“Is Conchita in?” she asked. She had no interest in speaking to Conchita, of course. She only wanted to gauge how much time she might have for a quick chat with Stan.
“She went for coffee.”
Isobel noticed that his soft, smooth face was glistening with sweat. “Is something wrong?”
“No…I, uh, can’t find something.”
“Can I help?”
“It’s nothing. Just a personal, um, item. I’m sure it will turn up.” He mustered a wan, but unconvincing smile.
Isobel was itching to ask him about being blackmailed by Doreen, but he looked on the verge of nervous collapse as it was. Besides, if Conchita had only gone for coffee, she would likely be back any moment.
“If you tell me what it is, I’d be happy to keep an eye out.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll tell Conchita you’re looking for her,” he said, turning his back on her to inspect another drawer.
Isobel left, shutting the door behind her. Feeling the need to procrastinate further, she knocked on Frank’s door and entered.
“Anything you need this morning?” she asked.
Frank looked up from his open desk calendar and nodded. “Good timing. Yes. I need you to make a lunch reservation. Two people today, one o’clock at Printemps, under my name. I also need you to file these.” He handed her a stack of papers. “And I’ll email you some correspondence to print out on letterhead.”
She took the papers and headed back to her desk to call the restaurant. For once, she was grateful for the work. It would help her avoid Nikki.
If only she’d been a few moments longer with Frank, she might have missed Nikki altogether.
Detective Kozinski and Detective Harvey were at Nikki’s desk, along with two uniformed policemen who held a handcuffed Tom Scaletta between them. An InterBank security guard hovered nearby.
The color had drained from Nikki’s face, but it rose scarlet as her eyes landed on Isobel.
“You little bitch!” she spat.
Isobel glanced at Detective Kozinski, horrified that she might have revealed her sources, but an almost imperceptible shake of the policewoman’s head telegraphed that she had not. Isobel decided to play dumb. She would show them all what a good actress she was.
“What’s…what’s going on?”
Detective Kozinski answered crisply, “Nothing that concerns you.”
A small crowd was gathering. Conchita appeared next to Felice Edwards, holding two steaming cups of coffee, which severely impeded her ability to cross herself. Frank, Paula and Stan had emerged from their offices, and several others were craning their necks to see across the vast plain of cubicles.
Nikki glowered at Isobel. “This is your fault.”
“New York is a tough town, but I didn’t know you could get arrested for bad acting,” Isobel said, unable to help herself.
“Terence is a genius, and you’re too much of a bird-brained little no-talent to recognize that,” Nikki snapped.
“Yeah? Well, how do you explain Justin?” Isobel asked. “Terence thought he gave an Academy Award-winning performance!”
Detective Harvey turned to Detective Kozinski. “Am I missing something?” Detective Kozinski shrugged.
“You weren’t interested in Terence’s class. You just wanted to mock me. Well, I hope you enjoyed your little joke, you and that trashy blond bitch. This town is going to swallow you both up, like it does every stupid, bright-eyed wannabe. I worked hard to get where I am, and it’s clear that you don’t have the talent to get there.”
“I sure hope that’s true,” said Isobel sincerely, eyeing the handcuffs that Detective Kozinski was locking around Nikki’s wrists.
“Nikki Francis, also known as Annika Franklin, I am placing you under arrest for fraud and suspicion of murder.”
The InterBank security guard unplugged Nikki’s computer and began packing it up. Nikki looked at the computer and then at Isobel. Her eyes narrowed. Isobel looked away.
“You were snooping yesterday, weren’t you?”
The others shifted their attention to Isobel, making no effort to hide the natural distrust of outsiders they’d been nurturing in one way or another since her arrival.
“You had something to do with this.” Nikki gestured toward the detectives with her shoulder. “And I thought we were friends. I tried to make it nice for you here, and this is what I get?”
She had, it was true. Isobel didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll bet you anything, you’ll still be temping in ten years’ time, you little snot,” Nikki said nastily.
That was too much. “You were right about one thing, you know,” Isobel said.
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“You were miscast as Alma Winemiller.”
Nikki summoned what was left of her dignity and took in her entire audience. “Maybe so, but I was damn good.” She tossed her head defiantly, and Detective Kozinski led her away.
Isobel decided to let her have the last word. After all, Nikki was being arrested, and she was not.
THIRTY-ONE
James could have done without the photos. Some of them were so graphic, he had to look away. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how any man could go through gender reassignment surgery, as he discovered it was properly called. Then again, it might be the perfect lie to get Jayla off his back. Of course, she’d never believe him—or worse, she would deem him the ultimate challenge.
Bill had to be talking about Stan Henderson. So, was that the attraction? Was Stan the ultimate challenge or, as Isobel had speculated, was Conchita actually in love with him?
He rolled his chair away from his desk, put his feet up, and considered what Felice had told him: Conchita thought Doreen made good people do bad things. Did Conchita believe that Doreen was somehow responsible for Stan’s sexual confusion? The marriage had been annulled. Was that because Doreen discovered Stan’s orientation or because Stan was so disgusted with Doreen that he turned transvestite? James didn’t know much about these things, but he was pretty sure it didn’t work that way.
He scanned the web page he was on, which maintained that gender confusion was present from earliest childhood, and that those who change gender don’t necessarily alter their sexual orientation. Doreen hadn’t turned Stan into a transsexual any more than a bad relationship could make you gay. (He briefly contemplated telling Jayla he was gay, but ruled that out also.) So was this the bad thing Conchita thought Doreen was making Stan do, or was there something else?
He hit a few more keys on his computer, and a pair of “before and after” close-ups appeared.
“Eeeeccchhh,” groaned James. He rose from his chair, disgusted, and retreated to the window. He looked down at the tiny, scurrying people below and the cars, which looked like the Matchboxes he’d played with as a kid. He tried to imagine Conchita wielding a pair of deadly scissors. People did all kinds of things in the name of tough love and religious salvation. Maybe she had fallen off the wagon and done it in a blackout.
What he really wanted to know was where things had stood with Stan and Doreen. Why had she gotten him the job at InterBank in the first place? Had she been trying to do something nice for him—or did she want him close by so she could somehow humiliate him for having made a joke of their marriage? Had she ever been able to forgive him for their wedding night when he’d (presumably) revealed his true self? Can any woman forgive a man for shunning her in bed, whatever the reason? And wouldn’t a woman like Doreen be more vengeful than most?
The door to his office, which he’d left ajar, creaked open suddenly, and James leaped across the room to his computer. Unfortunately, Ginger was quicker than he was. Worse, his finger hit the wrong key, and instead of closing the window with the graphic “before and after” photos, he enlarged it.
“I was just passing by, and—aaargghh!” Ginger let out a strangled shriek.
James fumbled for the right key and managed to close the window on his computer screen.
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br /> “I, uh, that was—it’s research.”
“I will not have my employees looking at pornography in the office! Do you understand me?” she snapped ferociously.
“It wasn’t pornography! I was researching sex-change operations,” he blurted out.
Ginger blanched. “I…had…no idea.”
“Not for me!” Although, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized there was no recovery. It only sounded like a cover up. “I have a girlfriend,” he added. Shit, he thought. That sounded even worse.
“I don’t really need to know…anything…about your personal life, Mr. Cooke,” Ginger said stiffly. “Now, please return to the work for which you were hired.”
“Right.”
“And see that you trash your browser cache.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It had always been his intention to trash his browser cache. But now, as he did so, he wondered if there was anything he could possibly do or say to set the record straight.
The mood in procurement support was even stranger than it had been the day Doreen was killed. With the police gone, everyone was free to gossip about Nikki’s arrest. It was the most sociable Isobel had seen the group since she arrived. On her way back from the supply closet for more Post-It notes, she passed Conchita and Paula, who seemed to have shelved their customary wariness.
“I never liked Nikki,” Conchita was saying. “Something sneaky about her. And if she can steal, she can kill.”
“One should never trust actors as a breed,” Paula said. Catching sight of Isobel, they turned their backs and continued in lowered voices, with occasional, not very subtle glances in her direction. Isobel rounded the bend past Frank, Stan and Felice, whose voices followed her.
“She’d done this sort of thing before,” Frank said. “Detective Harvey explained her system to me. She was stealing money through a phony vendor, then giving it to Scaletta to invest.”
“I had no idea.” Felice’s voice held more than a hint of defensiveness. “She came to us initially through Temp Zone, but they obviously didn’t do a background check.”
Isobel moved out of earshot before she was forced to hear the likely follow-up question: Do you think they ran one on Isobel?
These conversations only made her feel more isolated and vulnerable than ever. Regardless of what Nikki had done, Isobel had lost her only ally, and the others seemed determined to tar her with the same brush. Besides, even though they and the police still suspected Nikki of the murder, Isobel was reasonably certain she was innocent of that charge. Which meant that in all likelihood, she was still working alongside a cold-blooded killer. It was scary how easily she had lost sight of that unnerving detail in the daily grind.
She decided to embrace that dull routine to take the edge off her anxiety, so she made Frank’s lunch reservation and set about printing his letters. She wanted to tell Delphi about Nikki’s arrest, but Delphi was working a double at the restaurant and couldn’t take calls. Besides, Isobel didn’t want anybody in the office to think she had an unusual interest in the matter. The argument about Terence’s class was suspicious enough.
Just before one o’clock, Audrey Lusardi glided in, looking glamorous in a long floral wrap skirt and a stylish bolero jacket, toting two large shopping bags from Barney’s. Isobel was glad she was seated at her desk. Standing next to a statuesque woman of beauty always made Isobel feel mousy. She felt less intimidated sitting down.
“Where’s Frank?” Audrey demanded.
“He’s in his office. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“No.”
Isobel, irked at being dismissed so curtly, scooped up Frank’s letters and followed her. She turned the corner just in time to see Audrey disappear into Frank’s office. Stan and Paula were standing nearby, and Paula was trying to get Stan’s attention. Stan, however, was looking rather pale, and staring blankly at Frank’s door.
“Stan? What about that furniture wholesaler?”
“What?”
“You’ve come over rather queer,” Paula said, indulging her wayward British accent to accompany the expression. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” Stan said. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
“Never mind. Go and get some water. We can talk about the wholesaler later.” She turned to Isobel, whose hand was poised to knock on Frank’s door. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
Isobel leaned against Conchita’s desk and pretended to leaf through Frank’s letters. She didn’t have to pretend long. Frank and Audrey emerged a few moments later.
“You made the reservation at Printemps?”
“Yes. And I have your letters,” Isobel said, holding them out.
“Put them on my desk. I’ve pulled up a list of files on my computer. While I’m out, please copy them onto a flash drive, then load them onto your computer. They’re backups of Nikki’s invoices. You can work off them.”
“Work off them how?” Isobel asked, confused.
Frank rolled his eyes impatiently. “You’ll have to pick up the invoicing and billing for the department until we hire somebody new.”
“We don’t really need someone in that position anymore,” said Stan, who had reappeared looking a bit steadier. “We only ever had Nikki because accounting was short-staffed last summer.”
“I’ll check with them.” Frank turned to Isobel. “But in the meantime, you need to keep up with it.”
“Frank!” Audrey pulled him away and knocked into Stan, who had taken a step toward Paula’s office.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Nice outfit, by the way.”
Audrey paused long enough for a quick smile. “This? Thanks. I have so many clothes, I don’t even remember where it came from.”
Isobel looked longingly at Audrey’s red bolero jacket. Stan was right. It was gorgeous. She watched Frank and Audrey depart. When she turned back, Stan had disappeared into Paula’s office, and Conchita was watching Isobel, an undisguised look of mistrust on her face.
“First Doreen, now Nikki.” She crossed herself. “Who will be the next to disappear?”
“Me,” Isobel said. “Temporarily, at least.”
She rounded the corner to the supply closet to get a flash drive. The ladies’ room was not far beyond, and she saw that the police tape had finally been removed. They must have taken it down when they arrested Nikki. Isobel poked her head in.
A cleaning woman was wiping down the counter. Fingerprint powder lingered on every surface, giving the room a weird gray shimmer. Isobel smiled at the woman and gingerly pushed open the door to the first stall.
“You wanna use the one down the hall. I still gotta do the toilets.”
“That’s okay,” Isobel said. “I just need to check something.”
The woman shrugged and went back to her scouring. Isobel held her breath and looked into the stall. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find, but it was blessedly empty. An image of Doreen, dead on the toilet, came back to her, and she shut the stall door. It clanged against the frame and swung open again. Isobel caught it and, clearing her mind of the unpleasant memory, went into the stall. She ran her fingers over the lock, then slid the bolt into the hull. It slid right back out. She tried again, and it slid out once more. She gave the bolt a good slam. This time it stayed locked.
“You okay in there?” the cleaner called.
“Fine, thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
She pondered the significance of the finicky lock. If Doreen was in a hurry, as presumably she was, and she thought everyone else was about to flee the building for the drill, there was no reason for her to fight with the lock. But beyond that, Isobel could find no further meaning in it.
She passed Conchita, whose hands were clasped in full prayer mode, and entered Frank’s office, shutting the door behind her. His desk was cluttered with papers, and she moved aside a stack in the middle to make room for the letters she’d typed, tamping them down with a smoked-glass paperweight.
Frank had left a folder open on his computer, marked “Billing.” All the files she had seen on Nikki’s computer were also on Frank’s, except, of course, for Untitled and Untitled2. She began to copy them onto the blank drive, idly wondering if Conchita had intended her comment about disappearing secretaries as a rhetorical question or a warning.
“Damn,” she said, as an error message overtook the screen, instructing her to quit all open applications and restart the computer.
Isobel sighed and clicked on Frank’s desktop. His word processor was open, so she brought that up, saved the document he had been working on and exited. She did the same for his email program, and then she pulled up his open web browser.
Isobel inhaled sharply as a photograph of two naked men flashed on the screen. The suddenness of the image was as much of a jolt as its content, but as Isobel’s eyes adjusted, she gasped even louder.
It was Justin, the underwear model, wearing no underwear at all this time, his legs twined around another man’s taut, tanned body.
It was a few moments before Isobel recovered from the shock of seeing someone she knew on a gay porn site, as the significance of the image on Frank Lusardi’s computer began to sink in.
THIRTY-TWO
“Do you think Doreen knew?” Delphi asked, leaning against the bar.
Isobel took a long sip of red wine before answering. “How could she not have?” She set down her glass. She’d had to pay for her drink this time, but it was worth it. “Doreen made it her business to know everything about everybody. And Frank was her boss.”
“Then why wasn’t he on her blackmail list?” asked Delphi.
“She had that secretarial devotion thing going. Like Conchita has for Stan. If there was any animosity between Frank and Doreen, I have yet to get wind of it.”
The Temporary Detective Page 17