by Ray Green
‘Fantastic!’ said Cynthia, stepping away to return to her own desk.
Juanita smiled. She had so far learned nothing about the murdered journalist, or what she had been working on, but she felt sure she had succeeded in gaining the confidence of her manager. That was surely a good first step from which to launch her investigation.
***
‘So how was your first day?’ said James, that evening, pouring two glasses from the bottle of Chardonnay he had had sent up to the room while anxiously awaiting Juanita’s return.
She took a grateful sip of the cool, fragrant liquid. ‘Pretty good, I think. It’s far too soon to have found any opportunity to dig into what the murdered journalist had been working on, but my new boss, Cynthia, seems to have sort of taken to me. Although I spent most of today on pretty mind-numbing tasks, she seemed quite impressed.’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ said James, holding forth his glass, ‘by someone like you?’
‘Charmer,’ she replied, clinking glasses with him. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘tomorrow, I have some more interesting tasks to do. If I can do a good job on that stuff and gain more of her confidence, maybe she’ll give me enough free rein to find some opportunity to go looking for the information we need.’
‘You really are quite something,’ said James.
‘Funny you should say that … I believe Cynthia said something similar.’ She took another sip of her wine, before breaking into peals of laughter.
James offered his glass, once again, for Juanita to clink. ‘But be careful,’ he said, his tone more serious now, ‘don’t take any unnecessary chances.’
‘When would I ever do anything like that?’ she said, tilting her head and giving an impish grin.
‘No, I mean it. If anyone there gets the idea that you’re anything more than just a temp looking for a week’s work, there’s every chance that they might involve the police. If that happens, who knows what—?’
She cut him off. ‘Shhh … I get it … I’ll be careful.’
And she knew that she had to be. As yet, she had no idea how she would be able to find out what Julia Turner had been working on, but she had to find a way to do so without arousing any suspicions.
Right now, though, she just wanted to enjoy another glass of Chardonnay with the man she loved.
***
Kyle Richards checked his watch: 3.50 p.m. He should be on the ground at JFK airport in less than an hour. He folded up the magazine he had been absently browsing and tucked it into the seat pocket before draining the last of his beer, crushing the plastic tumbler and jamming that, too, into the seat pocket before folding away his tray table.
He gazed out of the window at the white carpet of cloud below. It was completely unbroken, looking almost solid enough to walk on. The forecast of a wet and gloomy day down below looked about right. Not as gloomy as his mood though.
The initial euphoria he had felt at the prospect of tracking Carla down and, perhaps, at last getting some answers about what lay behind Sylvia’s untimely death, had long since faded. It had been replaced by a deep sense of guilt about the tactics he had used, overlaid with a crushing trepidation about how he should approach Carla when they finally met.
Although Carla had been Sylvia’s best friend, he had only actually met her once. He had heard so much about her from Sylvia, but he didn’t really know her personally, and he was desperately unsure how to handle the situation. How would she react? Would she be furious with him, and refuse outright to speak to him? He just had to hope that if Carla was the kind, caring person that Sylvia had described, she would appreciate the deep despair which had driven him to the subterfuge and deception he had employed and forgive him for it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden easing of the monotonous drone of the engines, accompanied by a familiar weightlessness in his stomach: they were beginning their descent. It wouldn’t be long now.
Chapter 16
Juanita had spent most of the following morning sorting through the mess left by the previous secretary. Now she was updating Cynthia on the progress she had made.
‘Quite a lot of it looked like stuff she had dealt with but just not got around to filing or putting away, so I’ve done that now.’
Cynthia nodded. ‘Good - what else did you find?’
‘There were a number of letters which had been signed and were just waiting to be sent out. I’ve put them in envelopes and mailed them.’
‘Great – anything else?’
‘Yes – there were a number of letters addressed to you. Most of them were just speculative enquiries which I guess you won’t want to be bothered with. I’ve taken the liberty of typing brief replies on your behalf, which are here’ – she held forward a cardboard folder – ‘together with the original enquiries. If you can just check you’re happy with my replies, you can sign them, and I’ll get them sent off.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘But there are three here which I believe will probably need your personal attention.’ She held forward another folder. ‘If you’d like to take a look at them and record your replies, I’ll take care of them.’
Juanita had previously noted the small dictation recorder lying on Cynthia’s desk. It was fortunate that Cynthia used such a device, for if she had wanted to dictate her replies directly, it would have exposed the fact that the shorthand skills claimed in Juanita’s – or rather Gema’s – résumé were, in fact, non-existent.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Cynthia. ‘Thank you.’
‘And finally,’ said Juanita, ‘there are these documents’ – she proffered a third folder – ‘which I don’t really know what to do with.’
Cynthia opened the folder and flipped briefly through the few documents inside it. ‘These are the only ones you haven’t dealt with?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Out of that whole pile of stuff on Penny’s desk?’
‘Well yes … I mean there’s nothing else there. Her desk is clear now.’
‘Wow … that’s great work Gema.’
‘Thanks. Er … if you don’t mind me asking … why did your secretary leave so suddenly?’
A dark cloud flitted across Cynthia’s face. ‘I suppose you might as well know, but please don’t go discussing this with anyone else who works here.’
Juanita’s interest was immediately piqued. ‘No, of course not. I would never repeat anything that you choose to tell me in confidence.’
‘OK then … you heard about the murder?’
Juanita figured it was best to feign ignorance. ‘What murder?’ she said.
‘The journalist murdered in Central Park.’
Juanita frowned and tilted her head backwards a little, as though trying to recall something. ‘Oh, yes … I think I saw a piece about it on TV a few days ago, but what does that have to do with your secretary leaving?’
Cynthia lowered her voice. ‘The murdered girl worked for this newspaper.’
Juanita let out a gasp. ‘Oh God! That’s awful.’
‘Yeah, it is … and the cops apparently don’t know what the motive for her murder was. And you know how people are: as the cops can’t come up with a motive, then folk will soon come up with their own ideas. So now there’s a theory going around the office that the murderer might have a grudge against this newspaper. There’s absolutely no evidence that that could be the case, but the idea’s really spooked some of our employees; they’re whispering “who’s next?”. Penny was so freaked out by the whole thing she just left without giving any notice. I gather there may be others also thinking of leaving.’
Juanita listened intently to this explanation before replying, ‘Seems a bit drastic: quitting your job on the strength of a completely unsubstantiated theory. I mean, obviously, it’s a real shock when something like this happens so close to home but, in all honesty, there are murders happening all the time in New York City, and a lot of them are just muggings gone wrong, or something like that. It’s quite a stretch to imagine
someone with a grudge against this newspaper would just start murdering its employees at random to get back at the paper.’
‘I agree, but there it is. Anyway, it’s best you heard it from me first rather than through the office grapevine. So, I hope I haven’t scared you off now.’
Juanita laughed. ‘I don’t scare easy. To me, the whole idea seems ridiculous when—’
Their conversation was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a breathless, somewhat overweight, red-faced man in an ill-fitting grey suit.
‘Hey, Cynthia, I need to talk to you urgently,’ he blurted.
Cynthia was clearly irritated by his blunt interruption. ‘Gema, this is Joe Goldsmith, Assignment Editor from the floor above; Joe, this is Gema, my new temp.’
She had succeeded in taking the wind from his sails. ‘Oh, I … uh … real sorry to interrupt like that, Cynthia. Pleased to meet you, Gema.’
‘Likewise,’ she replied. ‘We were just finishing up anyway, so I’ll get out of the way and leave you to it.’ She turned to Cynthia. ‘I’ll just be at Penny’s desk if you want me; I’ll take your calls while you guys are talking.’
‘Thanks, Gema,’ said Cynthia.
Juanita retreated to what was now her desk, appearing to become engaged with something on her computer screen, while actually listening intently to the conversation between Cynthia and the guy from upstairs.
‘I got a problem, Cynthia.’
‘I could have told you that,’ she fired back, quick as a flash.
‘Oh, very funny … but look, I’m serious. The cops have been on the phone. They still don’t seem to know why Julia was killed, so now they want to know exactly what she had been working on before she died. Thing is, I don’t really know myself. She had been acting kind of secretive lately; I think she may have been onto something big and not wanted to share it yet.’
‘So what does this have to do with me?’
‘They’re coming here tomorrow morning and they want to take away all her papers, her computer, and anything else which might shed some light on what she was working on.’
A leaden boulder descended in Juanita’s stomach: once the police had taken away all of Julia’s things there would be no hope of finding what she was looking for. Shit.
‘Like I said,’ continued Cynthia, ‘what does this have to do with me?’
‘I haven’t got anyone to sort through it all and get it organised for them to collect: my admin assistant quit yesterday – she’s bought this damned conspiracy theory going around – and my secretary called in sick this morning. I was wondering if you could spare anyone?’
‘Well, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m short-staffed too.’
Oh no! This was the perfect opportunity to rescue the situation, but Cynthia was about to scupper it. She couldn’t let that happen. She took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to where the other two were talking.
‘Excuse me Cynthia, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.’
Cynthia drew her eyebrows together in a frown. ‘Oh really?’ She sounded a little irritated.
‘I just thought maybe I could help. I’m pretty much on top of things for today and I could probably spare a few hours this afternoon to help Mr Goldsmith.’
Cynthia’s frown deepened: Juanita had the distinct impression that there was no love lost between the other two.
‘Hey, that’d be great,’ piped up Goldsmith.
Juanita was acutely aware that diving in like this without Cynthia’s say-so risked undoing much of the goodwill she had built up with her boss; in fact, Cynthia’s tone suggested she may have already done so. But there was no alternative: once those papers and files were gone there would be no means of finding out what the murdered journalist had been working on.
Cynthia sighed. ‘OK then, but I need you back here first thing in the morning.’
Goldsmith visibly relaxed. ‘Thanks Cynthia … you’re a doll. And thank you er …’
‘Gema.’
‘Yes, thanks Gema.’ He turned back to Cynthia. ‘OK if I swing by just after lunch to show Gema where Julia’s things are? Say about one?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
As the man walked off, looking a lot happier than when he had arrived, Juanita took the opportunity to avoid the awkward conversation with her boss which she sensed was coming.
Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘I guess I’d better go for lunch now then, to make sure I’m back by one.’
She stepped back to her own desk, picked up her purse and slipped away, before Cynthia had a chance to say anything further.
***
Juanita was glad to escape from the office for a while, following the fractious exchange between Cynthia and the guy from upstairs: it gave her the chance to avoid, temporarily at least, what she assumed would be a rather difficult conversation with her boss.
But she didn’t have any lunch that day: she used her lunch break to find an electronics store and purchase a portable hard drive. The largest capacity model they had was two terabytes; she figured that should be enough to copy the entire contents of the dead journalist’s computer, assuming she could do so without someone realising what she was doing.
She arrived back in the New York Times building at around 12.45 p.m. Five minutes later she was back at the entrance to the office. To her dismay, Cynthia was still at her desk; she must have worked through lunch or decided to wait for Juanita’s return before going for a late lunch, in order to remonstrate with her. Juanita really didn’t want that conversation right then: at best it would be awkward, and at worst Cynthia might just have changed her mind about allowing her to help out upstairs. She couldn’t risk that happening.
What to do? There was, as yet, no sign of Joe Goldsmith, so maybe she could hang back outside the office, staying discreetly out of sight until he showed up and went over to Cynthia’s desk; he should be arriving any time now. Juanita could then follow him in just seconds later, pretending to have only just returned from lunch. She doubted that Cynthia would give her a dressing down in front of Goldsmith, but there was still a risk she could rescind her decision and prevent her from going upstairs. She decided on a different strategy.
She located the elevator and rode up one floor. Stepping out, she stopped the first person she saw in the corridor: a flustered-looking young woman hurrying along clutching an armful of papers.
‘Excuse me,’ called out Juanita. The woman stopped in her tracks, eying Juanita up and down. ‘I’m looking for Joe Goldsmith. Do you know where I can find him? I’m new here,’ she added, by way of explanation.
‘Oh, sure,’ replied the woman. ‘In that office.’ As her arms were completely overloaded with papers, she resorted to indicating where she meant by inclining her head in the direction of the entrance. ‘Joe’s desk is right over at the far side.’
‘Thanks.’
The woman hurried on, shifting her grip on the pile of papers to prevent them slipping from her grasp.
Juanita entered the office, which proved to be a large open-plan room, similar to the one below, except that it was more densely populated, with most of the desks arranged in long, closely packed rows. It wasn’t going to be easy to do anything without being observed by others.
She made her way across the office and quickly spotted the man who had come to see Cynthia earlier. He had his head down, apparently engrossed in the file open on his desk. He looked up, however, as Juanita approached, glancing at his watch.
‘Oh, hello there, uh …’
‘Gema,’ she reminded him. She was finally getting used to her adopted name.
‘Yes, of course … Gema. Sorry, I meant to come down and collect you ten minutes ago, but I got kinda … snowed under.’ He indicated, with a sweep of his upturned palm, the unruly piles of papers spread haphazardly across his desk.
‘Oh, that’s OK, Mr Goldsmith; I can see you’re really busy. It was no problem finding you.’ She flashed him her most winning smile.
She was dressed conservatively, in a grey business suit, but his attempt to disguise the involuntary scan which his eyes performed up and down her slim, shapely body before she sat down failed miserably. That was OK - his interest could only help her cause. She maintained the smile, widening her eyes ever so slightly. ‘If you’d like to show me what I can do for you’ – the double entendre was unintentional, but the way Goldsmith ran his tongue along his upper lip clearly indicated it had not been lost on him – ‘then I’ll get started and let you get on.’
‘Sure,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll just let Cynthia know that you’re up here.’ He picked up the phone and punched a couple of keys. ‘Hi, Cynthia. Just thought I’d let you know that your charming assistant’ – he shot Juanita a knowing glance – ‘is already up here. Thanks so much for—’ He fell silent, apparently having been interrupted by the voice on the other end of the line. After about ten seconds he put down the handset. ‘I guess Cynthia must have got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’ He rose from his chair, beckoning. ‘Come on, follow me.’
He led her over to an unoccupied desk, a few rows away. To Juanita’s dismay, the desks either side were occupied: on one side by a young girl, probably barely out of college, and on the other by a tired-looking, middle-aged man with a hopelessly unsuccessful combover. Goldsmith introduced her to both of them.
‘Guys … got a moment?’ They both looked up. ‘Gema, this is Emily, and this is Scott.’
‘Pleased to meet you both,’ she replied shaking each of their hands in turn. Emily’s was small and feminine; Scott’s cold, damp, and limp.
‘Gema’s helping out this afternoon by sorting out and boxing up all Julia’s things. The police want to take them away tomorrow morning.’
Juanita noticed a fearful shadow flit across the other girl’s eyes as she gave a tremulous intake of breath. As Cynthia had already told her, Julia’s murder had evidently unsettled some of the other staff.