knew what to look for.
“Before I go step out of the office and put my neck on the line, I’d like to ask you about a few people.”
“Sure,” he said. “Anything to catch this killer.”
“Three women,” I said. “When I became you, there were these flashes. I almost never get memory flashes from bodies I put on, but with you, I had a flash of three women. A short haired blonde. Young. Really pretty.”
“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” he said. “I’ve known a lot of pretty young blondes in my life.”
“There was an Elvis song scratched in the background,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, then more sadly, “oh…”
He was silent for a moment and I thought I heard a sniffle.
“That was Constance. My wife.”
“You’re married?” I asked.
“Was,” he said.
“What happened?”
“I’d… I’d rather not talk about it.”
“It’s important,” I said. “I need to know about anyone who may want you dead for any reason.”
“All you need to know is it isn’t her.”
I thought to push him for more information, but there was a hard edge I didn’t feel like blunting my resolve against. I moved on.
“Black woman in the back of a truck.”
“Her?” he asked. “Really? How do you even know about her?”
“She popped into my head,” I said. “You tell me how I know about her.”
“She was nothing,” said Bill. “I only saw her the once. I don’t even know her name.”
“So why does she spring to mind so quickly when you’re…”
“When I’m what?”
I hemmed and hawed a bit, trying to figure out how to phrase it delicately. “What makes her significant?”
“That was a memory from a couple of ye
ars ago,” he said. “I’m pretty sure you noticed by now that I’m no Sean Connery. I’m not aging well. She was the first person in a long time that made me feel attractive, virile. You know what I mean? No, no of course you don’t. You’re a young man. You don’t know what it means to be yesterday’s leftovers.”
I know more than you could imagine, I thought, but kept silent on the point. “So, no love child? No paternity suits or anything like that?”
“Did you see how old that woman was?” he asked. “If she got pregnant by me, the first person she should call is Ripley’s Believe It or Not!”
“Lastly. Young girl. Dark hair, round face that comes to a point. Cupid’s bow lips. Spring dress. I think it was in a park.”
“You’re just meddling in all my dirty laundry,” Bill said with a touch of venom in his voice. “Didn’t you get a single clean memory from me? Something about my mom or a high school best friend?”
“I didn’t choose to see your memories,” I said. “Trust me. If I could control it, I would have gotten something that would help me fake my way through this whole running a retail giant thing.”
“I guess,” he mumbled, but didn’t seem too keen about it.
“Who was she?”
“A mistake.”
“And what was the name of this mistake?”
“Valerie Edgerton.” He resented telling me, I could sense it. “She came on to me a few months ago. I’m sixty-four. Pretty young things don’t come on to me anymore.”
“So, what did you do?”
“You saw it,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed or both. “What didn’t we do? We screwed like rabbits. We did every dirty thing we could think of. Fire hoses couldn’t separate us.”
“And?”
“And what? A gal can’t be an important memory to a guy by simple virtue of being the best lay he’s had in over a decade?”
The Professional Corpse (The Departed Book 1) Page 6
