Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  The carpets were gold, the furniture a muted white-gold, the receptionist’s desk bow-drawered with pale fruit and flowers painted on it.

  Nothing could have suited the receptionist less. She was tall and square-faced, muscles bulging the arms of her knit sheath. In contrast to the filigree curls of the Renaissance women, her hair was a blunt-cut and dark, threaded with grey. Her eyes were smart and hard beneath thick straight brows. Sitting at her desk, she was the only thing in the room that was blatantly, undemurely of this century.

  Sandy tried again to engage her in conversation. “So you were here two days ago? Must have been awful.”

  She glanced at him. Her expression said, What do you think?

  “You have my card there,” Sandy continued, his tone as pleasant as if she’d offered a chipper reply. “I’m investigating the shooting.”

  “Ms. More,” she said carefully, “should be free to see you soon. As I said.”

  “You were here, though? When it happened?”

  The look she tossed me—Can’t you keep your dog quiet?—almost made me laugh.

  “The police have asked us not to discuss it.” She picked up the telephone receiver, pointedly dialing a number.

  It proved useless as an avoidance technique. Her party apparently didn’t pick up.

  After she replaced the receiver, Sandy continued. “So you heard her say, ‘A sign of the times.’ What do you think she meant?”

  The receptionist folded her arms across her chest, regarding him steadily. “I’ve been asked not to discuss the matter.”

  “But you heard it yourself? You’re sure? Not just, that’s what someone else said?” Sandy’s tone remained light, as if she hadn’t already refused to answer, not once, but twice.

  His persistence paid off. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes welled. “I heard her myself. I was standing near her.”

  “‘A sign of the times?’“

  “That’s right.” Again she picked up the receiver. “I’m not supposed to talk about this. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Kind of hard you have to work today.” Sandy’s tone was tinged with mild outrage. It was a voice to encourage complaints.

  “Kind of hard to do without the day’s wages.” She nearly smiled.

  “A good labor firm like this can’t give you paid time off? Situation like this?”

  “A management firm could afford to give me the whole damn month off.” Her cheeks infused with color. “But virtue has to be its own reward.”

  “Not always,” said a quiet voice.

  Maryanne More stood at the entrance to the inner office hall. She wore a dark brown suit that buttoned up the throat. Her light brown hair was full and glossy, but tied back. She looked midfortyish, unwrinkled but unpainted, her brows and lashes pale, her lips barely glossed. She wasn’t beautiful, not nearly, but I found myself admiring her looks. She showed more taste than vanity.

  The receptionist cracked a private-joke smile.

  “We like to think we work longer and harder than the other side,” More continued, “because the vanguard never rests.”

  “By definition, I guess.” Sandy rose, crossing to her with his arm extended. “Thanks for seeing us.” He pumped her hand. “You remember Laura.”

  I stepped up beside him. He was taking imperious control of this visit. I supposed that was fair—it was his idea. But was there some agenda? Were we here to learn something in particular?

  I greeted Maryanne More, but didn’t renew my condolences. I wanted to distance memories of our last encounter. Up close, I could see her eyelids were swollen, almost lavender.

  “Well,” she said, once the amenities were honored, “come on back to my office.”

  “Actually,” Sandy’s gesture swept the reception area, “comfortable enough out here, and I was thinking if Ms….” He smiled at the receptionist. “I didn’t get your name.” When she didn’t offer it, he rolled on. “It might be useful if we all talked.”

  The two women exchanged surprised glances.

  “I was only speaking for myself when I agreed to talk to you today,” More pointed out.

  “Oh, I know,” Sandy hastened to assure them. “And I’m not meaning to pressure anybody, but …” An apologetic glance at me, maybe a little too theatrical. “Let me put my cards on the table. Laura is my fiancée.” He didn’t check to see if I was managing a straight face. “I’m trying to find out if someone was shooting at her out of craziness, or on purpose, or not at all because their aim’s that good.”

  “We can’t possibly tell you that,” the receptionist said firmly. “And really, I’m sorry, but I’m not, I don’t want to talk—”

  “Look,” Sandy turned toward her, stepping closer. “Someone might be trying to kill Laura. I need to know everything I can. I really need to know.” He invested the last words with slow weight. “I can’t do less than that. Imagine, god forbid, I take ‘no’ for an answer and something you know could have helped me.”

  His face wasn’t visible to me. Whatever was on it, the receptionist caught her breath. She even took a slight step back.

  But she shook her head. “I just can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.” The words came out in an uninflected rush, as if she’d rehearsed them.

  “I can’t force you,” he conceded. “I can beg.”

  She flushed, eyes narrowing. “Sorry,” she repeated.

  Maryanne More said pleasantly, “Why don’t you follow me back to my office. I’ll heat water, if you’d care for tea?”

  I hung back, leaving the next move to Sandy. When More turned, he had no choice but to follow. But his backward glance told me he hadn’t given up.

  More’s office lacked the angelic warmth of Kinsley’s. Though it echoed Renaissance themes of the outer office, it was a darker room, with moody chiaroscuro portraits and carved mahogany furniture. The carpets were deep green and the walls a shade lighter. With its built-in bookcases, it resembled a manor house library but for a corner of computer equipment and a clutter of file folders.

  Sandy complimented her on it.

  She looked around, almost wistfully. “So much of my work involves new technology—squabbling over patents and copyrights, getting licenses in place, defining the rights of employee-developers. I have to learn the technology in every case, the way the chips work, the fiber optics, how the software and hardware interact and how you decide which is which. It’s gets so that, however much I respect and admire the technological advances, I long to touch real paper, real bindings. Books are becoming antiques, to be fondled and treasured. And magazines, especially arts and graphics magazines, with their luxuriously thick paper—” She grinned wistfully. “To have an image exist independent of a glowing screen, to have it fixed indelibly on a matte surface, seems a fleeting miracle. It can’t last much longer. We’ll read everything on our screens one day, and books will be curios. Maybe then they’ll get the respect they deserve.”

  Sandy seemed a bit off balance.

  “You have quite an art collection,” I observed. I sat down, freeing her to cross to the other side of a low table and do the same.

  “I’ve been a collector for a long time,” she told me. “I hoped at one time to become an artist—I studied at the Sorbonne. But …”

  Sandy joined me on the green leather couch. “Not much of a market?”

  “No.” Her pale brows pinched. “That wasn’t it. Certainly it wasn’t a factor for my contemporaries—many of them forged ahead. I suppose I just couldn’t find my voice. I could study and copy, but either I didn’t have a statement to make, or I couldn’t quiet the background chatter. Technique is never enough, is it? I’ve heard software developer clients say they suddenly—often briefly—acquire a kind of enlightenment. It lights their path to creation. Whereas I was a Xerox machine with a brush, my classmates were seeing something entirely new
. They were dipping their brushes into some internal well I couldn’t find.”

  To my shock, tears spilled from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” She wiped them impatiently. “Every conversation since Jocelyn … I end up crying. Everything takes a sad turn. Maybe two days ago I’d have told you how enchanting it was to live in Paris, and how lucky I am now to work for people who make art from electrons. But my grief spills over.”

  “How could it not?” Her honesty touched me. I was miles behind her in accepting and reacting to what had happened.

  “You know,” she sat straighter, “Hester’s right. We were asked by the police not to discuss the shooting with anybody.” Her eyes searched Sandy’s face. “I do understand your need.” A glance at me. “And I can’t pretend you have no right. But frankly, I’m not comfortable. My emotions aside, I don’t want to do anything that could possibly impede this investigation. I want to cooperate totally with the police—including honoring my word.”

  “I was peace officer myself for eighteen years,” Sandy told her. “I respect how you feel, believe me. But completely honestly: the homicide detectives on this case aren’t the best in the city, not even close. I’ve known them for a long time.” Sandy’s face crimped with worry. “Anybody could get a good break and solve a case. But if it takes something extra …” He shook his head. “Let me put it to you this way: Check me out, check my references, my track record, my back taxes, if you want. If you’re satisfied I’m good at what I do, share your information with me. I can’t do squat if I don’t have a connection inside, do you see what I mean? If I don’t have access to inside information, to things about this office only you—you and the receptionist, let’s say—know, then I’m going to miss something, maybe the most important damn thing of all.”

  She watched him carefully. I could see by her face that she was considering his offer. And I knew what she’d find if she checked up on him: stellar references, an impressive track record.

  I also knew he wasn’t being quite as cards-on-the-table as he seemed. Whatever this “something important” might be, if it was in Maryanne More’s private email, her phone bills, or any other place Sandy could snoop without permission or conscience, he would find it.

  I’d also heard him make this offer, in full-pitch sincerity, to other clients. In fact, it was his best and favorite tool.

  “All right,” she said at last. “That seems fair. I’ll check your references. Because I do understand your motives.” She looked at me again. “And I don’t see the harm in it, not if what you say about the homicide detectives is true.”

  “Good. Good.” Sandy sounded relieved. “So let me ask how much you’re comfortable telling me in the meantime? Are you willing to show me her office? They’ve unsealed the door, haven’t they?”

  “Yes. They took away some of her files, and of course the forensics people took everything they thought might be evidence. But the office is unlocked again.” She frowned, sitting very still, obviously having no wish to go in there.

  “When you say the police took her files, do you mean you gave them access to your office computers?”

  “Oh, no. I meant her personal files, her date book. I can’t have them invade the privacy of my clients. There’s a lot of privileged information in the computer files, not to mention trade secrets, patents in the works, things I absolutely would not make available without a subpoena.”

  “Really? How do you protect all that stuff?” Sandy sounded merely curious.

  “Passwords, mainly, I suppose.” She looked a little confused. “I leave the configuration of the directories and all the computer security measures to Hester. I have my passwords. But I don’t do anything else, anything special. I believe Hester’s built in other barriers.” She tilted her head, blinking at him.

  For a woman who’d just told us she learned the technology applicable to each of her cases, she was suddenly quite the computer bimbo. It didn’t jibe with Kinsley’s memo being erased beyond the reach of utility programs.

  “Did you handle cases together usually, you and Ms. Kinsley?” Sandy’s tone showed he knew it was a difficult subject.

  “No. We discussed cases often times. Sometimes if one of us had an emergency, we’d cover for the other.” Again, her eyes filled. “But we had separate case loads. I hope, I hope,” she quickly wiped her eyes, “this isn’t going to lead to questions about the cases themselves. My willingness to consider talking to you again really will depend on my checking your references. But no matter what, I can’t discuss our clients.”

  “I’m grateful you’re willing to keep an open mind. May I see her office? Since the police have been through it?”

  She bowed her head. Clearly she didn’t want to go in there.

  “We could show ourselves around, if that’s okay. Laura could show me where she was sitting and all. Or if the receptionist would take us in?”

  “Receptionist?” She seemed bewildered. “Hester is our office manager. And executive secretary. And paralegal. But no, no, I’ll let you in. I just hate to go in myself, I suppose. But I’ll wait by the door. Someone should stay with you.”

  Damn right, I thought. She’d be crazy to let us mill around any room in the suite alone. Bad enough we could ransack her computers.

  She stood, taking a reluctant step toward the door. Sandy sprang up, beating her to it and holding it open. He grinned at me when I followed her out.

  Maybe he had cause to be pleased. It was hard to imagine two women less willing to go into a room.

  Kinsley’s office wasn’t quite as I’d remembered it. I’d disdained its pretty angel paintings and pastel color scheme. Later, under police scrutiny, the room had become a place of shocking parts: the chair I’d risen out of, the portion of carpet I’d fallen onto, the tunnel of French Provincial legs I’d looked through watching Kinsley die.

  Now, the angel paintings seemed less sweet; their smiles mocking, almost ugly. The carpet had pieces cut out of it, the centers of blood splotches that had dried brown. The desk top had a rummaged and rearranged look. Traces of black fingerprint powder remained, a testament to the cops’ by-the-book thoroughness, since her killer hadn’t reached the desk and had worn gloves.

  Maryanne More leaned against the door frame. She was crying again, making no move to come further inside but not hurrying us, either.

  I walked to the chair I’d occupied two days earlier. “This is where I was, Sandy.” I spoke quietly, conscious of the terrible grief across the room.

  “Okay, take the chair. I’ll be Kinsley. Walk me through it second by second.” He examined Kinsley’s high-back chair minutely before sitting. Something about the arm seemed catch his attention, but he made no remark.

  I waited while he examined the desktop, the computer table to his left, and, with a rather mystified expression, a power strip on the floor.

  Maryanne More had stopped crying and was advancing into the room. She stopped a few feet behind my chair, possibly wavering on the brink of asking us to leave.

  I jumped in quickly. “I was sitting here watching her play with a tape dispenser.”

  “The police took it,” More said, her voice low. “Jocelyn used to tear tiny pieces of tape off and ball them up. We used to laugh about how much tape she went through, how the piles of tape balls looked like frog eggs.” She turned away.

  I waited a moment before continuing. “I was getting testy because she didn’t seem to be listening to me,” I admitted. “She took her hand off the dispenser and picked up a pencil to jot down some names, but then there were noises out in the reception area or the hall. When she heard them, she grabbed the dispenser again. That really annoyed me. I was standing up to leave when she threw it.” I stood, touching my head where it hit me.” The sharp edge with the teeth, the tape-cutting part, caught me in the forehead.” I did my best to scoot the chair backward and drop to the spot I’d occupied
two days ago.

  “You didn’t catch even a glimpse of the person with the gun?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Stay down on the floor a second.”

  He leaped up, walking past me and past More. From my low vantage, I tried to recall what I’d seen, where I’d looked.

  Sandy’s police sources had offered their reconstruction, but they might have missed something.

  “How funny,” I said. “From down here if you look out the window …”

  Sandy trotted back, then crouched, trying to align himself with my line of sight. When he did, he laughed.

  “What?” Maryanne More sounded frightened.

  “I’m sorry,” Sandy said, rising. “Just a coincidence. You can see Laura’s old office from down there on the floor.”

  “I came here that day to talk about my old boss, Steve Sayres. It’s just strange …” I stared at the lighted window that used to be my space. For a moment, I was back there, I could see it all: my scarlet leather furniture, my bright collages, my tiny beverage bar.

  Sandy, maybe worrying More had had enough, moved swiftly back to the door, determined to gauge how far in the killer had come.

  “Tell me when you can see me in your peripheral vision.”

  A second or two later, I said, “Stop.”

  “Really?”

  I turned my head to see exactly how far in he’d come. He was barely past the door.

  “Unless your eyes were closed or you were actually looking at something else … You should have seen him, some part of him, a pant leg, the color of his shoes. Something.”

  I stood, addressing Maryanne More. “How far in do the police think he came? Or didn’t they say?”

  “They didn’t, but—” She bit the sentence in half.

  “Please tell us.” Sandy was beside her now. “It’s no use Laura racking her brain if you know for a fact he didn’t get past the door frame.”

  “I didn’t see any of it—he didn’t enter my office, and my door was closed. But Hester saw him come out.”