Wait a minute. Security clearance? Background information? What the heck was she talking about?
“How long does it take to get a clearance?” a man—whose name I’d already forgotten—seated next to me asked.
Maybe this was something Adela was talking about in her office.
“There are different levels of clearances required for different positions here at Dempsey Rowland, so the time necessary to complete the background investigation will vary from person to person. Weeks, sometimes. Months, occasionally,” Violet said. “We move as quickly as possible.”
I started to get a weird feeling.
“How far back does your investigation go?” the same man asked.
My weird feeling got weirder.
“Years, decades. Back to childhood,” Violet said. “After all, we’re handling sensitive work for the government of the United States. We can’t have anyone working here whose past is questionable.”
“What exactly do you mean by questionable?” I asked. Violet smiled kindly at me. “No need to worry, Miss Randolph. I can see you’re a nice young lady. It’s not as if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law, have you?”
Did being a suspect in multiple murder investigations count?
“Or been involved in any organized criminal activity?” she asked.
Jeez, did that include the guy from the Russian Mafia who owed me a favor?
“You’ve never been let go from a job under a cloud of suspicion, have you?” Violet asked.
Well, there was that whole administrative-leave-investigation-pending thing from last fall. Would that be a problem?
“And everything you stated on your résumé is true, isn’t it?” she asked.
Kind of. Sort of. Well, except for that part about the University of Michigan. And, well, maybe a few other things.
What could I say? Confess to everything? Now? Before I even got my first paycheck? No way. How would I explain it to Ty? And what would happen when Sarah Covington found out I got the boot because I couldn’t get the security clearance? I’d never live it down.
“Haley?” Violet asked. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
What could I say but, “No, of course not.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Violet declared.
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 3
Was I going to get fired today? Before I’d really even gotten to work here?
The notion had plagued me all last night—I hadn’t even gone shopping—and this morning, and had taken all the fun out of imagining how I’d blow my first paycheck on clothes and handbags. I hadn’t even told Marcie about the whole security clearance thing—that’s how upset I was about it.
I left my Honda in the parking garage, took the elevator down to the Dempsey Rowland lobby, and flashed the I.D. card I’d been issued yesterday at one of the guards at the reception desk while the other guard gave me serious stink-eye. I hoisted my Burberry satchel higher, then took the elevator up to five. I was early—I wanted to get my desk chair warm before they booted my butt out on the street—but so were other people. They looked happy and secure, as if they’d actually still have their jobs at the end of the day.
Jeez, I really hope I still have my job at the end of the day.
Yesterday, after several grueling hours of orientation and having us complete our background information forms, Violet Hamilton had given the three other new hires and me a tour of the office complex, then let us leave for the day. She’d left instructions for us to report to H.R. this morning so Adela could escort us to meet our new supervisor, where we’d be given blah, blah, blah. I don’t know what she said. I’d drifted off.
I moved along the corridors with the other employees who’d reported early. Wow, a lot of people were already here. Some of them had a coffee cup in their hands, others were already seated at their desks working. Wow, what was that all about?
I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of really good-looking men worked here. Not that I was interested, of course. After all, I had an official boyfriend who was fabulous—at least, he was the last time I heard from him, whenever that was.
I turned a corner, then another, and another, looking for H.R.—it was like a maze in this place—and spotted the name CONSTANCE ADDISON on a little nameplate outside an office. Constance would be my supervisor, I recalled from a lucid moment during yesterday’s orientation. A long, thin window ran down the edge of the door. I peered inside and saw the usual office furniture—desk, shelves, chairs, computer, and a couple of big cabinets. The lights were off; no one was inside.
I should have been doing my X-rated Snoopy dance—I’m pretty sure upper management at Dempsey Rowland frowned on that sort of thing, but it would be a hit at the office Christmas party, if I lasted here that long—but instead I was looking at the possibility of getting canned today. All because of that security clearance thing.
With the exception of perhaps slightly misrepresenting my academic qualifications on my résumé—which shouldn’t be that big a deal, if you ask me—I hadn’t really done anything wrong, or illegal, or dishonest. Yeah, I’d been involved in a few questionable things, but none of them were my fault. Really.
So there was no reason to think I wouldn’t get my security clearance and continue to work here. Right? Besides, all that other stuff was in the past. I was starting over fresh in a new job, at a new company. And as long as nothing bad happened here, I’d be fine. Right?
I glanced up and down the hallway and saw no one headed my way. Since I was lost and couldn’t find the H.R. office—and I didn’t want to look like a total idiot by asking—I decided I’d leave a little note for Constance, letting her know I was here—way early—and that I was reporting to H.R.
I opened her office door and walked inside. Huh. Something smelled kind of gross in here.
I got a weird feeling
I noticed that the chair was pushed back from the desk, and that the stapler, pencil cup, and paper clips were strewn across the floor.
My weird feeling got weirder.
I walked farther into the office and circled behind the desk. Violet Hamilton lay face down on the floor. I knelt beside her. She was covered in blood. Dead.
A scream pierced my left eardrum. I jumped up and saw a woman standing just inside the doorway holding a totally fabulous Prada handbag and a cup of coffee. She was a little on the chunky side and had on an I-don’t-own-a-full-length-mirror burnt orange suit. I figured her age for the wrong side of fifty. Her auburn hair was cut in a short bob. Her mouth gaped open and she looked like two flying saucers had just landed in her eye sockets.
“Oh my God! My office! What did you do? What did you do?” she shrieked.
So this was Constance Addison, my new supervisor. Jeez, do I know how to make a first impression, or what?
She kept screaming, like a siren going off. If her voice got any more high-pitched, only dogs would be able to hear her.
“Violet! Oh my God! Violet!” Constance lurched across the desk, spilling her coffee and knocking a stack of papers onto the floor. She gasped and turned back to me. “What have you done to Violet?”
I considered bitch-slapping her—just to break her momentum, of course—but instead I pulled my cell phone from my purse.
“Gun!” Constance screamed, pointing at my phone. “Gun!”
Maybe I should go ahead and slap her.
“Don’t kill me! Please!” she yelled.
I hit 9-1-1, gave my name and a brief rundown on the situation to the operator, and hung up just as a bunch of other people rushed through the door. Some of them looked familiar, but I didn’t know their names.
“Oh my God!” Constance yelled, as she pointed to me. “She’s killed Violet!”
Everybody looked at me funny. Then they all started screaming and jostling for position, some trying to get inside the office, others stampeding toward the door.
Constance staggered backward and collapsed into the vis
itor chair by the window.
There is no easy way to handle people in this sort of situation—believe me, I know. I’ve had experience.
Hmm, maybe I should put that on my résumé.
“Quiet! Everybody quiet!” I shouted, and clapped my hands together.
A hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to me. “This is a crime scene! Everybody out,” I said, motioning them toward the door. I pointed to a kind of hot-looking guy—not that I’d really noticed under the circumstances, of course—and said, “Find whoever runs this place and tell them to get over here. And call security at the desk in the lobby. Tell them what’s going on and to not let anyone leave the building.”
He pushed his way through the crowd, which hovered outside the door, as Adela Crosby wormed her way inside.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Violet is dead,” I said, and gestured behind the desk.
Constance started screaming again. Adela gazed behind the desk, then turned white and grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.
“But ... how? What ... happened?” Adela asked.
“Somebody killed her!” Constance shrieked. She pointed to me. “It must have been her! She was the only one here when I walked in!”
Adela instantly pulled herself together and narrowed her gaze at me. She opened her mouth to say something, when a man rushed into the room. He had white hair, and wore an I’m-in-charge expression and an expensive suit.
“What’s going on in here?” he demanded.
Constance started screaming again.
Adela turned a lighter shade of white. “Oh, Mr. Dempsey.”
Mr. Dempsey? The Mr. Dempsey who owned the company? Wow, was I having a great first day on the job, or what?
Mr. Dempsey’s gaze swept over each of us, as if to take a roll.
Adela folded her hands primly in front of her and said, “It seems that Violet is dead, Mr. Dempsey,” she said quietly, like that might somehow soften the news.
Mr. Dempsey drew in a long breath and squared his shoulders, as if he’d already seen it all, many times before, and this was just another duty to dispense with.
He pointed at Constance who was still screaming. “Shut her up,” he said.
Adela rushed to her side and knelt by the chair. “Shh, Constance. You have to be quiet now. Mr. Dempsey is here.”
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
“I’ve already called nine-one-one,” I said.
His gaze drilled into me. I don’t think he appreciated my taking charge.
“I’ve had security notified of the situation and instructed them not to let anyone leave the building,” I told him.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, jamming his phone into his pocket.
Adela sprang to her feet. “This is Haley Randolph, a—a new employee.”
He glared harder at me, then whipped around to the employees standing in the hallway.
“It’s all right, everyone. The situation is under control. Let’s all get to our desks, back to our routine,” he said. Then he turned to me and motioned for me to walk around him, out of the office.
It miffed me a bit that I was being dismissed—I mean, jeez, I found the body—but it suited me just as well to leave. I walked to the end of the corridor, then turned back. Mr. Dempsey and Adela were outside Constance’s office. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Adela looked as if she’d heard it a couple million times before.
Since my presence obviously wasn’t wanted here, what could I do but head for the employee breakroom—the one place I remembered from yesterday’s tour—and sit for a while.
As breakrooms went, Dempsey Rowland’s was a good one. There was a big refrigerator and a microwave, and lots of tables with chairs just hard enough to discourage employees from lingering for extended periods of time. Vending machines were stocked with an impressive array of energy drinks, snacks, and candy in an effort, no doubt, to squeeze a few more minutes of work out of the staff by plying them with excess caffeine and sugar. On the walls hung posters detailing our rights as employees, which would surely be ignored until someone filed a lawsuit.
I fed a ten into one of the vending machines and started pushing buttons.
Yeah, okay, I know I’d vowed to change my life, live in the reverse world, and lay off the sweets, but, come on, I’d had one hell of a morning.
I grabbed a stack of magazines and settled into a chair. Immediately I downgraded the Dempsey Rowland breakroom from good to unacceptable when I realized the only magazines available were on business, health, and fitness. No People, Glamour, or Marie Claire. Working here may be harder than I realized—if I got to keep my job, of course—which I might, since the head of security had just died.
I mean that in the nicest way, of course.
It’s not easy to eat a Snickers bar, M&Ms, and bite-size Almond Joys while flipping through Women’s Health, but I persevered. After all, these were extenuating circumstances.
Thanks to the mega-watts of chocolate I’d consumed, my brain cells started firing and all rushed to the image of Violet Hamilton. I didn’t know her—except from orientation yesterday and, truthfully, I hadn’t paid all that much attention—but she’d seemed like a nice lady. Organized, efficient, knowledgeable, composed. Not exactly the kind of person who would incite someone to murder her.
But maybe her death hadn’t been intentional. Maybe it was an accident.
When I first saw Violet lying on the office floor, I figured she’d been murdered. I’d seen murder victims before—long story—so I figured that’s what happened to Violet.
But I guess she could have had a heart attack or stroke, and fallen and hit her head. It appeared as if the back of her skull had been struck, but maybe that just meant she’d fallen backwards and hit her head on something. Maybe the heart attack or stroke hadn’t killed her immediately. Maybe she’d rolled over to get up, or just thrashed around and ended up lying face down before dying.
I’d gotten a look at the back of her head and it didn’t look all that great. Plus blood had splattered all over the place. The stuff on top of the desk had been knocked off, so maybe there’d been a struggle. Did that mean someone had hit her? Murdered her?
I bit into another Almond Joy—just to keep my brain working at peak levels, of course—and another thought came to me.
When had she been killed or, maybe, died? Violet was sans the Barbie-pink suit I’d seen her in yesterday so I figured it must have been this morning. Lots of people were here early. I thought back and tried to remember everyone I’d seen in the parking garage, the lobby, and the Dempsey Rowland office complex. Since I only knew a few people here, all the faces were a blur.
The breakroom door swung open and a man—one of the new hires from orientation yesterday—walked in. Just about everything about him was forgettable. Average height, a little overweight, a middle-aged white guy with a comb-over. He froze when he saw me, like he didn’t want to be caught in the breakroom.
“Want some?” I asked, and pushed my bag of M&Ms toward him.
“No thanks,” he said, then headed for the coffeepot on the counter beside the refrigerator. He poured himself a cup and glanced back at me. “It’s Haley, right?”
“Yeah, and you’re ... ?”
“Max Corwin,” he said, and walked back to my table. He sipped his coffee and shuddered. “Crazy first day on the job, huh?”
I doubted he knew I’d found the body. I saw no need to mention it.
“The cops are all over the place out there,” he said, nodding toward the breakroom door. He forced a laugh and said, “Somebody dying on our first day. Hope that’s not an omen.”
Max looked like a worrier to me. He had deep wrinkles in his forehead and his fingernails were bitten down to nothing. I figured he had a wife, kids, and a mortgage and really needed this job.
“Of course, the company has been around for over forty years. I suppose they’ve seen just about everything,”
Max said.
“Forty years? Wow.”
I guess they covered that in orientation.
“Can you imagine? Arthur Dempsey founded the company with ten dollars in his pocket and built it into this.” Max sipped his coffee. “Too bad his partner isn’t around to see how great the business turned out.”
Maybe I should start paying attention in orientations.
“Would that be the Rowland guy?” I asked.
“Freak accident, falling down the stairs like that,” Max said. He nodded slowly. “You’ve got to hand it to Mr. Dempsey for keeping his buddy’s name on the business all these years. Heck of a way to honor him.”
Max drained his cup.
“This is probably going to slow down the process of us getting our security clearances,” he said. “But we’re here now. We’re on board. We’re employed. There’s nothing they can do about that.”
Since, apparently, Max had actually been listening during orientation, I was about to ask him what the heck the company did, but I decided I’d just look it up on the Internet tonight.
“Well, we’d better get out there,” Max said. He set his cup aside. I stuffed the last handful of M&Ms in my mouth, dumped my trash, and followed him out the door.
I figured that if I just walked the halls, eventually I’d stumble over the H.R. office. Adela found me first. She looked majorly stressed.
“The detectives have been looking for you,” Adela said.
I wondered how good they were at detecting if they didn’t think to look in the breakroom.
Adela took off like a shot, leaving me to follow.
“You’re going to have to talk to the homicide detectives,” she said, setting a blistering pace through the corridor. I have my mother’s long pageant legs—plus I’d been out-distancing Holt’s customers who expected me to help them with something, for months now—so I kept up easily.
“Tell them whatever they want to know,” she said. “You must be absolutely truthful when—”
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