Breathless

by Nancy Warren

  Only this was no game.

  She had a problem. Two humongous human resources problems, actually. One of whom was Phil. The professional part of her cringed that she’d made the final decision to hire a man who’d turned out to be a blackmailer. The second problem was the unidentified person on the other end of the call. Who was it? And what had they done that they could be blackmailed over?

  She rose carefully to a crouch, checking the older-style telephone on the desk, but no lights were blinking. She pushed a line and lifted the receiver, but there was no tone. If the phones in this area had been disconnected, there was no way for her to overhear both ends of the conversation. Phil must be on a cell phone.

  She ducked back down and waited, her head bowed, gaze fixed on the blue-green industrial carpeting until Phil concluded his call. Then silence. She imagined him emerging stealthily, checking the corridor right and left, then sauntering casually back to his office.

  Or waiting, keeping watch, in case he’d been overheard. A shiver scuttled down her spine and she glanced at her watch then made herself wait, despite how uncomfortable she was, for five full minutes. The longest five minutes of her life.

  She took her time getting up, lifting her head and peeking out the window into the corridor. Empty. Slowly she rose. Determined not to act suspicious, she simply walked out of the doorway. She gazed left, breathed a sigh of relief when she saw nothing but deserted hallway ahead of her, then reversed and turned right, back the way she’d come, or so she hoped.

  The abandoned office area seemed endless. Every doorway loomed, a sinister darkness waiting to swallow her. Her heart was pounding so hard her blouse was bouncing. All the airways leading into her lungs were squeezing shut. She could feel them clamping down as dizziness assailed her.

  No, she cried silently. Not now. She had paper bags stashed everywhere, but not in the temporary portfolio which was all she had with her.

  She gasped, her racing heart feeling like a jet engine at takeoff. But if there was ever a time that a panic attack made sense, she had to admit it was now. She’d overheard a bank employee blackmail another bank employee for a million dollars. Now she was stuck in a deserted maze of twisting hallways and empty offices knowing the blackmailer was nearby.

  Panic seemed an entirely appropriate response.

  5

  STOP IT. BREATHE. She repeated the mantra her therapist had given her. It’s a panic attack. Acknowledge it. It will pass. She tried to find a spot to focus on, but she was too busy trying to get back to the hum of activity, the safety of the crowded workplace.

  The sanctuary of her office.

  Right now, she couldn’t face a meeting with Ruby, concerning Phil of all people. Whatever Ruby was accusing him of, Sophie was certain it wasn’t criminal activity. No way she could listen to a litany of complaints about how he filled out forms incorrectly when she was holding this awful knowledge inside her chest. Literally choking on it.

  No. She had to think, to figure out what to do.

  She’d reached the populated part of the third floor by pure blind luck, and there, like a magic throughway back to reality, was the door that led to the elevators. She bypassed it for the stairs. Once in the stairwell, she sat down on the first step and put her head between her knees.

  She’d catch her breath then go to the in-house auditors and report what she’d overheard.

  “Are you all right?” Gwen’s eyes widened as Sophie staggered into view.

  She shook her head, feeling weak and ill. “I’m a little under the weather. More shaken up by yesterday than I realized. Can you reschedule Ruby? Apologize.” Sophie paused to drag in a breath. “Tell her anything you like.”

  “Sure.” Gwen frowned with concern. “Did you get lost down there again?”

  Sophie nodded. Had she ever.

  “Why don’t I call you a cab?”

  “I only need to sit a minute.”

  Feeling completely foolish, she dug a brown paper bag out of a desk drawer and stuck it over her nose and mouth. In and out she breathed, focusing her gaze on the framed picture on her wall, a scene from Der Rosenkavalier, one of her favorite operas, where another Sophie falls in love amid much pomp and waltzing in Strauss’s Vienna. She stared at that other Sophie, with her powdered hair and huge silver-blue skirt, thinking her problems were a lot simpler.

  When Gwen pressed a glass of water in her hand she didn’t resist. She hoped her assistant didn’t notice the tidal waves on the surface of the water, caused by her shaking.

  She dreaded riding the elevator to report her overheard conversation to the internal auditors—the bank’s version of Internal Affairs—knowing she could be ending Phil’s career. He could even end up in jail.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, rubbing a damp hand over her heart, wishing she could find some benign interpretation to Phil’s conversation. Wishing she could delay turning the information over to the auditors. However, Phil had demanded the money by midnight tomorrow, so there was no time to delay.

  Mechanically, she straightened her desk, and closed down her computer. Anxiety was making her feel rotten, but it wouldn’t kill her. Once she’d completed her unpleasant errand she could go home and eat a lot of chocolate.

  She entered an elevator, fortunately empty, and pushed the button for the seventh floor, which was completely taken up by the auditors. Nausea churned and it wasn’t caused only by panic, but by distress at what she had to do.

  As the doors opened onto the seventh floor, she took a deep breath, knowing she was about to destroy one career, probably two.

  Her breath whooshed out in a gasp.

  Phil Britten stepped toward the elevator, and with him was Henry Forsyth, the bank chairman. It was obvious they’d been chatting when the doors opened. What was the chairman of the bank doing chumming with an assistant account manager? And what were they both doing on the auditing floor?

  Even as she stood there with a dumb smile pasted on her face, her brain raced. What if the person on the other end of Phil’s phone call was one of the auditors? Or, equally possible, what if it was the bank chairman himself? If she went to the auditors now, she could merely end up warning the guilty party. He’d take care to cover his tracks, he’d alert Phil and…

  And if it was Mr. Forsyth whom Phil had been talking to on the phone, they were the last couple she wanted witnessing her visit to the seventh floor. What reason could she possibly have for being here?

  Henry Forsyth held the elevator door, politely standing back to let her out before the men stepped in. His brows were raised in mild surprise. She glanced from one to the other. Had a suspicious glance passed between them?

  Suddenly she felt like a spy in enemy territory. She had no idea whom to trust, and had to treat everyone as a potential traitor. She made herself laugh, and step back in manufactured confusion. “I must have pushed the wrong button. I wanted the sixth floor.” If pressed, she could come up with a reason for visiting the stock analysts on six much more easily than she could think of a reason to visit the auditors. It wasn’t a department that had anything to do with her. She didn’t hire them, or manage personnel issues. They were a closed shop, designed that way to prevent corruption.

  She waited until they’d all shared a small laugh. For once, she was grateful that her habit of getting lost was legendary, and punched the six button.

  There wasn’t time for small talk, so they all stuck pleasant expressions on their faces and watched the seven fade as the elevator slid smoothly down one floor. Still, she managed to cast a searching glance at each of them under her lashes. Phil was doing isometric exercises beneath his jacket. She could see the bulge and release of his biceps.

  Mr. Forsyth remained still, his pleasant smile never wavering. But what thoughts hid behind that smile? she wondered. She was just as curious to know what they’d be saying to each other if she weren’t standing between them.

  Secret conversations, blackmail, criminal cover-ups: they all s
eemed so unbelievable. Still, she left the elevator with a businesslike stride and headed straight to the department manager’s office where she whiled away ten minutes discussing the Christmas holiday rotation. It was lame, but she figured it was better than marching into the women’s bathroom for a few minutes and then sneaking away. At least now, if anyone checked up on her, they’d find out she’d conducted business on the sixth.

  A wave of anger swept through her. Why should she be sneaking around, having pretend meetings, acting as though she were guilty of something? She wasn’t guilty of anything except being a wimp. If the auditors and the bank chairman were both suspect, she only had one option. She returned to her office and called a cab, glad now she’d taken one in this morning because of her sore knee. She was already a basket case. Driving to an unfamiliar location on top of her second panic attack in as many days would about do her in.

  With time running out and no idea exactly what nefarious activities were being conducted at the bank, she had to put protocol aside and concentrate on doing her best to safeguard the interests of the investors. The sensible and logical course of action was to go to the police.

  Then she gulped, almost staggering as her heart damn near pounded itself through her rib cage like a convict breaking out of prison. Oh, Lord. The last time she’d got involved with the police it hadn’t worked out so well.

  She left the building and stood outside waiting for her cab, wishing she could run home and put her brand-new lock and dead bolt to good use. She didn’t want to go to the police. She couldn’t blurt this horrible news to some front-desk sergeant, but even worse, she couldn’t blurt it to the one and only police officer she knew. The one she never wanted to cross paths with again.

  No, wait. As a yellow cab drew up in front of her, she realized she knew two cops.

  With relief, she realized she wouldn’t have to see Detective Barker since he’d spent the night in hospital. She could talk to the other detective: John something. He’d seemed like a nice man. He’d clearly not believed Barker’s story regarding her role in the disastrous events of yesterday, but hadn’t pressed her for details. She liked that kind of restraint and had immediately liked him.

  He was a kinder, gentler detective and he’d given her a business card with his number on it. He’d waited for the ambulance driver to disinfect and bandage her hand then had driven her home himself.

  “Head toward Cambie Street,” she told the cabdriver, sliding into the back and pulling out her brand-new cell phone and Detective Holborn’s card.

  She was delighted when he picked up the phone himself on the first ring. She identified herself and if he was surprised to hear from her, he hid it well. “Something happened that I’d like to discuss with you,” she said, not wanting the cabdriver to know her business.

  Detective Holborn must have been accustomed to cryptic conversations for he didn’t ask her a single question, merely gave her an address and asked her to meet him there in ten minutes.

  TEN MINUTES LATER she stood outside the address Detective Holborn had given her. It wasn’t a police station, but an apartment in a nondescript residential neighborhood. Suddenly she wished the cab ride had taken a lot longer. Like a couple of years.

  She didn’t want to cause trouble for the bank. Didn’t want to be this close to the police after the fiasco of yesterday. Detective Barker might have fessed up and for all she knew there was an APB out for her arrest.

  Stop it, she chided herself and forced her reluctant feet through the door.

  “Look before you leap, Sophie,” she reminded herself bitterly as she knocked on the door of apartment 303. She felt someone scrutinizing her through the peephole and then the door opened and Detective Holborn was there.

  “Come in,” he said to her, as though she’d arrived for a coffee party.

  Inside it was an ordinary apartment, with a living room minimally furnished, a coffeepot on the go. Doors that she assumed led to a bedroom and bathroom were shut.

  “Don’t you work at the police station?” she asked the detective.

  “This is a safe house,” he said. She wondered why he wanted to meet her here instead of at the precinct, but didn’t like to ask.

  She glanced around again, but her surroundings were no more glamorous despite the exciting term. She thought of a safe house as a place with a private army and high walls. This was a perfectly normal apartment, although there was a notable absence of personal items and a desk sat in the corner with a computer quietly humming.

  “Sit down,” said the detective.

  She sat on a brown velour couch and refused his offer of coffee. She was jittery enough.

  “How’s your hand?” he asked politely, not seeming the slightest bit surprised to see her. If he was dying of curiosity, he hid it well. But then she imagined a detective couldn’t go around with all his emotions showing on his face.

  She glanced down at the bandage. “Fine, thanks.”

  He smiled at her in an encouraging way.

  There was a short pause. “How is Detective Barker today?” she asked out of politeness. She wouldn’t want anything terrible to have happened to him overnight, but if there were a special therapy he’d have to take in a different part of the country, well, that would suit her just fine.

  John didn’t answer right away. He settled back into an oatmeal-colored easy chair. “He doesn’t take well to being incapacitated.”

  “They should have kept him in the hospital for anger management therapy,” she said before she considered.

  Even as she gasped, he’d thrown back his head on a shout of laughter. “Barker will definitely want to hear that.”

  “Hear what?” came a belligerent and most unwelcome voice.

  Sophie jerked her head toward the doorway only to have her worst suspicion confirmed. Detective Blake Barker leaned on crutches, wearing gray sweats that only just fit over the leg cast, a navy pullover and a scowl. He’d managed to wash his hair at least, it hung in dark waves to his shoulders.

  His partner recovered from the shock first. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  “I’m fine.” Barker snapped. “What’s she doing here?” He glared at her until she bristled. She was sorry. She’d apologized, visited him in hospital with a bouquet of flowers. What more did he want from her? Had her refusal to have sex with him in his hospital bed brought on all this aggression?

  “We haven’t got to that yet,” his partner said calmly. “Here, let me help you.”

  Blake shook him off, still staring at Sophie as if she was a wild animal that might spring at any moment. “You just keep her on that side of the room and I might survive in one piece.”

  Indignation had her firming her lips. If she’d known he’d be here, dragging his foul temper with him like a barely restrained Doberman, she wouldn’t have come. Besides, maybe she was being rash. There must be another avenue she could pursue. “I think I’d better go,” she said, rising.

  Those stormy gray-green eyes never faltered. “Sit.”

  There was something in the eyes that made her do just that.

  The temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees and the atmosphere could only be termed hostile. “Why do I think my day’s about to go downhill?” John pondered with a sigh.

  Sophie and Blake both ignored him, gazes fixed on each other while Blake angled himself awkwardly into his chair, then let the crutches clatter to the floor.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

  She bit her lip in uncertainty, then, knowing she wouldn’t get past him until she’d told him, blurted, “I may have witnessed a crime.”

  She didn’t know what she expected from her breathless revelation—certainly not a snort. “Don’t tell me, you saw a little old lady jaywalking so you shot her?”

  “No.” Okay, so maybe she deserved his derision. She’d noticed the careful way he eased himself into a chair—he was probably in pain.

  “Let’s s
ee. A kid littered so you broke both his arms?”

  John had risen to pour himself a coffee, but she heard a hastily suppressed chuckle.

  She crossed her own arms under her chest. If he knew anything about body language, he might think about shutting up already. “No.”

  “Hmm.” He was enjoying himself, she could tell, but being the butt of these stupid jokes was starting to tick her off. “A dog tried humping your leg so you…”

  Enough was enough. She opened her eyes wide and finished the sentence for him. “Cut off his balls?” she replied sweetly.

  Another muffled snort could be heard from John’s direction.

  Heat arced between her and Detective Grumpy. He knew it and it only made him madder. If he thought she was thrilled by the unwanted sexual pull he was entirely mistaken.

  Silence reigned and the word balls seemed to echo in the sudden stillness.

  “Why are you here?” he asked her more calmly.

  “I’m the human resources manager at the Investment Bank of Vancouver.” Barker’s impassive face went rigid for a second and she saw him flick a glance at the other detective.

  “What?” she asked, on seeing his reaction. “Are you a customer? I can assure you your money is safe.”

  “I’m sure it is.” There was no doubt she had both men’s full attention.

  She stalled there, not sure how to continue. “What I wish to tell you is confidential. If the media got hold of it, I could lose my job.”

  She glanced up and Barker was still staring at her, but the mocking hostility had faded from his face.

  “John and I aren’t in the habit of running to reporters with confidential information, Ms. Morton.”

  She wished she hadn’t come. Her brow furrowed. “I overheard one of our employees, a man I hired myself—not that that matters…his references were excellent. I never would have believed… Anyway…I overheard him blackmailing someone for a million dollars.”