Where The Bodies Are Buried (The Jeri Howard Series Book 8)

by Janet Dawson

  “I’m taking a break,” she told him, her face hardening. “California law says I’m entitled to a ten-minute break, morning and afternoon. I didn’t take one this morning, and I’m taking it now.”

  She swept past him and down the hall toward the elevator. Hank stared after her with astonishment. “What did I do?” he said helplessly.

  He really didn’t have a clue. I reached for the papers he held. “I’ll take care of this,” I said, moving toward the fax machine. He nodded, mumbled his thanks, and disappeared, leaving me alone with his fax.

  I sat down at my desk and glanced at the pages. The first was a cover sheet from Hank to Art Walton, the attorney in El Paso that he’d received a fax from earlier in the week. The cover sheet was marked “Confidential,” and the subject line read “Project Rio.” The document to be faxed was a brief paragraph from Hank indicating that things were moving along as expected and there were “no problems re Sheffield.” Was the Sheffield purchase part of Project Rio? That meant the addresses left out of the agreement I was typing were in El Paso.

  Nancy returned from Alex’s office and picked up her phone. I stepped over to the fax machine, punching in the required numbers before placing the sheets facedown in the feeder. By the time the pages had fed through the fax machine, Gladys had come back from her jaunt to the espresso place, her mood evidently improved by a caffeine fix from the mocha she held in one hand. She surrendered my latte.

  “I sent Hank’s fax,” I told her, taking a restorative sip of my coffee.

  “Thanks.” She sighed. “I get so irked with these attorneys. They all act like they’re the only ones who need work done, and they all want it done right now. I just had to get some fresh air.” She tapped the sign she’d stuck up on the wall of her cubicle, the one that read LACK OF PLANNING ON YOUR PART DOESN’T JUSTIFY A CRISIS ON MINE. She grinned. “I should make a copy of this for all of them. They probably wouldn’t get it, though. I guess I’d better go look for that file.”

  She headed down the hall again, this time toward the riling room. I moved back to my cubicle. Nancy was still on the phone, and I strained my ears to pick up her end of the conversation, especially when I heard her ask to speak to Mr. Rittlestone’s secretary.

  She was quiet for a moment, probably because whoever had answered the phone on the other end had put her on hold. Then she straightened and she spoke again.

  “This is Nancy Fong, Mr. Campbell’s secretary. Please tell Mr. Rittlestone that Mr. Campbell has rescheduled his appointment. He will be available at five-thirty.” She paused, listening. “No, Mr. Bates is out of the office today. The meeting will be in conference room one, here on the fourth floor.”

  Nancy disconnected the call and punched in another number. I heard enough of this second conversation to realize that she was canceling whatever Alex had on his calendar for this afternoon at five-thirty.

  This meeting must be important, especially if Rittlestone was coming to Oakland for it. Since Rittlestone and Weper owned a controlling interest of Bates, I would have expected him to exercise his power and summon the company’s executives to the R&W office in San Francisco. But I knew Rittlestone came to the Oakland office. He’d been here Tuesday, standing on the steps of the building with David right before he’d turned and nearly knocked me down.

  It seemed this afternoon’s meeting would be held in the absence of chief executive officer Jeff Bates, and after most of the rank-and-file employees had vacated the building. I wanted to know what went on in that conference room. Unless I was a fly on the wall, there was no way for me to find out, short of listening at keyholes. That was a slim option, but still a possibility.

  I finished the tape I was transcribing for Hank and printed out two copies, one for him and one for myself. Then I tackled a tape Patricia had left in the rush box. It was a four-page memo, and when I’d completed that, I headed across the hall to deliver the original. When I walked into her office, she sat in her chair with the telephone receiver in her right hand, looking at it with a peculiar expression on her face. I guessed that she’d just received a call, or perhaps she’d been checking her voice mail. Whatever the case, from the look on her face, one of the messages had contained bad news.

  Slowly she set the receiver back in its cradle. She looked at me as though she’d never seen me before, then shook herself slightly, to dispel a mood. She took the memo from me. “Give me a few minutes to review this. I’m sure I’ll be making some changes.”

  I was sure of it, too. I detoured to the restroom. When I picked up the memo, Patricia had made more than a few changes. All four pages were now covered with scribbles in red ink, and she’d added several paragraphs on the back of the last page.

  I finished the revisions and took the memo back across the hall. Patricia was standing on the other side of her desk, pulling papers from the thick accordion file she’d been carrying earlier. It was the one containing all the files on the FDA food-safety proposals, and I wanted to look through it. But it always seemed to be in her custody.

  The phone rang as I set the memo on her desk. She made no move to answer it. Instead she stared at it as though it might bite her.

  Ordinarily I would have let the call roll over into her voice mail, but Patricia’s earlier behavior, coupled with the look on her face now, made me more than a little curious. I picked up the receiver on the third ring.

  “Patricia Mayhew’s office,” I said.

  “She there?”

  The voice was male. I’d heard it before. But where?

  I glanced at Patricia, whose mouth had tightened. She shook her head, indicating that she didn’t want to take the call.

  “I’m sorry,” I lied glibly. “She’s not available. May I take a message?”

  “You just put her on.” The voice was low and brusque. “I’m tired of leaving messages.”

  My eyebrows went up. The voice didn’t belong to the man I’d heard on the dictation tape. It was rougher, not at all businesslike.

  A personal call? I remembered what Gladys had said about Patricia going through a messy divorce. Was the man on the other end of the phone her estranged husband? But why did the voice sound familiar? I’d talked with this person before, and as far as I knew, I’d never encountered Patricia’s ex, either on the phone or in person.

  The caller said he’d been leaving messages. Messages Patricia didn’t want to hear. Which was why, presumably, she’d made no move to answer the phone.

  I covered the receiver with my palm. “He won’t take no for an answer.”

  Patricia just stood there, not moving. She frowned, as though her downturned mouth would make the caller hang up.

  The man was talking again. I raised the receiver to my ear again. “Put her on, damn it,” he growled, words slurring. “She either talks to me now, or I keep calling.”

  Recognition bloomed, like a flame igniting dry tinder. I opened my mouth in another attempt to put the caller off, then movement caught my eye. Patricia had walked around to this side of the desk, and now she reached for the phone.

  “Patricia Mayhew.” Her voice was as sharp as jagged glass. She waved at me in dismissal, indicating she didn’t want anyone overhearing her end of the conversation. As I edged toward the door I heard her say, “I told you not to call me here.”

  I’ll just bet she had. I opened the door and walked out into the hallway.

  I could think of several reasons why Charlie Kellerman would call Patricia at work, none of them good.

  Twenty-nine

  FOUR-THIRTY ROLLED AROUND, NOT SOON ENOUGH FOR GLADYS. As soon as the number came up on the clock, she switched off her computer and stood up. “I’m out of here. See you all tomorrow.”

  After Gladys walked out of Cube City, I stretched my arms, flexing my shoulders, then I exited the word processing program and turned off my own machine. I took my time gathering my belongings. Finally I said good night to Nancy, who was still in her cubicle. She glanced up at me and murmured a response.
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br />   I walked out into the east hallway and quickly past Rob’s old office to the north hall, where the restrooms were located. Coming toward me was Ann Twomey. She was Jeff Bates’s secretary, a tall middle-aged woman who favored conservative suits. She smiled at me as she entered the doorway leading to the copy room. I pushed open the door to the women’s rest-room. Two women were there, changing from work clothes into jeans. I entered one of the stalls and used the toilet. By the time I came out and washed my hands, they’d departed, carrying dresses on hangers. I went back into the stall and waited.

  In the week or so I’d worked at Bates, I’d noticed that the building cleared out quickly at quitting time. Those employees who were paid hourly were the ones most likely to leave at four-thirty. Bates, like many companies, wasn’t interested in paying overtime unless it was absolutely necessary. Executives, like the attorneys, stayed longer. It was expected of them, in return for their larger salaries.

  I was sure Hank would be working late that afternoon, to make up for lost time after three days away on business. It made sense for him to linger in his office, taking advantage of the next hour or so when he wasn’t likely to be interrupted by the phone or other people. For all I knew, he was scheduled to attend that five-thirty meeting with Yale Rittlestone and Alex.

  As for Patricia, after the phone call she’d received from Charlie Kellerman, I wondered if she’d bail out of the office early, or stay to work. With any luck, it would be the former.

  Nancy Fong was paid hourly, but would she stay at her post longer, because of the five-thirty meeting? I was hoping she wouldn’t. The fewer people there were hanging around the hallways at Bates this afternoon would mean fewer people to wonder why Jeri Howard was there. That is, if I got caught. I wasn’t planning on getting caught, but anything could happen.

  I hid out in the restroom as long as I dared, then I exited at ten minutes after five. I moved quietly as I walked along the east hallway toward Cube City. It looked as though there was still a light on in Patricia’s office. That meant she was working late. I heard her talking, but couldn’t make out any words. Hers was the only voice I heard, so that meant she was speaking into the phone.

  I peered in the doorway of Cube City. Nancy was still at her desk, her back to me. I retraced my steps to the north hallway, which was fortunately empty. I glanced back the way I’d come, just in time to see David enter Hank’s office.

  I retreated past the copy room to the freight elevator, then dodged into the legal department file room. I waited there, hoping no one would need to retrieve a file from one of the cabinets. I left the door ajar, just a crack, and saw Tonya Russell walk into the copy room. The high-tech photocopier hummed and whirred, then Tonya went back to her office.

  It was now twenty minutes past five. I left the file room and went back to where the north hallway turned the corner into the east hallway. The door to Cube City was open, and it looked as though the light was on. I’d been hoping that Nancy would be gone now, but evidently she wasn’t. Then I saw her step out of Cube City, carrying her jacket and a canvas tote bag. She shut the door and headed in the direction of the elevator.

  I heard voices, then the door of Hank’s office opened. He and David walked out, then Hank opened Alex’s door. A moment later, the general counsel joined them. All three men walked out of sight into the south hallway. I went in that direction. As I passed Patricia’s door, I heard her voice, still talking on the phone, I guessed. As I approached the door of Cube City, I figured if anyone surprised me in the hallway, I could dodge inside and spin a story about how I’d forgotten something and had to come back.

  I looked around the corner into the south hallway. Just then the elevator bell pinged and the doors opened.

  “Hello, Yale,” David said.

  It was about twenty feet from where I stood to the area in front of the elevator. I wished I could get a closer look, but I’d have to settle for examining them from my point of concealment.

  The four men assembled in front of the elevator were shaking hands as they greeted one another, and for a moment my view was impeded by Hank’s back.

  Alex looked worried. Was it a bad sign that Rittlestone had left his San Francisco office and journeyed to this side of the bay?

  This was the third time I’d seen Rittlestone. The first was when he was standing on the steps outside the Bates building with David. I’d gotten a closer look later that day at Embarcadero Four with Patricia. Now I saw him more clearly, noting that he was not as tall as David. That put him at six feet, I thought, possibly a shade over. He had a slim, wiry build, athletic and tanned, and he wore a black suit that contrasted with his straight blond hair. His expression was bland in its smoothness. His manner was cool as he traded greetings with the others, and I got the impression he was enjoying Alex’s discomfort. I had a feeling his eyes were cold.

  My guess was confirmed when Rittlestone turned and I saw his face. In that moment, he surveyed the others as though he were in a fish market and they were stretched out on the ice, bellies shining and eyes and mouths gaping open. Which of them would get eaten first?

  “Let’s get on with it,” he said coldly.

  They walked past Jeff Bates’s corner office and disappeared into the west hallway, headed toward conference room one. I followed, hoping I wouldn’t get spotted by some secretary working late. I had to know what was going on at the meeting. I’d heard plenty of rumors about Hank being anointed to replace Alex as general counsel. Was this it? Was Alex being handed his walking papers and his golden parachute?

  The west hallway was clear. Both Jeff Bates’s and David’s offices were dark. I moved toward the conference room door, hoping that I could eavesdrop on something, anything.

  I could hear voices, all right. But they were all talking at once. I tilted my head toward the door and concentrated on who was saying what. I picked out Alex’s voice, cautioning restraint, then Hank saying something I couldn’t quite make out.

  Then I heard David, clear as a bell and with a tone that made him sound more unconcerned than his words would indicate. “If word gets out about this, we’re fucked.”

  Rittlestone’s voice was icy and unmistakable. His words were flavored with irritation. “It’s your job to keep us from getting fucked, David. Nobody’s going to find out. Is that clear?” He paused. I pictured him looking at each man in the conference room, as though waiting for their acknowledgment.

  Were they talking about the retirement money after all? Or maybe the subject of the meeting was the big secret known as Project Rio. What else was going on at Bates that was so hot it had to be kept under wraps?

  “Have there been any inquiries?” Hank said. Alex answered him, but I couldn’t hear the words. Then several voices spoke at once.

  Rittlestone silenced them when he began talking again. With a start, I realized where I’d heard his voice before. It was on the tape Patricia had dictated earlier in the week.

  I edged closer to the conference room door, then froze as I heard the faint ping of the elevator. The doors opened and closed. I moved farther down the west hallway, away from the conference room. I dodged around a corner to the north corridor, then peered back the way I’d come.

  Rounding the corner from the south to the west hallway was the man I had hoped to avoid. Buck Tarcher. He paused for a moment at the door to the conference room, as though he was listening to what was going on inside.

  I headed for the place I’d hidden earlier, the restrooms. I pushed open the door marked “Women” and quickly hid in the stall on the far end.

  According to Gladys, the corporate security chief patrolled the Bates building each evening before leaving. He moved at random, she said, picking one or two floors, skipping one section of offices while thoroughly searching another. Just my luck that he’d picked this floor tonight. However, since the executive offices, legal department, and human resources were on this floor, no doubt he kept a close eye on it at all times,

  I hoped Tarcher’s
inspection tour didn’t include checking the johns. I waited, hearing him whistle something as he made his way along the hall. Damned if he didn’t go into the men’s room. But his visit turned out to be a call of nature rather than a stall-by-stall search. I heard water rush through the pipes as he flushed.

  He passed on the ladies. Hallelujah, I thought, straining my ears as the tuneless whistle receded. I waited a few minutes more, then I emerged from my hiding place. I retraced my steps from the north hall to the west, peering around the corner first, to make sure no one was there. The coast was clear so far. But I couldn’t hear any voices coming from the conference room. Was the meeting over? Then the door opened and Hank came out. He walked to the south hallway, as though heading for his office.

  I circled around the long way, past the restrooms and to the east hall. Patricia’s office was dark. She must have gone home. I waited, then saw Hank come out of his office and head back toward the conference room.

  Then my luck ran out. When I turned the corner into the south hallway, Patricia opened the door of Alex’s office and walked out, looking upset. I was at the doorway of Cube City, and as she glanced my way, I put my hand on the doorknob, as though I’d just left the place. It was the best I could do at short notice.

  “You’re here awfully late,” she said conversationally, glancing at her watch.

  I shrugged and fiddled with the zipper that closed my shoulder bag. “I’d already driven out of the parking lot, then realized that I’d left something in my desk. Had to come back.”

  I didn’t elaborate further, and Patricia didn’t ask. Did she believe me? I couldn’t tell. She didn’t look as though she was interested in my reasons for being here after hours. She looked worried, as she had since she’d gotten that phone call from Charlie Kellerman.

  I wanted to ask her what she’d been doing in Alex’s office. Instead, I walked toward the stairwell and got the hell out of there before the corporate security chief made another stroll in my direction. Patricia might be too preoccupied to wonder about me, but Tarcher was already viewing me with suspicion.