She asked, “How can you help me?”
“I don’t know. But if this thing doesn’t get cleared up, this office, which wasn’t doing too hot to start with, will go under. Then I’ll be out of a job.” Alvin stopped for a moment and then said, “What happened to the woman who hired you?”
Bertha shrugged. “Kim Cornwell? I haven’t seen her since the night she broke into my apartment. But Sally Morescki told me she was arguing with Cal Mossman at her husband’s funeral, and Mark Mossman asked about her. I should have told the police but, you know, I took a retainer. Technically she’s a client.”
“Suppose she really was Joe’s secretary,” Alvin said. “Wouldn’t he have personnel files on her, or at least a phone number in his Rolodex?”
“You think they’ll let me walk in there and look around?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t ask them.”
Bertha met Alvin’s eyes as his meaning sank in. “Maybe not.”
*
The buildings all looked the same along the winding road behind the Pizza Hut in the New Valley Plaza. The buildings were single story, red brick and richly landscaped. The Morescki and Laswell architectural firm was in a complex with a chiropractor, an insurance company, and a tax consultant. Most of the names on the sign out front ended with a vowel; at least two of them had an added and Son.
At six o’clock the parking lot was empty except for a small red car, maybe the cleaning crew or security. Bertha drove past and pulled into the next building’s lot where a small flower shop and a travel agency were still open.
“You wait here,” Bertha said to Alvin. “I just want to see if there’s an easy way to get in.”
“If you can’t,” Alvin said, “Randy’s older brother has a set of lock picks.”
Bertha glanced toward him. “Do you know how to use lock picks?”
Alvin chuckled. “How hard can it be? That woman in the alphabet mysteries carries them everywhere she goes.”
“She’s fiction! Don’t go off the deep end on me, okay?”
Alvin’s expression was serious as he nodded.
There wasn’t anywhere to hide as Bertha quickly made her way back to the Morescki Building.
Through the glass front doors that were firmly locked, Bertha could see an empty hallway with shiny gray floor tiles and several lush plants. She backtracked and went around the west side of the building. From that door the hallway looked dark. There was a buzzer and a two-way intercom for entrance between eight and five. Evidently this door was kept locked at all times. She walked all the way around. Most of the windows had closed blinds, although some were open enough for her to see richly furnished rooms. The doors on the south and east sides were dead-bolted. A credit card wasn’t going to work here.
Light rain left tiny cool drops on Bertha’s warm skin. She crept completely around the building, looking for a rock or some instrument to break a window. Her mind was going over what little she knew about alarm systems. If she was going to break in, she needed to cut the telephone lines.
From the back of the building, she could see the four-lane road to the mall. It was over a mile away, but she could hear heavy traffic. All the wires went into the building near a meter high on the west end. She walked back the way she’d come, toward the wires. Then she noticed a small door, painted the color of the brick siding. She stopped, grasped the door handle, and it turned. The knob was loose and came off in her hand. Bertha had a sinking feeling as the door easily swung open.
The wide corridor was dark and cool. Bertha stood beneath a video camera mounted above the door, which had been disarmed, the cord neatly severed.
She tried to calm herself. Whoever had opened that back door had done the same at her apartment—twice. It had to be Kim Cornwell. What the hell was she looking for? Was she here?
Bertha moved along the corridor quietly, past locked office doors, a soda machine, and some kind of little tree in a gold bucket that brushed her shoulder as she passed. Laswell and Morescki was a large office in the center of the complex. Bertha reached for her gun when she saw the door was cracked open. She didn’t want to come upon some unsuspecting cleaning lady; on the other hand, she didn’t want anyone to get the drop on her. Sweat ran down the center of her back. Her nose itched. She sniffed a couple of times, finally stopped and scratched it. Then she heard a sound—papers rustling and a thud. She pushed the door wider with her shoulder, the gun out in front of her, and stepped into the semi-dark office.
Behind the receptionist’s counter were a half-dozen desks for clerical staff. To the right along the wall were two glass-enclosed offices. The light was on in one, and as Bertha approached, she recognized Kim Cornwell frantically sorting through papers that were strewn across a desktop. Bertha lowered the gun and approached quietly.
When Bertha stood blocking the open doorway, she said, “Hello, again.”
Kim Cornwell whirled around, her eyes wide, her nostrils flared. The corners of her mouth curled. “So, Bertha, we meet again,” she said through a lacquered smile.
Chapter Thirty-four
Bertha said, “What are you doing here? Who the hell are you?”
The blond woman laughed. The unrepentant sound split the quiet office space. Today she wore a white sundress, with thin straps. Her shoulders were splashed with freckles that gave her a white-bread, wholesome Doris-Day-like appearance. Her legs were bare from the eyelet hem to her rope sandals. She looked harmless.
The woman stepped forward, lifted her chin slightly, and said, “I’m looking for something. What are you doing here?”
The flesh on Bertha’s arms raised; the cool weight of the gun in her hands felt comforting. Through the open door to Joe Morescki’s office, she could see a crimson leather chair and a lamp with a crystal base and several files sitting on a wooden credenza. Bertha remembered the way her own files had been rifled. She returned her attention to the blonde and said, “I came here looking for you.”
The woman nodded.
“Who are you?” Bertha asked again.
“I told you, my name is Kim Cornwell.”
“You also told me your name was Sally Morescki. What am I supposed to believe?”
The woman shrugged, her expression somewhat sulky. “Believe what you want. I doubt if you even know who you are.”
Bertha narrowed her eyes. She raised the gun again and asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Come on, Bertha.” Kim Cornwell stepped toward her. “You’re not going to shoot me. Put the gun down.”
To Bertha’s dismay, her hand trembled as she said, “Don’t come any closer.”
Kim laughed again but stopped where she was. “Let’s sit down and talk about this like adults.”
Bertha glanced about the room, from the neatly arranged office furniture to the lopsided blinds in Morescki’s office. She motioned with the gun. “You sit.”
Kim shoved a telephone out of the way and scooted her bottom up on a secretary’s desk. Bertha leaned her elbows on the counter, still aiming the gun.
“Comfortable?” Kim asked.
“Who killed Joe Morescki?”
“Look, nobody meant for him to die.”
“You tortured him a little—tied him to a chair and cut his throat, but you meant no harm?”
Kim Cornwell said, “Honey, I love your sense of humor.”
“Who killed Joe Morescki?”
“It wasn’t me. I was there looking for something—needed to search your office. I didn’t expect you to be there. I made up that screwed-up lie to buy some time. I waited until you went home for the day, then looked through your stuff. I left maybe a half hour after you did.”
“I locked up when I left.”
“Locks are never a problem for me.” Kim scooted forward, adjusted her position on the desktop, and waited, carefully arranging her expression of innocence.
“Why did you pay me?” Bertha asked.
“I figured employing you might give me access to your office, maybe even
your home. And it did. Six hundred dollars is really pretty small compared to what’s at stake.”
Bertha blundered forward in spite of the feeling that she was pushing too hard.
“Why was Joe Morescki in my office?”
Kim Cornwell’s chin dropped. “I guess he figured you had something he wanted.”
“He talked to you about me?”
Kim scooted forward again, this time placing both feet on the floor. “You still don’t get it, do you? He was the one who sent me. When I couldn’t find what he wanted, I guess he decided to have a look for himself.”
“Then I ask again, who killed him?”
The blonde ran her fingers through her short hair, which fell back into place immediately. She met Bertha’s eyes, shrugged, and spread her hands. “How the hell should I know? Maybe it was Sally. They fought like crazy. Maybe she sent someone to make sure he didn’t accidentally find the package. You know, she comes from a long line of tough guys. Granddaughter of a wealthy political family from Chicago.”
Bertha considered this new information. The room was quiet. She wanted time to digest everything she’d learned about her parents and grandparents. She wanted Grandma, Aunt Lucy, and Sally all in the same room to get the whole story.
Bertha took a deep breath and let it out, then stammered softly, “She’s my mother.”
“Yeah. When I told you I was Sally Morescki and you didn’t react to the name, I figured you didn’t know her.”
“Wasn’t that risky? Why take the chance?”
“Joe told me he had you in his pocket. He told me you were Sally’s daughter. I had to find out how much you knew. When I saw you, I figured I had it all wrong.”
“What about Madame Soccoro? Why did you drag her into it?”
Kim shrugged and yawned. “It made for a good story. A friend of mine, who used to work for Joe, told me Sally went to see her once a week.”
“Cal Mossman?”
Kim cocked her head. “You know Cal?”
Bertha nodded. “He help you tie the guy up?”
“I told you, I didn’t kill Joe. I don’t know who did.”
Bertha started running all the what-ifs in her mind, watching each clip to see the different endings. Nothing was right. Kim, or whoever she was, was lying. She’d been lying all along. Bertha had learned in the courtroom that a liar, called out, would lie about that. Kim didn’t deny originally misleading Bertha. Not this time, anyway. But how dangerous was she? Had Kim Cornwell played a part in the murders? If Bertha confronted her now, she might do anything. Pretending to believe would net less information. The thing was, Bertha held the gun. She might not get another opportunity to get the whole story. She needed to be composed—far more than she was now—to deal with this.
Finally, wondering why she was saying it as the words came out of her mouth, Bertha blurted, “I don’t believe any of this. I’m calling the police. They can sort it out.” She moved toward a phone at the end of the reception counter and picked up the receiver.
The tapping was so soft Bertha realized she’d heard it for several seconds, without registering. She heard Alvin call her name from a great distance. Then a sound broke the silence with a chilling resonance—the metal sound of a revolver being cocked. She looked quickly at Kim Cornwell, who now pointed a gun at her.
“Set your weapon on the counter and step away,” Kim Cornwell said.
Bertha put her gun down and stepped backward.
“Who’s out there?” Kim asked.
“Alvin. He rode over here with me.”
“Who’s Alvin?”
“My secretary.”
Kim’s eyes surveyed the room. “There’s a supply closet behind you on the left. Get over there.”
Fear gripped Bertha as she moved the direction Kim waved her gun. Frozen still lifes—her own office, the bloody supply closet, the goo on her fingers from the slashed throat—flashed in her mind. She tried to control the quiver in her voice as she lied. “Alvin will have called the police. And he’s armed.”
“Open the door.” Kim spoke as if chipping each word out of stone. “On your right you’ll see a box of large nylon packing tape. Get a roll and bring it over to the counter.”
The tape was eye level. Bertha reached for it slowly with a veneer of nonchalance she thought might buy her a few more minutes. She left the closet door open, returned to the counter, and laid the tape down slowly.
Kim motioned around the room. “Pick a chair you think you’ll be comfortable in for a long time.”
Bertha froze. Again, the image of Joe, covered in his own blood, tied to a folding chair flashed. Her knees felt weak.
“Not going to pick one? How about I choose for you?” She moved between two desks, pulled a red clerical chair into the aisle, and motioned with the gun. “Come over here.”
Bertha couldn’t move. She tried but got nowhere. “You’ll never get away with this.”
“Honey, when I find those bonds, I’m gone. Leaving the country. Now get your pretty brown butt over here.”
“Bonds?”
Kim’s eyes grew large. She aimed slightly over Bertha’s right shoulder and fired. Bertha felt the rush of hot air before she heard the explosion. She trembled as she moved toward the chair.
“That’s a girl. Put your hands behind your back.”
Bertha’s body was drenched in sweat. The tape on her wrists was pulled tight, painfully cutting off the circulation to her hands. She could see rain beading on the front window. The air was close. Packing tape covered her mouth.
Kim’s breathing was loud, like she’d just run a mile. She grunted a little as she pulled the tape tight around Bertha’s ankles.
She looked up and frowned, her voice ice cold. “Aw, honey, you got a little blood on your T-shirt.”
Bertha strained to look down at her shoulder. She was hit. The room started to spin.
A noise from the hall, then Alvin stood in the open doorway. He saw Bertha. “What the...?”
Kim crouched behind the reception counter, out of Alvin’s sight.
Bertha tried to nod toward her, but Alvin didn’t get it. He rushed across the room to Bertha, and Kim moved like a rat quickly along the base of the counter and out the door.
Alvin wanted to call the police. After he’d carefully removed the tape from Bertha’s mouth, she reminded him that they’d broken into the building the same as Kim Cornwell.
“You’re bleeding.”
Bertha pulled her T-shirt away from her neck. “Can you see it?”
Alvin leaned and looked at her shoulder; his reddish blonde sideburns tickled her nose. “Not too bad, but that T-shirt will have to be retired.”
“Be honest, how bad is it?”
“Not even a through-and-through. Just a graze.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“That alphabet mystery lady.”
“Never liked this shirt anyway. I need to do laundry, all the good ones are dirty.” Bertha could taste blood on her lips, probably skin ripped off when the tape was removed. Her flesh was clammy. “Did you happen to see a ladies’ room on the way in?”
“No. But we’ll find one.” He helped her to her feet.
Bertha’s knees felt rubbery. The room went dark for a moment. She had too much saliva in her mouth, and her stomach lurched.
“I think I’m going to puke.”
Alvin’s voice was low and soft beside her. “Come on, one foot in front of the other.”
A restroom was near the door where they had entered. Alvin switched the lights on, and they were bathed in a fluorescent glare that revealed a black leather couch and two matching chairs, farther on, a row of four sinks and mauve doors to four stalls.
Bertha splashed cold water on her forehead, then rushed to a stall and vomited. She saw stars and dark circles as her body retched. Gradually she realized that Alvin was stroking her back, speaking softly.
“Come on, honey, lie down for a minute,” he said.
“Just relax. You’re safe.”
Bertha saw her gun resting in Alvin’s lap as he sat next to her, gently washing the sweat off her face.
She said, “I think that woman killed Joe, maybe George.”
“Then let’s call the police.”
“No. There’s more.”
“Like what?”
“Like the east-side development project. Like Mark Mossman’s murder. And the bonds.”
“What bonds?”
“I don’t know. But Kim mentioned them.”
“Shit, bonds aren’t worth anything. I have a bunch my parents got me every year for my birthday. They’re worth more when they’re old, but not enough to commit murder over. Besides, they have people’s names on them. No one can cash them but the owner.”
“It doesn’t make sense. But I need to talk to my grandma and to Sally.”
“You need to get that shoulder taken care of and get into bed.”
Bertha rose to a sitting position and stood slowly. “You think you can drive the Jeep?”
“Sure. Randy’s truck is a five-speed.”
“Let’s stop at a drugstore. I don’t have any bullet-wound dressing at my place.”
Alvin helped her back to the Jeep and Bertha made her plans. She had to spend the night with Grandma. She could talk to her then.
She’d get to Sally Morescki in the morning.
Chapter Thirty-five
Bertha’s shoulder stung. She had a small scratch, but it hurt like hell. With an exquisite kick of perversity, she remembered all the places she’d been and all the things she’d seen while in the projects trying to score coke. Here she was clean and sober, getting shot in a white, upper-income business place.
Bertha sat at her kitchen table wearing a pair of cutoffs and a loose-fitting red camp shirt. The graze on her shoulder was covered with antibiotic ointment and gauze. Outside, the pewter sky was losing all hope of light. Grandma was waiting. Alvin needed a ride home. Toni Matulis was on the answering machine, checking in, wanting Bertha to return her call. Strange that life should go on after a woman aimed a gun at her and fired.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 28