"That's where you're wrong, Marcie. This is a top-security check. Things that normally would be personal and off-limits are grist to my mill. HI-Data hired me to find this stuff out, and as a condition of being hired, you agreed to cooperate. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask the difficult questions."
She squirmed on her beautiful sofa. "You've got to realize that there's nothing I can't ask and there's nothing you can refuse to answer, not if you want this job. Let's begin over again on that premise."
"No. No more questions." She abruptly stood up and opened her front door.
"Please leave," she demanded.
I got up from her fluffy furniture. "If you're sure that's how you want to play it, I'm heading to my office to file a report with HI-Data recommending your immediate dismissal. You don't give me any alternative."
TWENTY-THREE
THE DOOR SLAMMED BEHIND me, making a nearby wall sconce flicker. In the elevator, I pondered whether Marcie's reaction was due to lover's grief over Ken Gordon or if there were other reasons she wouldn't talk to me. It didn't matter. She had failed to cooperate and was gone. Now I was down to "two little Indians."
I stopped for lunch at the Butterfly for some Asian fusion, then for the rest of the day, I tried to forget about the little mystery of Marcie and concentrate on Ron and Joe.
My other visits turned up nothing more than a boring verification of facts. Family and friends of Ron and Joe provided the secondary confirmation I needed, so this level of fact-finding was moving along nicely. I was even a little ahead of schedule, so I could devote some time to investigating Auntie's case.
Although it was late when I got to Consolidated, I wanted to write the farewell report on Marcie and deliver it to HI-Data first thing tomorrow morning. I'd also tell Jeffrey face to face about Olson's prints. The good news was my workload for HI-Data was rapidly diminishing. First John Olson and now Marcie Ann Kent. Two down and money in the bank for me. The bad news was my curious-genes were still itching. I wanted to know what had been going on between Marcie and Ken and if their affair was connected to his death. Maybe their little romance even had some connection to why Ken had asked for me on this job. So far, all I could find Marcie guilty of was an ambitious lifestyle. Both she and Joe Tanaka had heard about takeover rumors at HI-Data. Had they learned of the rumors independently? Was the takeover linked to Ken's death? And how did all this relate to someone slashing my brake line? With every step I took in this investigation, more and more questions arose, none of which I could answer. In this job, time was money, and unfortunately I couldn't afford to spend more on Marcie.
The exterior of the Consolidated Bank building was now pockmarked all over and looked as forlorn as I felt. The beautiful marble slabs that had decorated the outside facing of the building had been removed. Each day new bits of deconstruction made it evident that this building hadn't long to live.
The wind whistled as I opened the door and stepped into the lobby. It was deserted, and after my full day of interrogatories, I was grateful for the ghostly silence. It looked so different today than it had a month ago when the eager minions of Consolidated had moved back and forth among the offices. Now it echoed to its own vacancy. It was also as cold inside as the meat section in my refrigerator.
I pressed the button to call the old elevator. As always, it shook and groaned, accompanied by unearthly echoes from its internal mechanics. Statistically speaking, it was due to break down anytime. I hoped tonight wasn't the night. It shimmied to a stop. The door opened, and a dark figure jumped out.
I screamed.
"Don't scream. I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Michael Drake. I own the company that's demolishing this building. You okay?"
"Dammit," I yelled, trying to breathe normally again. "You really startled me."
"I'm sorry," he said, taking my elbow.
I pulled away. "So you're the bozo who's going to wreck my building. I like this building. I've been happy here. Now you guys want to tear it down and build some glass and chrome monstrosity. Where am I gonna go?"
Michael Drake wore a heavy overcoat and a boyish grin, and there were red pressure lines on his forehead from the brow-band of the hard hat he doffed in my direction.
"You kind of surprised me, too." He smiled. "I didn't expect anyone here on Sunday. You're DD McGil aren't you?"
"And if I am?"
"Just that you're the last tenant left in this tower."
"I know." I stepped into the elevator.
Michael Drake ducked in too, just as the door closed.
"Look, I'm glad I ran into you, Miss McGil. I've been wanting to talk to you. We're ahead of schedule on this job, and also we've got some serious problems with this tower section."
"What does that have to do with me?"
The elevator stopped, and I stepped into the corridor. Where there used to be an expanse of highly polished marble floor providing a throughway into the main building, there now was a make-shift plywood wall that effectively separated the tower from the rest of Consolidated and cut off passage.
My stomach lurched.
"Wow, I guess I can't ignore this anymore," I said to Michael Drake as much as to myself. "If I don't find a new office soon, I'll go down with the rest of the building."
"You mean you don't have something lined up?"
I ignored the question and unlocked my office. The red light was flashing on my answering machine. I ignored that, too.
Michael Drake sat down. I wondered what he wanted from me. I turned on the portable heater and looked at him inquiringly.
"When will you be out of here?"
"I can't give you an exact time."
"Meaning ... ?"
I didn't answer.
"Look, Miss McGil. I don't want anybody getting hurt in this demolition."
I got up and opened my door. "Thanks for your concern, Mr. Drake. There's no need to worry about me"
"This project's moving fast from now on. We'll soon be setting the charges for demolition. And this tower section you're in here is joined to the other building with some real heavy-duty steel reinforcing girders. They weren't on the blueprints."
"And?"
"So, we've just discovered they're going to require a lot more explosives than originally anticipated."
"So," I said grouchily, "Murphy's Law applies everywhere. It's going to cost more and take more time. Happens in my business all the time."
"It will cost a little more, but it won't take more time. I told you we're ahead of schedule."
He took my arm and pulled me into the corridor. "You're an insurance investigator, right?"
"How'd you know that?"
"I made it my business to find out. You should know then that you're in danger here. Come with me. I want to show you something. You're smart enough to know you've got to get out-and I mean tomorrow."
I said nothing as we left my office and took the stairs up to the sixth floor. Michael opened the door onto a team of workers using oxy-acetylene torches on the big steel girders. The light was flickery and the air smoky. I surveyed the changing landscape of the room. The deconstruction process was happening faster than I could have imagined possible. This was my comeuppance. I knew I couldn't procrastinate any longer.
"We're weakening all the main reinforcing beams and girders to make sure that everything will come down in the right sequence when the charges go off."
He maneuvered us into a corner as a bobcat weaved into the adjacent wall and brought it down in a crash of plaster and white dust.
"When we're ready to bring in the explosives," he said, "we'll cut everything except the main computer leads. What I'm trying to tell you is, there'll be more explosives in your tower than were used in WW II. It's going to be difficult to blow, and we need to be sure it comes down on the first try. So please, I hope I've convinced you to leave."
"You have. I will." And I meant it. I didn't like explosives.
We took the stairs back down to my office. As
he left, he said, "I'm counting on you moving right away-by tomorrow hopefully. You won't have electricity after that."
I stood at the door until his footsteps faded. Discouraged, I sat down and played the phone messages. There were two long beeps from hang-ups. I decided to order caller ID tomorrow. The next message was from Marcie Ann Kent.
"Ms. McGil," she said, "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot today. I'd like to call a truce. I want this job, and I realize I'm going to have to answer your questions. I need your help, and I'll have the papers you requested. Meet me tomorrow in my office at HIData. I get in at eight. I'll tell you everything you want to know, and then some."
All was right with the world. My curiosity-gene would be satisfied, and I could go home instead of beating out Marcie's report tonight. I left with a fond farewell to the old office.
TWENTY-FOUR
CAVVY, THE LIVE-IN ALARM clock, woke me with a nuzzle and a meow at 5:30 a.m. I fixed a bowl of Cheerios for me and some smelly, fishy stuff for him. The Trib's weather forecast for today included snowflakes and wind chill factors. I noted the weather for south Florida was a high of 80 degrees and sunny. I hate winter more every year and was giving serious thought to moving south.
I filled a few easy clues in the crossword puzzle and waited for the Cheerios to kick in. Then I phoned Phil to update him on the investigation. He picked up on the second ring.
"I can't talk now, DD. The cops are here."
"What?"
"Somebody broke in over the weekend and took apart my safe."
"I told you to buy one of those industrial safes that gets bolted to your floor. You wasted your money on that cheap model from the office supply place. I warned you any tenth grader could break into that."
"It wasn't that cheap, DD. It had to be defective. Somebody used a pipe wrench and sheared off the lock. I'm suing the manufacturer."
"What'd they take?"
"That's the funny thing. Stuff's scattered all around the office, but the cash I had stashed in the safe is all here, and I can't find anything else missing. When Gilda comes in, we'll do a full inventory, but nothing seems to be gone. The cops think whoever it was didn't find what they were after."
"Even if someone was after drugs, you'd think they'd take the cash," I mused.
"Why would anybody think I have drugs in my safe? I don't handle drug cases. Hold on a sec, DD."
He didn't hit the hold button, so I overheard the cops talking to him. He came back on the line and said, "Now they want a list of dissatisfied clients. They think maybe this was some sick prank pulled by a client who didn't like what I did or what I charged."
I commiserated, then quickly filled him in on the status of my interviews at HI-Data and the upcoming meeting with Marcie. I was anxious to get off the phone. I needed to think. The word "prank" kept resounding in my head like a bell. That's exactly what the cops had called Auntie's Santa Claus robbery. Statistically speaking, two "prank" robberies were too much of a coincidence. I had a funny feeling the two incidents were connected. First Phil noticed somebody following them back from the airport. Then both Auntie and Phil were burglarized in the space of a few days. Nothing was taken from Phil, and only the red leather trunk and Ormolu casket were taken from Auntie. Ergo ... what? Somebody knew about those Burns artifacts. And somebody wanted them.
"How's your beastly aunt doing with her `wee Burns thing'?"
I'd planned on telling Phil about the break-in at Mother's, but decided he didn't have to know about that right now. "I'll fill you in on that later," I said. "You've got enough to worry about"
"By the way, DD, where's your new office? I need your new phone number and address."
"Later," I told him and hung up before we got into a discussion on that subject. True, I needed to move today, but first I needed to investigate where Auntie had gotten the Burns artifacts. That meant looking into the namesakes of the firm Murray and McSweeney, and specifically what they'd been doing for the past twenty-four hours.
A quick check of my trusty desk atlas showed Scotland was six hours ahead of Chicago, the middle of the working day for the firm of Murray and McSweeney. I searched my briefcase for the number I'd lifted from Auntie's purse and telephoned the international exchange.
"Murray and McSweeney," answered a pleasant voice with only a hint of Scots accent.
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Murray, please."
"He's in a meeting. Can I take your name and number?"
I didn't want to leave my name and number-yet, so I quickly asked for the other partner, McSweeney.
"Did you wish Mr. Gerald McSweeney or Mr. Jack McSweeney? Mr. Gerald McSweeney is now retired. Mr. Jack McSweeney is in our New York office, and won't be returning to this office for another week."
"Mr. Jack McSweeney, please." If he was in the U.S., maybe that was a lead. I asked for a number where he could be reached, and my heart was pounding so loud I suspected she could hear it on her end.
"Oh, that I can give you," she replied easily. "Two-one-two is the um, area code, and then the exchange is 555-7845."
"Thanks. You've been very helpful." I disconnected.
I called the New York number and the receptionist told me that Mr. Jack McSweeney was spending the holidays in Chicago, visiting with a client. Bells went off in my head-so loud I involuntarily covered the mouthpiece.
Thanking her, I hung up, kissed Cavvy, grabbed my briefcase and headed to HI-Data. I was planning my next move-a move in which Auntie would play a big part.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE MORNING SKY was a dirty white. It looked and felt like it might snow anytime. My breath condensed around me while I checked the car before getting in. All was well on the trip to HIData, and Jim Croce was almost finished singing "Workin' at the Carwash Blues" when I pulled into the parking lot. I was-for once-on time, anxious to meet Marcie.
The overweight guard was on duty again today. His nametag read "Oscar," and he wasn't very happy to see me. He gruffly consulted his palm-held computer when I informed him Marcie Ann Kent was expecting me.
"You're not on the list." He scowled. "And Marcie can't approve you because she's only a trainee. She doesn't have clearance yet."
He made me wait in the lobby while he called Personnel and told Sparky to come and escort me.
While we stood waiting, I said I was sorry about Ken Gordon and asked if he knew what had happened.
"Mr. Ken was one of the partners, and rumor is, you was involved. You got me in a lot of trouble. You're no secretary like I thought," he said accusingly. "Miss Sparky's got to sign for you and get your card. You go nowhere in HI-Data without an escort. That clear?" He turned away, not expecting an answer.
HI-Data's atrium had balconies on every floor overlooking the lobby. It reminded me of a Miami Beach hotel Frank and I had stayed in some years ago. That hotel's lobby, unlike HI-Data's, had been filled with masses of flowers and plants, a waterfall, and colorful ponds with Koi and ducks. I thought again of how happy we'd been. I spotted Sparky on one of the upper floors. I waved, but couldn't get her attention.
As a uniformed maintenance man watered the Christmas poinsettias, Oscar withdrew a Smart Card from his handheld computer. "We'll monitor you today," he said gruffly.
I reached for the card. He pulled it out of my grasp.
"No. This goes to Sparky. You have to check in with her before... "
A piercing scream startled us. Something landed at Oscar's feet with a sickening thump, almost knocking us both over. A faint vibration shook the Italian marble floor, and I looked down. Marcie Ann Kent lay sprawled on her back in an unnatural position like a grotesque mannequin. Her hair was strewn round her head, and one hand still clutched her purse. Her blank eyes stared up at me, and her lipsticked mouth gaped wide open as if silently screaming.
My eyes stuttered over the rest of her body. There was blood running from her head and a few drops on her disheveled, butter-colored suit. I was sure she was dead.
Sights and sounds
flickered fast-forward, like an MTV video. As I bent over Marcie's body, I heard screams and glanced up into the high atrium. On every floor, employees hung over the balconies, looking down on the scene like Romans in the Coliseum. Noise and confusion erupted all around, but the loud beat of my own heart was all I could hear.
I wanted to help, but Marcie was beyond that. She looked like the girl in my high school state gymnastics competition who'd taken a hard fall off the high rings and missed the mat. "Dead on impact," our instructor, Mrs. Soderberg, crouched over the girl, had declared. Nothing had helped then, and I couldn't think of anything that would help now.
I concentrated on the scattered X's of Marcie's gold Paloma Picasso bracelet, glittering on the floor. Maybe if I didn't look at her face again, I'd be all right. Then I noticed her Bruno Magli pumps, and I choked involuntarily. Marcie had been vulnerable, just like Frank, just like the rest of us, and she was as dead as could be.
"Ohmygod," Sparky gasped, suddenly at my side looking down at Marcie's body. "Is she ... ?"
Oscar asked Sparky to phone for an ambulance while he kept the growing crowd under control.
"I can't," she said, clasping her hands over her mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick." As Oscar guided her toward the exit, I noticed a manila envelope with my name on it under Marcie's right arm. Marcie must have kept her word to furnish me copies of her taxes and lease. I picked it up and tucked it in my purse.
Oscar came back and took my arm. "Here now, you look a little pale. You're not gonna be sick on me too, are ya?"
I honestly didn't know. This was the second body I'd encountered at HI-Data, and it wasn't getting any easier. Oscar peered at me intently.
"Go call 911 for an ambulance." He pointed to a phone on the wall. "I'll punch in the code for the cops. Thanks." He looked down at Marcie, then up at the crowd. "I'll keep everybody away from here."
Overcoming numbing inertia, I found the phone, made the call, and returned.
"Is there anything I can do?" I knelt beside Oscar, coming out of the trance.
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