by Cassie Miles
LIZ CARRADINE watched from her upstairs bay window as the man who called himself Dash strolled down the street, talking to himself. Dash, as in Dashiell Hammett, who was one of her favorite mystery authors. Dashiell Hammett, who had written The Thin Man and The Maltese Falcon. Was that his real name? More to the point, how did he know her? How did he know where she worked?
Painfully, she lowered herself to the window seat. Her right knee was scraped raw from when she fell on Seventeenth Street, and the palms of her hands were bruised. She’d been lucky to get out of the way before the traffic had come squealing down upon her. Shuddering, Liz realized that she’d been about five seconds away from being road kill.
On the street below, she saw Dash pause, straighten his shoulders and gesture emphatically. The man was severely neurotic, and that really was a shame because he wasn’t bad looking. He had a broad set of shoulders under that ridiculous private-eye trench coat, and he must be in excellent shape because he’d gotten across the park before she did. He hadn’t even been breathing hard—in spite of his nicotine habit.
She continued to observe as he talked to himself and lit another cigarette. Then he held the cigarette, butt out, and it puffed all by itself The ember tip glowed red in the darkness. A wispy smoke ring appeared. It was as if someone else, an unseen person, was taking a drag of Dash’s Camel.
Liz rubbed her eyes. Was she as crazy as he was? Was his nuttiness contagious?
Or maybe he really was an angel, capable of strange and wondrous miracles.
“No way,” she said aloud. This angel craze had definitely gone too far. Liz was a very down-to-earth person, and she wasn’t even sure she believed in celestial beings. Even if there were such things as angels, they didn’t wear trench coats and talk like somebody doing a bad Humphrey Bogart impression.
Still…she couldn’t explain that flash of light, like a lightning bolt that touched down right there on her doorstep. And she’d heard music—a single beautiful chord that sounded and vanished more quickly than thunder. For an instant, she’d felt warm and safe, somehow protected, enveloped in a beautiful, luminous cocoon of the softest eiderdown.
The sensation lasted for the merest second, only the blink of an eye, but the feeling was remarkable. What was it? What natural phenomenon had caused the light and the sound? She was reminded of the description given by people who had near-death experiences. They talked about a tunnel of pure white radiance. An encounter with the angels?
As she watched, Dash turned his head and looked at her. He raised his hand, still holding the cigarette, and waved.
Though his lips did not move, she heard his voice as clearly as if he’d been standing right beside her. He said, “Here’s looking at you, precious.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Liz walked stiffly through the reception area at the downtown corporate office of OrbenCorp Coffee. Though she’d bandaged her scraped knee, the injury felt hot and stinging beneath her loose linen slacks. Liz wouldn’t have minded a bit of sympathy, but the perky new receptionist didn’t bother to look up from the phones as she waved a cheery good morning.
Nor did Jack Orben pay the slightest attention to Liz’s halting gait. He strode past her in the corridor, studying the morning newspaper. Absently, he said, “Good morning, Liz.”
“Hi, Jack.”
She watched his back as he pushed open the door to his plush corner office. Loudly, Liz cleared her throat, hoping to attract his notice. It took an effort to stop herself from exhaling an agonized moan. That would have been excessive, perhaps even pathetic, as a bid for attention.
Jack pulled his nose out of the newspaper and scowled in her direction. “Liz? What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ll survive.” But she exaggerated her hobble. “Last night, when I was jogging, I stumbled and—”
“Big day today,” he said. “Hector’s in town. Oh, that reminds me, are you coming to Sarah’s dinner party tonight?”
“I really hadn’t planned—”
“Of course you are. You’re practically family, and Sarah’s counting on you.”
“But I’m really not feeling well.” Liz blessed her injury. If a scraped knee could give her reason to escape one of Sarah Orben Pachen’s tedious dinner parties, the pain was worth it. “Yesterday, I almost got killed on Seventeenth Avenue. So I won’t be able to make it to the dinner tonight.”
“Sure you will,” Jack said. “Call Sarah this morning and let her know if you’re bringing a date. And I’ll be out for most of the day with Hector, so you carry on around here. Thanks, Liz.”
He pivoted and went into his office.
“You’re welcome, Jack,” she said to the closed door. Never mind that she was hurt. Never mind that she’d been accosted last night by a man who thought he’d flown across City Park, a man who dressed like a latter-day Humphrey Bogart and had told her—with a completely straight face—that he was an angel.
Though she wasn’t a whiner, Liz had expected a little more compassion from her co-workers. A friendly “How are you?” would have been nice. Or “Could I help you?” But no. Never.
She was utterly taken for granted. Good old Liz, always on time, always doing her job, always overlooked. As far as OrbenCorp was concerned, Liz was a function, not a person. She was the indispensable administrative assistant to Jack Orben, the company president and CEO since his mother passed away six months ago
Slipping into her narrow office right next to Jack’s, she slammed her briefcase on the desktop.
Almost ten years ago, she’d started here, fresh from college and full of ambition. She’d expected to rise swiftly through the ranks of the small family-owned company, which seemed favorably placed in the burgeoning market for exotic coffees. Ultimately, she hoped to become a buyer, traveling in Central and South America with occasional forays along the Pacific Rim She was hired, after all, for her training and ability in languages.
And now? Ten years later? She was nothing more than a glorified lackey, racing to cover Jack’s lack of business acumen. He was a terrific sales promoter, suave enough to do his own advertising appearances on television. But when it came to the daily transactions necessary to keep the business rolling, Jack couldn’t be bothered.
Limping around her desk, she yanked open a file drawer and dug inside until she found the accounting folder with the latest buy-sell comparison figures.
“Busy day,” she muttered. Hector Messenger, the buyer who had the job Liz coveted, was in town.
To Jack, Hector’s presence meant a prolonged lunch, a dinner party at Cousin Sarah’s and a nightcap afterward. Hector, like Jack, was divorced, and the two of them were infamous for their business carousing.
To Liz, Hector’s arrival meant something altogether different. She’d been comparing figures on the purchases OrbenCorp had made on raw and processed coffee beans versus the prices paid by other companies for virtually the same product. It seemed to her that over the past several months Hector had been contracting for eight to twelve percent more than OrbenCorp’s competitors. He had some explaining to do.
“Good morning, Liz.”
She glanced up. Hector Messenger stood in her doorway. He was a short, swarthy man in his mid-fifties who considered himself to be a sharp dresser. Too sharp for Liz’s taste. The knife-edge creases in his trousers were too emphatic. The blue stripe in his gray wool blend suit shone overly bright. The collar of his shirt was open one button too low. He was one of those men who always wore jewelry—a couple of rings, a heavy gold wristwatch and two necklaces, a St. Christopher medal and a gold locket.
With a nod, she acknowledged his presence. “How are you, Hector?”
“Not bad. And yourself?”
“I’m miserable,” she said. She straightened and shoved the file cabinet drawer closed. “I stumbled last night while I was jogging and scraped my knee.”
“Any stitches?”
“No.”
“A sprain?”
“Not really.” Liz shrugged. “Oka
y, it’s not a serious, life-threatening injury. But it still hurts.”
He flashed his toothy white grin. “I am so sorry.”
Was that sarcasm? She knew that Hector, during his peripatetic world travels, had been in tight situations in several Third World nations. He’d witnessed revolutions. According to the rumor mill, he’d been a mercenary before he joined OrbenCorp. Once, he was almost kidnapped. His job could be dangerous.
And still Liz wanted it. She wanted to be a buyer, a world traveler. She hungered for the excitement.
“Please sit down, Hector.” Suppressing her limp, she went behind her desk and eased into the chair behind it.
“Sorry, Lizzie, I can’t stay. Gotta do my first cup of coffee with the big boss.”
“I need to verify some figures with you,” she said. Liz knew very well that Jack wouldn’t mention Hector’s overpayments on beans. Jack would be thoroughly delighted that Hector, his playmate, was back in town—no matter how much Hector was costing the company. Therefore, as always, the unpleasant confrontation was left to Liz. She started, “I’ve been studying the contracts from last quarter and—”
“Later,” Hector said He strode the two paces it took to cover the space in her cubicle-size office and held out his fist. He opened his fingers, displaying a set of fancy silvery earrings. “These are for you, Liz.”
She plucked them from his hand. They were huge and shiny, a lacy design with silver teardrops that would dangle to her shoulders. There was no way understated Liz would ever wear heavy, gaudy earrings like these. Dryly, she said, “Gosh, thanks.”
“When I saw them, in a market in Cartagena, I thought of you.”
She wondered why. If Hector had ever spared more than a quick glance in her direction, he would have noticed that she never wore jewelry like this.
“Put them on,” he said.
“I think not. I’ll save them for a dress-up occasion.” Like Halloween, she thought. “Now, Hector, I’m sure you have a few minutes, and we really need to discuss these amounts.”
“Please put on the earrings. Come on,” he cajoled. “Let yourself go. You’re a very attractive woman, Liz. Come on, let your hair down.”
She patted the sleek French knot that held her long brown tresses in place. “I like my hair this way.”
“So do I. Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing. Lizzie, I’m old enough to be your father, and my advice is meant in a fatherly way. I’ve known you for seven years now.”
“Eight,” she corrected. She vividly recalled the day Hector had been hired and the position for buyer had been filled. Liz had been promised the next opening. When? Sometime in the twenty-first century?
“Eight years,” Hector repeated. “That’s a long time.”
“Extra long when you’re stuck behind a desk.”
“That’s what I mean, Liz. I’d like to see you put some more fun in your life. Take some risks. Loosen up.”
“Sorry, I’m not a loose woman.”
He chuckled. “See you later. Tonight at the dinner party.”
“Wait!”
But he was gone, marching down the short corridor to Jack’s office. She heard the two men exchange hale and hearty greetings, which, she knew from past experience, would be followed by a couple of raunchy jokes and a lot of backslapping. What a couple of jerks! Hector and his fatherly advice could go right straight to hell. She ought to take her information about his overpaying directly to the head of accounting. Gary Gregory watched over every OrbenCorp penny with the avidity of an obsessivecompulsive hawk. If he suspected Hector was paying too much for beans, Gary would go through the ceiling.
She listened to the loud masculine laughter that emanated from Jack’s office. “Damn.”
Ten years at OrbenCorp was an eternity. When would she get her chance? How long could she cling to the slender thread of hope that someday Hector would move on? And when that time came, would Jack give her the job, or would he look for another good old male buddy?
Liz drew back her arm and flung the ghastly earrings toward the light switch beside her open office door.
A hand reached out and caught them. Smoothly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Remember me?”
How could she forget? It was Dash, the lunatic. Today he wasn’t wearing the trench coat, but his double-breasted suit had a distinctive thirties cut to the trousers, and he still had the fedora on his head.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she glared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Like I said yesterday, I need to talk to you, precious.” He stood on the other side of her desk. “And I wanted to find out how you were. You took a hard fall last night.”
Finally, someone was concerned. “It’s just a scrape,” she said. “No big deal, but it hurts every time I bend my knee.”
“Can I take a look at it?”
“No! Not unless you’re a doctor…as well as being an angel.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo. I feel responsible.”
“Well, you should. It was your fault that I went running out in traffic.” As soon as she spoke, she felt petty.
“Forgive me?” he asked.
His coffee-colored eyes twinkled with a soft, gentle light. For some unfathomable reason she felt she could trust him. “Okay, Dash. I forgive you. Now, would you please leave my office?”
“I hope and pray you’ll feel better.”
“What an odd thing to say!” And yet, almost instantly, her aches lessened. She relaxed. The clenched fist of anger in her chest eased.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hey, precious. A little prayer never hurt anybody.”
“Oh, no, you’re not going to start in on that angel stuff again, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” He winked. “Meet me in fifteen minutes at the bakeshop on the corner and I’ll buy you a cup of java.”
“Coffee? You’re offering me a cup of coffee?” She raised her eyebrows. Not only was he a crackbrained loon who seemed stuck in a bad impression of Bogie, but he was also unobservant. This was OrbenCorp, one of the leading processors and packagers of coffee in the country. Asking her out for coffee was like carrying ice cubes to Antarctica! “If there’s one thing we have in this office, it’s coffee.”
“But you’re shy on privacy, doll face. And I need to talk to you alone.”
She gestured to the walls of her office. “Isn’t this alone enough?”
“The walls have ears,” he said cryptically.
“I really don’t have time to play these games with you, Dash. I mean, why all the secrecy? What’s the big deal?”
“Murder,” he said.
He dropped the earrings onto the center of her desk and left the room.
Chapter Two
Murder? Was Dash serious or was he seriously deluded? Liz stared at the closed door of her office and wondered. Murder. That would explain his whole cloak-and-dagger demeanor. Maybe Dash really was investigating a murder case—just like Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade.
A tickle of excitement started in the back of her throat, and instead of clamping down in a frown, her lips twitched into a grin as she contemplated the unusual thrill of a murder investigation. Wouldn’t that be a switch from her regular, dull routine? A murder! But who?
Though Dash might be crazy, Liz had to find out.
She grabbed her purse and left the office, pausing in the receptionist’s area to wait for the peppy blonde behind the desk to simultaneously complete the transfer of a phone call and the application of her hot pink lipstick. She was also reading a magazine and drinking coffee. This little bundle of energy was named Becky, and Liz had hired her only three weeks ago.
Though Becky’s only qualifications for the job were attractiveness, a willing attitude and a sincere love of coffee, she was working out well. Her all-Americancheerleader look complemented the bright decor of the front office.
She snapped her mirrored compact shut. “Hi, Liz. What can I do for you?”
�
�There was a man who just came through here. Did he leave his full name?”
“A man?” Becky hefted her coffee mug. Judging by her hyperactivity, this had to be her fourth or fifth shot of straight French roast for the morning. “I didn’t see anybody.”
That was impossible! Everybody had to come through the front reception area. “Becky, he just came into my office. Not more than five minutes ago. A man. A little over six feet tall. Dark gray suit and white shirt. He was wearing a fedora.”
“A hat? Nope, I didn’t see him.” The corners of her freshly colored lips pulled into a frown. “Was it important?”
“I hope not. Listen, Becky, I’ll be out of the office for a couple of minutes. Take messages for me, okay?”
“You got it.”
The phone rang, and Liz slipped out through glass doors with the words OrbenCorp Coffee stenciled in gold. She headed for the elevators.
Down on the street, she rounded the corner of the downtown Denver skyscraper where OrbenCorp had their offices on the fourteenth floor. The bakeshop, called Chez Muffin, was tucked into the retail first floor. The menu offered berry muffins, croissants and coffee in a very clean setting with blond wood tables, cane-bottomed chairs and a mural of the Eiffel Tower on the wall. Dash in his fedora and dark suit looked out of place with his shoulders hunched, his expression dark and the ever-present Camel stuck in the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t really look like Humphrey Bogart, Liz thought. Dash was too tall. His features were too symmetrical to look dissipated. Still, the coolness in his manner suggested the great Bogie in his prime. As she approached him, Liz couldn’t resist quoting a line from one of Bogie’s most famous movies. She gestured toward the mural on the wall and said, “We’ll always have Paris.”
“Huh?”
“You know, like Bogie said to Ingrid Bergman. In Casablanca? It’s my guess that you’re a major Humphrey Bogart fan.”