by Diana Orgain
I explained to him about getting Armand’s address from Ramon. He sipped champagne as he listened.
“Do you know anything about the consul placing people at Reparation Research?” I asked.
Christophe’s lips turned downward and he acted as though I’d asked him the most boring question ever. “Reparation Research?”
“It’s a biotech company in South San Francisco,” I said.
“The consul is very talented at getting French nationals placed in American companies. He knows so many influential people. That’s one of the reasons he’s getting promoted.”
Paula perked up. “He’s getting promoted?”
“Oui! He’ll be our ambassador next year.”
Paula reached for the meatball platter and plucked another one off, but suddenly grabbed at her waist.
There was a look of alarm on her face. “Let’s go to the ladies’ room.”
“Is it a contraction?”
She shook her head definitively, which made me think that perhaps her alarm was about Christophe.
“It’s over there,” I said, putting down my plate.
Paula grabbed my hand and rushed me to the restroom. As soon as we stepped into the elaborate foyer of the restroom, Paula bunched her dress in her hands and raised the hem above the knee. “Look!”
Paula’s pantyhose had slipped down and the waistband was less than a hair away from falling down around her ankles.
We both started laughing so hard that we had to collapse onto a chaise that was in the foyer.
“If you’d ignored me any longer I don’t know what I would have done!” Paula giggled.
“I wasn’t ignoring you!” I wiped the tears of laughter that were trailing down my face and said, “I just didn’t know you were having a fashion emergency.”
Paula snorted. “Pregnant people should definitely not have to wear pantyhose!”
I rose to check my mascara in the mirror. The damage wasn’t bad, but the thought of Paula’s near miss made me burst out laughing again.
Suddenly the door to the ladies’ room opened and two women entered. One was tall and painfully slim and frail, the other was probably wearing a size-two dress but seemed robust in comparison. They glanced at Paula and me but continued their conversation as though we posed no threat to their gossip.
The robust size two said, “I think she’s going to break up with him though. She’s obviously not interested in him now that she’s got a bigger fish on.”
The frail size minus two said, “Yeah. Big fish is going to be the ambassador and she’s always wanted to get into the D.C. scene.”
They each pushed on different stall doors and disappeared. I flashed Paula a look as the robust size two said, “Poor Calvin, he’s going to be crushed. After he championed that commendation for her and now—”
An electrical shock zinged through my body.
“You’ll be there to pick up the pieces. I predict he’ll be your New Year’s date,” Frailly said.
A fit of giggles escaped the stalls.
The consul. The Christmas party. It had been Kimberly smooching with the consul on the balcony. She was the other woman.
• CHAPTER TWENTY •
To Do:
1. ✓
2. Enroll Laurie in art class.
3. Upload Laurie’s Santa pic on Facebook.
4. CHRISTMAS!!! Ahhhhh! (Need to buy wrapping paper, too!)
6. What kind of car should I get?
In the morning Jim and I discussed the case over coffee. The only help he gave me was to suggest it was time to check in with my client.
After breakfast I dialed Mr. Vann. I was in luck that he was free in the afternoon and anxious to meet with me also. When I hung up with him, I dialed Galigani. His voice mail clicked on but I was so disheartened I didn’t leave a message.
My fingers automatically dialed Mom. I paused to think about what I should say to her. Something along the lines of “My boss is MIA. Are you happy about breaking his heart?” or how about, “I miss you?”
I wasn’t surprised when her voice mail clicked on, but the only thing I came up with was. “It’s me. Call me.”
I hung my head and doodled on my to-do list, which seemed like it was growing longer each day. If I didn’t find a better way to manage my time then I’d really need to hire an assistant. I’d have to make an honest man out of Kenny and give him a job.
When would I be able to finish my Christmas shopping? Although Laurie would have no recollection of this, it was still her first Christmas and I wanted to get her something special.
Maybe I could squeeze a trip to the mall in after meeting with Chuck Vann? I left Laurie with Jim and headed out. I was still amazed at how quickly I could pull myself together and leave the house when flying solo. I stopped by the café to pick up a latte and found Kenny planted in his regular spot.
His eyes were closed as he listened to music through his iPod and he seemed in a completely different world, the only tie to this one his ever-tapping foot. Butterfly was behind the counter busy chatting on her cell phone. I thumped Kenny on the back, enjoying the look of shock on his face.
“Why aren’t you at home trying to figure out who that hard drive belongs to?”
Kenny pulled the earphones out. “Didn’t your mom tell you that if you hit someone on the back, hard like that, your face can get stuck in whatever position it’s in?”
I laughed. “That is such a myth. Where did you hear that?”
“My mom.”
“What position was your face in? Eyes oogling Butterfly?”
He smiled. “It’s Magnolia now.”
I took a deep breath. “Let me guess . . . another tattoo?”
“This one is right above—”
“I really don’t want to know.”
Kenny laughed. “No, it’s not like it’s—”
I covered my ears and began to sing, “La la la la—”
He put his hand behind his back and motioned to above his hip.
I stopped singing. “So if you guys are dating now, you think you can get your boss a free latte?”
Kenny made a face. “We’re not dating. I saw the tattoo when she bent down to fill the refrigerator case.” He indicated the low case that lined the side wall and housed the readymade salads and sandwiches. “I can’t ask her out because I don’t have any money. You see, my boss doesn’t really pay me.”
“Here we go. It’s because you don’t really work for me.”
Kenny laughed. “Whatd’ya mean? I did the computer thing. I know whose hard drive it is.” He held out his hand.
I slapped it. “Spit it out.”
He kept his hand outstretched. “A real five. I’m running out of caffeine here.”
I slapped his hand. “Extortion! No info, no payo.”
He smiled. “I have the user profile.”
“Well, what is it?” I asked.
He wiggled his eyebrows and held his hand out. “No payo, no info.”
I dug into my wallet. “What kind of date can you take her on with five bucks? You’re pathetic.”
He laughed. “The five bucks is just for starters. If you want any real info you have to add a zero, lady.”
I turned on my heel and ordered my latte. Kenny chimed in that he wanted a hot turkey sandwich and an Italian soda. Butterfly hung up her cell phone and happily compiled.
“That was Carla, the supervisor here. I was helping her strategize on how to make manager at the other location. I’m hoping she does because then they’ll need a supervisor here.” She proudly pointed to herself.
I didn’t want to mention the fact that she was the only person working. If she made supervisor, who was she going to supervise? Oh well, maybe she’d get a raise. The café had a hard time holding on to staff, so a raise wouldn’t be a bad idea.
She piled extra turkey on Kenny’s sandwich and smiled at me. “He’s hungry all the time.”
I laughed. “I know.”
She ga
ve him a dreamy googly look.
Aw puppy love. So cute.
Now, I wish she’d start on my latte. But instead she spent the next five minutes on Kenny’s sandwich and garnishing the plate. She even pulled a batch of gingerbread cookies out of the oven and added one. She ignored me and carried it out to him. His face flushed when she approached.
They giggled together for a minute and then she returned behind the counter and started in on my latte.
I reflected on what Kenny had said about the hard drive. All joking aside, I suspected that the user profile may have been the only thing he was able to recover. Would it be enough?
I turned to Kenny. “I have those e-mails from Nancy to Chuck. Can you track down her user profile that way?”
Kenny took a bite of sandwich and shook his head, then through a mouthful of food said, “Not necessary. User NPickett.”
So it was Nancy’s computer? Who had sent it to me and why?
Butterfly handed me my latte.
I scooped it from her and turned to leave. On my way out I whispered to Kenny, “She likes you. You’d probably have an easy time dating her if you went out and got a real job instead of sitting here all day.”
His shoulder went up. “Yeah. Real job. How’s that working out for you?”
“Shut up,” I said, thumping him on the back again. “Was there anything useful on the hard drive?”
He shook his head. “It was scrubbed pretty good.”
I hopped into Jim’s car and took off toward Chuck Vann’s house. I sipped my latte as I drove, hoping it might make some of my brain cells connect.
What did I know? Nancy had been killed, probably strangled and left for dead in Golden Gate Park. She’d been at the French consulate on the day before she was killed investigating a story. I had yet to figure out exactly what she was working on. Chuck thought the story had gotten her killed. What could be that charged? She’d gotten the call from Kevin Gibson at Reparation Research. According to her notes, Kevin thought the consul was placing high-level scientists at Reparation Research for what? To leak formulas to L’éternelle Jeunesse?
Certainly that was a charged story. Would the consul go so far as to kill Nancy to keep her quiet? What kind of formulas could they be stealing?
Reparation Research specialized in the cosmetic industry. Fighting aging with human growth hormones and synthesized vitamins. They also had a line of 100 percent organic makeup that came in biodegradable packaging.
So, it’s not like they were curing diseases, but they were the number one stock pick for the season.
And what about Kimberly? She was having an affair with the consul. According to the ladies in the restroom last night, Kimberly was eager to get onto the Washington D.C. scene. Could the consul’s promotion to ambassador be in danger if the affair was made public? Would Kimberly kill her friend Nancy to make sure her affair stayed hidden?
How, if at all, was Armand’s death tied to anything?
What about Christophe? Why had he been at the party last night? Was it simply part of his job? What about the day at the San Francisco Centre: Why had he fled from me?
Then, of course, there was Nancy’s boyfriend, Ramon. He’d been the last one to see her alive. Could her death be simply a lover’s spat? Maybe he’d desperately wanted to land a catering gig at KNCR and she was somehow preventing it?
I sipped on my latte trying to avoid the rapidly building pain in my head.
There was no parking on Mr. Vann’s street so I pulled around the corner and found a metered spot. I dug into my purse but could only find one quarter and two dimes. I dropped them into the meter. No matter, I wouldn’t be there very long anyway.
I rounded the corner and walked the short distance to Mr. Vann’s house. I climbed up the steps and rang the bell.
No answer.
Hadn’t he been expecting me?
I glanced at my watch. Was I actually early? How had that happened?
I rang the bell again and noted three newspapers on the stoop. Soggy and wrinkled. How long had they been here?
I tried to breathe past my racing heart.
Now don’t get ahead of yourself, Kate!
I’d just spoken to him this morning, hadn’t I? He was fine. Maybe just at the back of the house or in the shower . . .
I pushed the bell again and then bent over to exam the papers. Footsteps sounded behind me.
Chuck Vann was smiling as he climbed up the steps.
I clasped my hand over my heart. “You scared me!”
He was in running shorts and a sweatshirt. Even though it was December he was drenched in sweat. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you until later.”
“Do you want me to come back in a bit?” I asked.
He pulled a key out of a shoe pocket strapped to his laces. “No. If you don’t mind the way I look. It’s fine with me.”
He stuck the key into the door, but as he twisted it he said, “Oh. That’s weird. I forgot to lock the door?”
He pushed it open. The entire living room had been ransacked.
We stood on the doorstep and looked at each other.
“I haven’t been gone that long,” Chuck said in an urgent whisper. “Go to the corner and wait for me.”
I grabbed his arm. “No. You come with me.”
He looked annoyed and shrugged me off.
I pulled my cell phone from my bag and dialed 911.
Chuck nodded and descended the staircase with me. “You’re right,” he said, his face forming a determined look.
We spoke with the 911 operator, who instructed us to wait a safe distance from the house. So we hung out at the corner about ten houses down from Chuck’s but with an unimpaired sight line to his front steps. No one could leave the house without being seen by us.
Chills fluttered down my spine. I’d been hovering around his stoop for about five minutes. Nancy’s killer could have come barreling out of the house and taken me with him or her. . .
I brought Chuck up to speed on Nancy’s apartment being broken into, Kimberly’s affair, the call from Kevin at Reparation Research, and Armand’s death. He listened intently, stroking his dark mustache.
Finally he said, “Whoever broke into my place, it must be the same person, right? They stole Nancy’s computer, broke into Armand’s place, and now mine.”
I shrugged. “It’s a logical conclusion.”
Chuck squinted. “What are they looking for?”
Finally, a police cruiser pulled up, blocking Jim’s car in the driveway. We walked down the street toward him and explained the situation. He told us to hold tight until he checked out the house.
The officer gave us the all-clear signal, so we walked up the stairs together. I stayed in the living room with the officer while Chuck took inventory of his house. When he returned he said, “As far as I can tell the only thing missing is my laptop.”
“How long were you gone?” the officer asked.
“My run is forty minutes flat and then my warm-up and cooldown.” He glanced at his watch. “Not more than an hour.”
The officer and I exchanged glances. It could mean that someone had been staking out the house or someone knew Chuck’s schedule.
An uncomfortable thought nagged at me.
An hour was such a short amount of time to get into the house and out. What if . . .
Chuck had known I was coming over . . . Could he have staged the break-in. But why?
• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •
I wasn’t able to dwell on the thought. The officer was asking me a question.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“When did you get here, ma’ am?”
“Only a few seconds before Mr. Vann.”
The officer nodded and jotted something down on a notepad.
When the officer left, Chuck and I sat across from each other in the living room, much like we had the first day I’d come over.
He held his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this. What do you think they’re
looking for?”
I thought about Nancy’s hard drive. I knew I should tell him that someone had mailed it to me, and yet for some reason I kept it to myself.
And what about the files Galigani had copied from his computer? Certainly, if it were me, I would want a copy of the data. After all, maybe I was the only one with a backup copy of his stuff.
“Do you keep a backup of your data?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “At work they take care of all that stuff. Here, at home, all I had was personal things, e-mails, tax records, and . . . photos.” He cast his eyes downward and then with a sudden rage he sprang out of his chair and punched at the air. “They took the photos of Nancy! They took my photos! What do they want to do . . . erase her entire existence?”
I couldn’t help him here. Galigani hadn’t copied any photos. I pressed my lips together and watched him, feeling useless.
“Mr. Vann, have you had any more communication with the homicide detectives?”
Chuck’s lips twisted in thought. “No. Why? Should I have? They certainly haven’t called to give me any updates, but at least they haven’t dragged me in for questioning again.”
Did that mean McNearny no longer considered him a suspect?
Now in addition to feeling helpless I felt guilty for suspecting he’d staged the robbery. He paced the room, a torn expression on his face, a man dealing with insult upon injury. He stopped pacing and steepled his fingers over his mouth.
The rage left his body as suddenly as it had appeared, yet he remained thoughtful and distant. “What are they looking for? They think I have something? What? Did I have something and not even know it?”
I really hadn’t found anything noteworthy in any of the files Galigani had copied. “I don’t know. Did you ever communicate with Nancy about Reparation Research?”