Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  “Not yet, but it’s still early,” I countered with a bravado I definitely did not feel.

  Quickly, I briefed him about Billy Bob’s phone calls, and my continued status as a suspect despite several much more promising candidates.

  So what did he think of the possibility of my giving an interview?

  Holloman cut me off before I even finished. “Hell, no.”

  “But this is what I do for a living. This is one part of the process I do know. And these people are my co-workers. I understand how to talk to them, and I know how they think.”

  “No.” It came out clipped, and I could tell he was genuinely horrified. “You might know the process, but you’re not a co-worker. Not anymore. You’re a suspect. A story. Because they do know you and don’t want to come off as biased, they’ll print any and all of the dirt they can dig up. Ever rip up a parking ticket? Make a smart-assed comment during a staff meeting? Bounce a check? Have words with the boss? Drink too much at the office Christmas party? Get ready to read all about it. And it’s going to look ten times worse in print. Absolutely not,” he said with all the finality of someone who had, on one occasion, told a sitting U.S. Senator to “piss off.”

  There was dead silence. I felt stupid. How could I have even considered it?

  “If anybody talks, it’ll be me,” he said finally.

  “What would you say?”

  “Same thing I always say: my client is innocent, the charges are scurrilous, and in time, the truth will prevail.”

  “You left out the part about it being a travesty of justice,” I said.

  “See? It can’t be that bad if you can still make a joke. Get some rest, kid. This is all going to come out in the wash.”

  “And if it doesn’t fit, they must acquit?”

  “Right. And since you’re paying me $1,000 an hour for this witty repartee, I’m going to do you a favor and hang up now.”

  “There’s one other thing,” I stumbled. I felt like a death-row inmate trying to buy a little time before that final long walk. “My job. My former job . . .”

  In what felt like a rambling, robotic monotone I detailed the blow-by-blow of almost everything that had happened in the office that morning. The big meeting. The not-so-merry widow. The confrontation. The slap. The firing. The story they were spinning about my still being with the paper. The demand to repay three months’ salary. The IRS threat. Being escorted out of the building with a security guard under each arm. I left out only the part about planting a (possibly illegal) recording device in the conference room, and the dignity-scorching visual of me cowering-slash-eavesdropping in a bathroom stall.

  When I finished and stopped to breathe, there was about five seconds of silence. I braced myself. I was prepared for almost anything. Except what he actually said.

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “What?” I expected he’d be a little more upset that my ability to pay him, or pay back my brother, had been severely compromised. I even thought he might suggest switching attorneys.

  To my absolute horror, I began to cry.

  I tried to stifle it. But the more I tried to control myself, the worse it got. Holloman didn’t even seem to notice.

  “To be expected,” he said, almost blithely. “You had to go in and at least go through the motions. Termination? Not totally unforeseen, given their prior behavior. They have the right to fire you for any reason. Or no reason. But using the threat of a lawsuit? Big mistake. You’ve got a better hand for a lawsuit than they do. Scapegoating you publicly? Assailing your reputation? Spreading untruths and affecting your ability to obtain other employment?” I could almost see him ticking off the points on his fingers.

  “Actionable. Depending on how they disseminated the information, they’re looking at defamation of character, slander, and possibly libel. I’ll phone their counsel this afternoon. That should put an end to the worst of it. Then, we wait for the police to do their job. When it’s over, who knows? You might decide you want to sue them.”

  “That’s it?” I said, gulping down air like a guppy.

  “That’s it.”

  I had to hand it to Peter. He couldn’t have found me a better lawyer. I never talked to Holloman without feeling at least a little bit better about being a suspect in a murder investigation. And the possible target of a frivolous civil suit. Not to mention broke and unemployed. But a little better, none the less.

  I hung up with Holloman and took a couple of deep breaths. Now, as I saw it, I needed two things. Money. And, if I wanted to retrieve that recorder, access to the conference room. Three phone calls later, I knew exactly how I was going to get both.

  Chapter 10

  Later that afternoon, as I sat in a ratty blue leatherette chair, wearing a pilfered blond wig and five pounds of makeup, I tried to remind myself that this was actually a step up.

  Technically, I was about to commit a crime. Not dognapping. Although Lucy was, on this crisp and breezy day, happily ensconced in the back of my aged, airy Chevy wagon (windows at half-mast), alternating her attentions between a new tennis ball and one of my old running shoes, sans laces.

  No, I was going for a major felony: impersonating a cocktail waitress.

  The only way I was going to get past the security guards and into my old office was in some sort of disguise. The rent-a-cops wouldn’t know what to do with a real criminal, but they probably had my photo posted at every entrance. Emblazoned with a red circle and a line through it.

  But there’s one group of people who moved in and out of any office virtually unnoticed: the cleaning crew. And I knew from talking with some of the ladies who clean—not to be confused with the ladies who lunch—that there was a pretty regular turnover. As soon as somebody got a better offer—or any offer—they left.

  Turns out that the cleaning ladies weren’t the only ones with short expiration dates. The office park had changed janitorial companies a week ago. Something it did pretty regularly, according to a very surly assistant property manager I’d phoned earlier that morning.

  “So, would you say you’d recommend their services?” I asked, playing the part of a prospective customer checking references.

  “They’re cheap and, after a week, they’re still showing up. If you wanna count that as a gold star, knock yourself out,” he said, slamming down the phone.

  Given that the whole purpose of getting this job was to relieve my former employer of my own property, it might be problematic to apply in my own name. Luckily, I didn’t have to look very far for an alter ego. If Gabrielle could appropriate my bathrobe, my slippers, and half the food in my fridge, I figured I could borrow her driver’s license and Social Security card. Besides, I bargained with my conscience, if I actually make any money at this gig, it’s going to restock one very empty cupboard.

  Imagine my surprise when my fishing expedition into my brother’s new wife’s purse yielded not one but five different driver’s licenses under five different names. And an equal array of coordinating Social Security cards.

  Exactly how do you broach that subject at dinner? “Excuse me, while I was rifling through your purse to steal your identity, I happened to discover that you may be guilty of crimes that make mine look like jaywalking.”

  There was also a picture. One of those photo-booth strips you can get at special events and carnivals. A man and a woman. She sat in his lap, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist. They were both grinning, kissing, and mugging for the camera. The woman was definitely Gabby. And the guy was definitely not Nick.

  I pocketed the only pair of cards with “Gabrielle” on them. If, indeed, that was her real name.

  To make myself look more like the driver’s-license photo, I shoveled on the makeup with a trowel. A thick layer of concealer and foundation, some green eye shadow left over from Halloween, false eyelashes (ninety-nine cents in the drugstore bargain bin), and five coats of inky black mascara. I even fished a long-forgotten eyeliner out of the bottom of my makeup drawer and r
immed the top of each eye with a wide, black half-moon.

  As Trip would say, “Tacky, tacky, tacky.”

  I also liberated a wig from my new sister-in-law’s collection. And I learned that blondes definitely do not have more fun. The platinum pageboy made my scalp sweat. That, in turn, made my head itch. So I’d been scratching like a maniac for the last hour.

  And in the short time I’d been wearing the eyelashes, the glue had turned my eyes red and watery, while my lids were itchy, puffy, and swollen. With the oversized clothes I’d chosen to disguise my lack of silicone frontage (in case anyone checked with Gabrielle’s former employer), I could have easily passed for a clown.

  If my mother had been here, she’d have blamed my reaction on guilt. I contend it was cheap eyelash glue.

  What did I have to feel guilty about? A crime isn’t really a crime if it’s for a good cause, right?

  I snuck a quick fingernail under the wig and gave the back of my head a good, hard scratch.

  Little did I realize, I could have shown up with my real name and a murder warrant pinned to my sweater. Turns out the only thing Mr. Gravois cared about was if I had a pulse and a willingness to work nights. And the pulse was probably optional.

  Mr. Gravois (he never offered a first name), was presumably the president, founder, and CEO of Gravois & Co. International. He was also the only person sitting in the dingy, sparsely lit, one-desk office.

  Short and stocky, he managed to be both balding and hairy. He barely glanced at the driver’s license and ID before checking his watch.

  “You work tonight?” he asked in a thick French accent that carried a hint of something else. Morocco? The Middle East?

  “Tonight would be great,” I said brightly. The quicker I got in, got that recorder, and got this over with, the better. Plus, my head was really starting to itch.

  “Here at 6 P.M.,” he said. “We take the crew in bus. We give supplies. We give you apron. We come back at midnight. No breaks, no talk. We clean. End of each week, you do good job, you get cash money. One hundred eighty bucks.”

  OK, so Mr. Gravois wasn’t versed in the finer points of minimum-wage law. Or tax law. Or employee relations. All I wanted was access to that office. And a sharp fork to scratch my head. Or a Brillo pad.

  “OK,” I said earnestly, feeling sweat trickle down my inflamed scalp. “I’ll be here at 6.”

  “Don’t be late. Bus leave at six. You miss it—no work, no cash money.”

  “I will be here ready to work,” I said through clenched teeth. Just. Want. To. Scratch. Now.

  “And thank you for the opportunity,” I said, standing and sticking out my hand. Hey, did my momma raise me right, or what?

  Gravois looked at me blankly and turned away, toward a file cabinet beside the desk. “Bus leave at six,” he said over his shoulder.

  Chapter 11

  The evening ride over to the office park was like a third-grade field trip. Minus the singing, talking, and fun.

  We paired up and piled into the van. Mr. Gravois drove, and his wife sat beside him. They spoke French to each other, but every once in a while, she’d turn around and shoot us a dirty look.

  Behind them sat Olga and Maria, who chatted away the whole time in rapid-fire Russian. From the evil looks Mrs. Gravois was giving them, it was obvious that, while she didn’t speak the language, she suspected she was the butt of every joke.

  More like half. Sixty percent, tops. Not that I’d ever let on.

  I sat two seats behind them with my assigned cleaning partner, a sad-faced, dark-skinned African girl whose English seemed limited to “yes,” “no” and “thank you.”

  When the bus turned into the entrance of the office park, my stomach clenched. What was it about this place?

  By the time we arrived at the back-door loading dock, I was shaking. What had I been thinking? What if someone saw me? What if they recognized me?

  Then I got a look at myself in the reflection of the gleaming steel service elevator. I had done another quick change since this afternoon’s job interview. No way I could maintain my “Gabrielle” look all night. So I’d opted for “unrecognizable.” And succeeded.

  My hair was skinned back into a tight bun, concealed beneath a large, blue handkerchief. Awkward, black square-rimmed glasses—another drugstore purchase—obscured half my face. And I’d completed the look with an oversize blue sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and my $6 Payless sneakers.

  My own mother wouldn’t recognize me. OK, knowing my mom—who has a penchant for designer labels—she’d recognize me but pretend not to.

  Mr. Gravois motioned for us all to gather and started barking out orders. “Tonight, floors one, two and three,” he shouted in an accent so heavy he sounded like Pepé Le Pew.

  What? Coleman & Walters was on ten. I needed to be on ten!

  “Madame Gravois and I vacuum. Maria, you and Olga empty trash, dust, and polish furniture. Gabrielle,” he said, addressing me by my new stage name, “you and Elia clean bathrooms.”

  No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! screamed the two-year-old inside my head. Six hours of cleaning bathrooms, and I wasn’t going to get anywhere near the tenth floor? No!

  “We go now. Start on three.” And with that, everyone rolled their trolleys into the service elevator.

  OK, I resolved, taking deep breaths, I can handle this. I’ll just wait for the right moment and sneak up to ten when no one’s looking.

  Five hours and as many escape attempts later, I’d learned three things about Madame Gravois. First, she did have a given name: Capucine. Which suited her for reasons that had nothing to do with the famous French model. Second, she kept an iron grip on the crew. And third, she had a nicotine habit like no other human I’d ever met. Every time I managed to slip away, there she was, with a scowl on her face and a cigarette in her claw. “No breaks—back to work!” was all she said to me all night.

  By 11:55, my back ached, and my giant yellow rubber gloves had become permanently sweat-glued to my arms. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. Or I might have been passing out from the toxic effects of the industrial strength, lime-scented cleaner we used on the bathrooms. Where did they get this stuff?

  I now understood why Olga and Maria seemed so perky on the ride over. Clearly, toilet duty was reserved for the new girls—the lowest women on the totem pole. Compared to a night of mucking out bathroom stalls, a few hours of giggling, gossiping, and polishing seemed like a vacation.

  Elia seemed to take it all with grim resignation. I’m guessing that, wherever she hailed from, cleaning toilets in a suburban Virginia office park was an improvement.

  As we exited the men’s room, Elia closed the bathroom door behind us, and we collapsed into cubicle chairs to catch our breath before the whole group migrated back to the loading dock.

  Elia hadn’t said more than two or three words all night, so I didn’t know how much English she spoke.

  “Are you as tired as I am?” I ventured.

  She glanced over, then away, and nodded.

  “So, how long have you been doing this?”

  “This is my second week,” she said, never taking her eyes off the floor. Her English seemed fluent, her accent almost musical.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Congo.”

  “Family here?”

  “Some,” she said, halting. “My aunt and my cousins. I live with them. I am in college, but it is very expensive. I work.”

  “Cleaning toilets?”

  She smiled, still studying the floor. “It leaves the days free for my classes. And Mr. Gravois pays in cash—off the books. I have scholarships, but they do not cover textbooks and supplies. And my family needs the money.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  Her chin came up and for the first time she looked me straight in the eyes. “Georgetown. Pre-med.”

  “Damn.”

  Elia shot me the same look my mother used when, as a kid, I said something dumb
in front of company. Not an infrequent occurrence.

  “So how did you come to be here?” she asked.

  I made a snap decision, based on nothing but pure gut instinct. “I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit. I’m trying to clear my name.”

  Elia laughed. Then stopped when she realized I wasn’t kidding. “What do you mean?”

  For a split second, I wondered if my gut instinct, like everything else in my life at that moment, had gone completely haywire.

  “I used to work in this building. On the tenth floor, at a public relations firm. One of the men who runs it was murdered. I had nothing to do with it, but some of the people who work there are telling the police that I did it. I took this job to get back into the building and get something of mine. Something that I hope will clear my name.”

  She stared at me, wide eyed. And, having said the whole thing out loud for the first time, I felt like an idiot. It was a lousy idea. And, one way or another, I was probably going to jail. Soon.

  “There is evidence there that will prove you did not do this murder?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We will not be cleaning floor ten until Thursday. This evidence, it will still be there then?”

  Now I’m the one looking at the floor. “If no one else finds it first.”

  “The evidence, is it in the toilet?”

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  “Then on Thursday,” she said, smiling, “we have to make sure we are not cleaning the toilets.”

  Chapter 12

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, I ached. Everywhere.

  Worse, I felt a strange pressure in the vicinity of my rib cage.

  I blinked a couple of times. A blurry, doe-colored shape shifted, sighed, and rolled off my chest, taking most of the covers. Lucy.

  “Coffee,” I said aloud. “Need. Coffee.”

  Lucy yawned and moved into the warm spot I’d vacated. So much for constant companionship. I grabbed my robe and padded out to the kitchen. A sharp rap on the front door made me jump.