“The exact same layout as Dean’s offices,” Sam said.
Behind the two rooms, a long, narrow space ran the entire width of the suite. Both the reception area and my office had back doors that opened onto it. “Storage shelves and washroom are back here,” I said as we entered it from my office.
I pointed to a gray metal door in the exposed brick of the back wall. “Our fire escape down to the alley behind Bloor Street.” I turned to Sam. “So, what do you think?”
Her green eyes sparkled. “Some paint and polish, and this place will rock.”
Back in the empty reception area, I opened two folding chairs I’d brought from home, and set a large plastic crate I’d found in the storage area on the floor between them. “We need to make a few phone calls,” I said, taking a chair. “Do you have a cell?”
She draped her jacket over the back of the other chair and pulled a cell phone out of her handbag.
Light knocking sounded on the open door. I turned my head and saw Detective Hardy standing in the doorway. He’d climbed the creaky stairs without making a sound.
“We’re finished in the victim’s suite.” He crossed the room and sat on the window ledge. “The cleanup squad comes in on Monday.”
Sam turned her head away.
“There was a lot of blood,” he added. “The floor needs to be replaced.”
Sam placed her phone on the crate and got out of the chair. Pulling tissues from her jacket pocket, she went into my office.
“We’ll hang onto the computers for a while,” Hardy said, “but we’ve made copies of their contents for you.”
He handed me a small plastic box. I lifted the lid and found several labeled flash drives. “The paperwork in Monaghan’s filing cabinets has to go,” he said. “The cleanup people will take it away.”
Sam rejoined us, her face glistening with tears. “Dean made digital copies of everything,” she said. “The files in the cabinets were just for backup.”
I voiced a concern that had been bothering me. “Was there any indication the murderer accessed client information while he was in Dean’s office?”
“We’re working that angle,” Hardy said. Then he added in a kinder tone, “We’re still in the fact-finding stage.”
I resolved to work that angle, too. If it got out that client information had been stolen, my new business would tank.
“I take it there was no sign of forced entry,” I said.
“Correct.”
“So Dean knew his killer.”
“Not necessarily. Monaghan often kept the street door unlocked during business hours. Anyone could come up the stairs.”
“I told Dean we should get a door phone,” Sam said, “but he kept putting it off.”
“So you usually left for the day without locking up, correct?” Hardy asked her.
“I only locked up when Dean told me to.”
“And on the day he was murdered?”
“Yeah, he asked me to lock the door. Said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“What about the murder weapon?” I asked.
He took his phone from an inside jacket pocket and scrolled through it. “Either of you see this before?” he asked, holding the phone out to us.
An image of a dagger was on the screen. There was something dark on its blade…blood!
I shook my head, but Sam piped up, “Yeah. That’s Dean’s letter opener.”
“Letter opener? It looks like a dagger,” I said.
“Dean told me it was a gift from his grandfather,” she said.
“It does look like a dagger,” Hardy said.
“Dean also said it was custom-made,” Sam added. “Stainless-steel blade and a deer-antler handle. He usually kept it in his desk drawer, but he brought it out occasionally to impress people.”
“Did you see it on the day he was murdered?” Hardy asked her.
“I don’t think…wait! Yes, I did. When I was leaving, he had it on his desk next to some papers.”
“Is that where it was found?” I asked. “Any fingerprints?”
“Now, Ms. Tierney,” Hardy said. “You should know better than to ask that.”
He looked around the empty room. “You’ve got your work cut out here. I’ll let you get on with it.” He left, closing the door at the top of the stairs behind him.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Nothing Hardy had said suggested that he viewed me as a suspect in Dean’s murder. I hoped I’d heard the last of that.
He hadn’t said anything about Sam, either. I put an arm around her. “I know that was difficult for you.”
She sat down in the chair her jacket was draped over and picked up her phone from the crate.
“We need to hire painters,” I said.
“Tony, our cleaner, painted our office two years ago.”
“Do you have his number?”
She took a small book with a black cover out of her handbag and held it up.
“Find out if Tony is available to clean and paint tomorrow.” I scribbled our new address in my notebook, and tore off the page for her.
I roamed the suite while she made the call, trying to picture what the rooms would look like with desks and computers and filing cabinets.
“Tony and his friend can be here at eight tomorrow morning,” Sam called out. “They’ll paint the walls, and wash the floor and windows.”
“I’ll be here to let them in.”
“D’you want the same color as our former office? Tony kept a record of it.”
I tried to remember what the walls of Dean’s suite looked like. Off-white, ivory, cream. Whatever its name, the color had seemed fine. “Sure, the same color.”
“Want to jazz it up a bit? Purple baseboards and crown moldings?”
“Same color for the walls, baseboards, and crown moldings. Hold the jazz.”
When she’d finished the call, I smiled at her. “Here’s my plan,” I said. “Tomorrow, while Tony and his friend are here, I’ll shop for desks and chairs and computers. What brand of computers did you have?”
“Dean swore by Macs.”
“Do you like Macs?” I asked, taking the other chair.
“They work for me.”
I nodded. “I’ll see what Computer World has. With any luck, they can be delivered on Monday morning, and the store will send over a techie to set them up.”
“Will you need me tomorrow?”
“I have one more question, then you can go home and put your feet up for the rest of the weekend. What client meetings had Dean scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday?”
She pulled an office planner out of her bag. “I kept a copy of Dean’s appointments in here. This planner is identical to his.”
I had to admit that she was organized.
She opened the book and slid her chair closer to mine. I saw that a delivery of office supplies from Staples had been scheduled for Wednesday afternoon—the afternoon Dean had been killed.
She pointed to the entry. “Hardy asked me about this. The boxes must have been delivered after I left for the day.”
“Unfortunately, the cleanup squad will be taking those boxes away. Dean had no appointments on Wednesday afternoon?”
“No. He must have kept it clear for the sale.”
She turned a page in the planner. I saw that a Barbara and Ed Simpson were booked for 11 a.m. on Thursday, and a Michelle Blake was scheduled for 3 p.m. Dean’s Friday was clear, other than a lunch date with Ben Cordova.
“I called the Simpsons, Michelle, and Ben on Thursday morning to tell them about Dean, and cancel their appointments.”
I gave her a smile, knowing how difficult that must have been.
“I reached Barbara Simpson and Ben, but not Michelle. I left a message for her.”
“I’ll need the Simpsons’ home phone number and Michelle’s number,” I said.
She wrote the numbers on my notepad. “I’ve never met Michelle,” she said. “She’s a fairly new client with a disabili
ty of some kind. Dean visited her at home.”
“How many clients did he visit at home?”
“Four, including Michelle.”
“I’ll need the names and numbers of the other three,” I said.
Feet pounded up the staircase. Sam and I looked at each other. Hardy again? The last time he hadn’t made a sound coming up the stairs. The door at the top of the staircase opened, and Lukas Monaghan swaggered into the room. He wore a navy cashmere coat and a white silk scarf, and held a paper cup of coffee in one hand.
“Well, well,” he said. “Losing no time, are we?”
I didn’t like the hard glint in his eyes, but I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. “We’re not open,” I said, wondering how he knew the address of my new office.
“I need to get into my father’s office, but the cops won’t let me in there.”
“Crime scene,” I told him. “Everything’s under lockdown over there.”
“I want my father’s oak desk. It belongs to me now.”
“Ask the police when your father’s personal items will be returned to your family. Now, if you don’t mind, Sam and I have work to do.”
“Sam.” He held up the cup. “Giorgio makes good coffee, eh?”
She stared at him, clearly baffled.
He grinned. “When the cops turned me away, I went into Giorgio’s Diner across the street, and took a window table.”
Where was this heading?
“I was talking to Giorgio, the owner, when you two walked down the street and in here. That cop, Hardy, came by a little later.”
So that was how Lukas found my new office.
He looked at Sam. “Giorgio says you’re a regular customer, Sam.”
“So what if I am?” she asked.
Lukas looked like the cat who had just swallowed the canary. “He told me you returned to the office a little after three on Wednesday afternoon. He remembered because he knew you usually left my father’s office at 2:30. He was worried you’d be late for your other job.”
I turned to her, astounded. Was this true?
“And you rushed over here to tell us this,” Sam said.
“I didn’t rush. I had another coffee while I decided whether to go to the police or talk to you about it.”
“So?” Sam threw out the word like a challenge. “I’d left my students’ tests on my desk. I went back for them.”
Why hadn’t she told this to the police? It meant Dean was alive a little after 3 p.m.
“And while you were in there,” Lukas said triumphantly, “you murdered my father.”
Sam jumped up, fixing furious eyes on him. “That is not what happened! Dean was dead when I came back.”
Her voice softened. “When I picked up the tests, I thought it was strange that I hadn’t seen or heard Dean in his office. So I decided to peek in and say hello. I expected him to be sitting at his desk, but he wasn’t.”
She choked back a sob. “That’s when I looked down and saw him sprawled on the floor. He was so…still. And he was lying in a pool of blood.”
She wiped tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t want to step in the blood, so I edged around his body until I could pull down his Rolex and check his pulse. Nothing.”
“A likely story,” Lukas said with a sneer.
Sam pulled herself together and looked him in the eye. “It’s the truth.”
I was blown away, but I tried to keep my cool in front of Lukas. “You need to let the police know this, Sam,” I said.
“That’s what I’m going to do,” Lukas said. “I’m off to the cop shop.”
I locked the door at the top of the stairs as he clattered down the staircase. When I looked out the window, he was flagging a taxi on Bloor Street.
Tense with anger, I turned to Sam. “You found Dean dead, and you kept it to yourself. What else have you neglected to mention?”
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean.”
Why should I believe her? “Why didn’t you call the police when you found Dean? You left him for the cleaners to find.”
She ducked her head. “With my past, how would it look? I thought—”
“You thought! You didn’t think.” I collapsed into a chair. “The police were bound to find out. As they’re about to now from Lukas.” I picked up her cell phone from the crate and held it out to her. “Call Hardy.”
She dropped the phone into her handbag. “I’ll go to the police station, just like Lukas. They’ll want me to give a statement.”
“Hardy may be on the road. Why not have him come back here?” I asked, as she shrugged on her jacket. I couldn’t trust her to go to the police station.
“You don’t believe I’ll go, do you?”
I didn’t answer, but I handed her a key to the office. I scribbled the security code on a page from my notebook, and gave that to her. It looked as if I was stuck with her for the present.
“Was Dean’s computer on when you found him?” I asked.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah. I didn’t think of turning it off.”
On her way to the door, she turned to face me. “Like I said when Hardy was here, Dean had that letter opener out on his desk. But when I found him, it was lying near his body on the floor.”
“Make sure you tell that to the police.”
In the doorway, she turned to me again. Her eyes were filled with tears. “It was horrible. There was blood everywhere. On the floor, on the desk, on the wall behind him.”
A knot formed in my throat. It was a vicious killing. Why would someone do that to Dean Monaghan?
Chapter Twelve
I knew I should call Hardy as soon as Sam left the office, but I wanted to see whether she would go to the police. If I couldn’t trust this woman, I couldn’t work with her.
Instead, I called the Simpsons, the couple who had an appointment with Dean on Thursday morning. Ed Simpson picked up. I introduced myself, and Ed told me that he and his wife were still reeling from the news of Dean’s murder. “Dean was one of the good guys,” he said. “He really cared about his clients. Thanks to him, we were able to pay off our mortgage last year.”
We made an appointment for Monday afternoon, and I gave Ed our new address. I called Michelle Blake, but there was no answer. I left a message, telling her who I was and giving her my cell number.
Then I grabbed my handbag, punched in the security code and locked the door of the suite behind me.
Across the street, Giorgio’s Diner was empty except for a gray-haired man who was sweeping the floor. He looked at me, his eyes weary in his sagging face. “I close now. Four o’clock Saturdays, six o’clock weekdays.”
I introduced myself. “I bought Dean Monaghan’s financial-planning business before he died,” I added.
The man flinched slightly at the mention of Dean’s name. His murder had sent shock waves through the neighborhood.
“Could I ask you a few questions?” I pointed to a window table from where I could watch our entrance in case Lukas returned.
The man nodded, and we went over to the table.
“I am Giorgio Markezinis.” He rested his broom against the window and lowered himself into a chair. “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Tierney.”
“Sam Reiss is staying on with me,” I said, taking a seat. “You know Sam, of course.”
His face brightened. “Sure, I know Sam. Good customer.”
“You were speaking to Lukas Monaghan this afternoon.”
“Lukas, Dean’s son.” He inclined his head toward the window. “Yes, Lukas come in here today.”
“Lukas said you saw Sam return to the office on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Yes, Sam come back that day.” His face twisted. “Day Dean get killed.”
“The same afternoon. Giorgio, did you see anyone else go up to Dean’s office on Wednesday?”
He shook his gray head. “I have no time to look out window. But when I serve customer at this table, I see Sam go in
to building.”
“No one else went in there?”
“I am busy all afternoon.” He paused for a beat or two. “But I see guy from Staples take boxes inside.”
The boxes of office supplies. Movement outside caught my eye. Tracy was locking her bicycle to a bike rack across the street.
“You’ve been very helpful, Giorgio. Thank you.” I pointed to the window. “My daughter’s here. I have to go.”
He nodded, and picked up his broom.
Tracy was approaching our door when I caught up with her. “Laura told me you’d be here,” she said. “I’d like a tour of your new office suite.”
I unlocked the door, and we went upstairs.
***
I took Maxie for a long walk when I got home, and we returned to an empty house. Laura and Kyle had gone out to a movie, and Tommy was spending the weekend with his grandmother. I fed Maxie and put a frozen pizza in the oven. When it was ready, I took a few slices into my study.
Munching my dinner, I went through the flash drives Hardy had given me. I put Dean’s client files aside for another day; instead, I looked at the letters he had drafted in recent months, memos he’d written to Sam and notes to himself. And I scanned the hundreds of e-mails he’d sent to clients, business associates and friends.
Most of them were what I had expected: birthday greetings, appointment changes, follow-ups to discussions at client meetings. But 28 messages to and from a Gabe Quincy over the past six months stood out like red flags. Gabe wasn’t on Dean’s client roster, and from the wording of the e-mails, he didn’t seem to be a close friend. There was something off-putting about his cryptic messages with cornball cloak-and-dagger wordings such as “the business at hand” and “our friend.” The words “location, location, location,” the mantra of real-estate agents, suggested the subject of one e-mail was about real estate. But that was the extent of what I could gather from these messages.
I copied and pasted them into a file I named “Gabe Quincy,” and printed out a hard copy.
“That’s it for today, girl,” I said, patting Maxie who was stretched out at my feet.
In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of chilled chardonnay and retired to the sunroom with a plate of cold pizza. It was time to take stock of my situation.
Uncharted Waters Page 6