by Unknown
The door closed automatically behind me, but it didn't shut all the way. I didn't click it into place, because, even though I assumed it wouldn't lock from the inside, there was no point chancing it.
As I walked around inspecting the shelves, I found them filled with the kinds of things you'd expect: sticky pads, notebooks, boxes of staples, tape and binder clips. A fat, knotted ball of rubber bands sat on a back shelf, with several loose bands flopping between the wire racks.
At first I was disappointed, because everything appeared “in place.” I guess, naively, I'd been hoping for some obvious clue to be sitting in the middle of the room. I made a second lap around, this time more methodically, scrutinizing each item I saw.
Abruptly, I came to a halt. I took my camera out of my bag. It might not mean anything, but just in case, I snapped a picture of the dark brownish streak on one of the yellow sticky pads. It could have been as innocuous as a coffee spill. But technically, it also could have been dried blood. Squeamishly, I couldn't help wincing at the thought and made sure not to touch it. Even if it was blood, though, it could have come from a simple office mishap—a bad paper cut, an employee nicking his finger on a box, etc.
I kept walking, scanning the shelves, squinting with determined concentration. There was an old monitor on the floor, beige with age, sitting abandoned like a well-meaning monstrosity. Then I caught the glint of something shiny. I ducked down and pulled out a gold necklace that was beneath the bottom shelf, as though it had fallen and skidded over. When I ran the slim chain through my fingers, I noticed the clasp end was broken. The heart charm in the center was engraved on both sides. The back read: S, With love, X. The other side read: Y2K.
Impulsively, I slipped the necklace into my bag. It could have been laying on the floor there for months and have nothing to do with the break-in here last week. But it could also be a lead.
I suddenly became aware of a commotion nearby. Panicked, I froze in place and listened closely. It sounded like a burst of laughter had just erupted somewhere. Followed by clapping and more laughter. Nervously, I checked my phone. It was only 7:30. What on hell—?
Then I heard music.
Confused, I crept out of the supply closet and made my way back to the receptionist station to return the key. When I turned the corner, I saw several people standing outside the archway to the kitchen, eating cupcakes and listening to “Holly Jolly Christmas.” Winter coats were piled up in a nearby cubicle. Among the group was my college classmate, Bill Christopher, holding a cup and chatting with his coworkers.
Instinctively, I did an about-face, hoping to escape their notice. I couldn't get any good snooping done if the staff was here having some sort of Christmas party. I also failed to see how I could clean the kitchen when they were obviously using it. And no, I wasn't just trying to find an excuse not to clean the kitchen. (Fine, I was.)
Just as I was ducking behind a partition wall for cover, I heard Bill's voice. “Hey—Caitlyn! Hey, wait up!”
I sighed and looked to the ceiling for answers. Then I pulled myself together. Turned and faced him—faced everyone.
“Hi, don't mind me,” I said with a casual wave of my hand.
“No, come join us,” he insisted. “Come on, you've got time.”
By this point, the whole staff was staring at me. I heard someone say, “William, who's this?” as I meandered closer. One thing this investigation had taught me so far: covert ops just weren't my calling.
Chapter 10
You might be wondering why I didn't jump at the chance to meet the Metropolax staff; why I didn't automatically see it as an opportunity to question the employees about the robbery, and decipher which ones made viable suspects.
Truthfully, I was still so new at this, I suppose I didn't really see myself as a true investigator—one who would know exactly what questions to ask and how to maintain a convincing cover. By nature, I wasn't a particularly good liar. Besides that, I hadn't yet earned the confidence that came with experience.
But now that I was thrown into the fire, I would blaze ahead.
First off, everyone looked remarkably like their photos. I just couldn't recall which face went with which name, so luckily Bill connected the dots for me. “Caitlyn, this is our office manager, Diana.” He motioned to the middle-aged sourpuss with the short dark hair and glasses, who nodded an aloof greeting and continued talking to a tall, skinny man whom Bill introduced as John Black.
“That's our other Diana,” Bill continued, pointing out a hefty, smiling woman, “but we call her Dede.”
“Hi, Caitlyn, is it? Nice to meet you, honey! Any friend of William's...” Dede said. “Here, grab a cupcake.” With her prominent nose, there was nothing pretty or delicate about the woman's face. But there was a sweetness to her voice that made her more feminine, and a spilling, voluptuous bosom that was impossible to miss.
Bill continued, “That's James, pouring a cup of wine by the copier. And the girl channeling Billy Idol over there is Kendall.” He spoke affably, within earshot of everyone. The only person who seemed not to hear was Kendall, a slim woman with long, curly orange hair, who was dancing by herself, a few yards away from the group.
After we all exchanged hellos, Bill explained, “We're having an informal Christmas party tonight. We went for dinner and drinks after work, and decided to come back here and continue the festivities. Dede brought the cupcakes and wine, and there should be cookies in the kitchen, too. Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks, that's so nice to include me,” I said, then contrived a moment alone with Bill. “Actually, let's get a drink of water first...”
“Sure,” he said, walking alongside me into the kitchen, then pointed to the machine beside the fridge. “Water cooler's right there—oh! But then you probably know that already. So you're still doing this whole cleaning thing, huh?”
I managed a pleasant smile. “For now,” I said. Now that we were in the kitchen, apart from the group, I could pry more freely. “So, your co-workers call you William?”
“Yes, for the most part. My father told me I should go by William now because it sounds more professional. But you can still call me Bill. My friends do.”
I smiled, then looked around for a cup. “It seems like you get along well with your coworkers,” I mentioned.
He handed me a paper cup from the dispenser above my head. “Yeah, everyone's pretty cool. Some more than others, like at any company. James and I sit near each other, so we talk a lot. He's a Red Sox fan like me. And Dede's great, she's like a mother hen around here.”
Nodding, I added quietly, “The other Diana doesn't seem as friendly...”
Briefly, Bill chuckled. “Picked up on that, huh? Yeah, well, let's just say, she takes her job as office manager very seriously. Tends to freak out about cleaning the coffee pot and wiping up spills on the counter.”
“Gee, sounds like you're a bit of a slob, Bill, and are blaming others for your failure,” I said dryly. “Come on...you can own it.”
He laughed at that. “No comment,” he said. “Now John Black, the tax guy—see the tall, skinny dude back there?” I nodded. “Now he's kind of weird,” Bill explained, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The women all go on about how 'nice' he is—just because he's quiet and polite. But if you ask me, there's something off about the dude.”
I tilted over to get another look at this guy. He was standing in front of a computer, refreshing the play list. Elvis's “Blue Christmas” began next. From what I could see, John Black had the quintessential “socially awkward” look about him. You know, that fine line between inoffensive-wimp and possible-serial-killer. I guessed he was in his early forties—but thinning hair and a bony physique were sometimes deceiving, so he might have been younger. Worst of all, though, were his ugly, cheap-looking clothes. Believe me, I was no fashionista—and even I could see that the man was hurting.
My eyes surveyed the plaques that hung on the opposite wall. So far, all of the employees had been accounted
for except for three: Jennifer and Suzie, who were no longer at the company, and Metropolax owner, Fritz Sachs. Because he wasn't at this gathering, nor was his photo on the wall, I still had no idea what he looked like.
“Didn't your boss come to this?” I asked casually. “The president of the company, I mean?”
“I don't know where Fritz is tonight. But it's just as well. He's all business, would probably bring the mood down.” Bill expelled a breath that sounded halfway like a sigh. “Between you and me, I kind of miss Suzie. Suzie Diamanti,” he explained. “She was an accountant here, but she quit last week. Right after that robbery—you know, the one you read about in the paper? But I think I told you that already.”
“Yes, I think you mentioned it...but you never said why, exactly. Did she get a better job somewhere else?”
He shrugged. “Beats me. I guess she must have. But according to Dede, Suzie's resignation letter left a lot to be desired.” Again, I glanced up at the plaques on the wall, which gave each employee's job title. Made sense—Dede was in Human Resources. “Anyway, it's too bad. Suzie was fun.”
“I guess they're dropping like flies, huh?” I kidded. “Didn't you say that the receptionist left last week, too?”
“Jennifer, yeah,” Bill agreed. “But that's a whole other story...” Leaning against the counter, he set his empty cup in the sink.
Meanwhile, I wasn't prepared to let the topic drop. “What do you mean 'a whole other story'? You can tell me,” I prodded with a smile.
After a pause, he said, “Well, totally off the record—ha, listen to me, 'off the record' like you're a reporter or something—ha, ha, ha,” he went on, and I squirmed a little in my shoes. “But anyway, off the record: it's kind of an open secret around here that Jennifer was the one who stole those supplies. You know, the robbery you read about in the paper?”
“Right, right,” I agreed. “Why do people think Jennifer did it?”
“Why else would she go to lunch the day after it happened, and never come back? Why not pick up the phone any of the times that Diana Dupont or Dede have been trying to call her? Suddenly bailing like that? It just seems too coincidental.”
Slowly, I nodded. “Did she seem like the type? Not that you can stereotype people, but...did you get the sense that she needed the money? Or the supplies?”
Again, Bill shrugged. I noticed that he had this nonplussed, nonchalant air about everything he told me. “She was only here a month or two, and she was kind of shady. She was a dating a married man, I know that. Always a lot of drama. Always calling in late or calling out with some big crisis. You know the type.”
“But wasn't she the one who reported it? Why would she call the police if she was the one who committed the crime?”
“Probably for attention,” he speculated. “Maybe to get her name in the paper. Or maybe it was to cover her tracks. Who knows? The punch line is really that she was such an airhead, she didn't even take anything that was worth much.”
I nodded, looking again at Jennifer's photo on the wall, which was beside Kendall Wallingham's. Jennifer was attractive, I supposed, but in a hard kind of way; the squint of her eyes and the mocking curve of her smile made her look mean. Of course looks could be deceiving—but then again, they could also be dead-on. Growing up, my dad used to use the line, “Don't judge a book by its cover.” Still, I often did (and was glad that I had).
I looked back at Bill. “Well, if people think she was responsible for the robbery, or at least involved, why isn't the owner of the company pursuing legal action? I mean—I'm assuming that he's not, of course,” I covered quickly. I needed my interest in the case to appear casual or Bill might clam up on me.
Bill made a strange face then. Kind of like a sneer—but it was fleeting. “Fritz has always had a soft spot for Jennifer,” was all he said.
“I noticed he doesn't have a photo on the wall,” I remarked, pointing to the plaques.
“Don't worry, you're not missing anything. Unless you're into paunchy guys in their fifties with bad toupees,” Bill joked. The description of Fritz, which reminded me a bit of Mr. Fredriksen, made me wonder: hadn't they made advancements in toupees yet?
“Well...” I looked over my shoulder and dipped my voice. “It's none of my business, but it seems pretty strange that two employees left their jobs immediately after that robbery. Don't you think?”
At that, Bill's forehead kind of wrinkled up. He shook his head and attempted to set me straight. “No, it wasn't the same thing at all. Suzie actually resigned. She gave a resignation letter. From what I heard, the letter was pretty unprofessional—handwritten, if you could believe it, and she scanned and emailed it to HR, instead of submitting it to Dede in person. Strange way to go about it, but whatever. Jennifer just went MIA and vanished on us.”
“Right, but still,” I insisted, “didn't you say that both of these things happened on that Wednesday, the day following the robbery? So wouldn't Suzie's abrupt resignation also make her a suspect? Hey, maybe she and Jennifer were in cahoots.”
Obviously taken aback, Bill let out a laugh. “Wow, you have a devious mind for a cleaning woman—or should I say 'cleaning girl'? What's the correct term for a cleaning woman who's young and college-educated, anyway?”
“Annoyed,” I answered him. Then I smiled sweetly. “Really, get over the cleaning thing, okay?”
He faltered, his teasing grin collapsing in slow motion. Then, with his hands in surrender, he said, “I'm sorry—I was only kidding.”
“I know, it's no problem,” I said brightly, because I didn't want him to think I was going to carry an oversensitive grudge about it. The truth was, Bill's well-meaning, elitist remarks were more distracting to me than offensive; they kept clumsily getting in the way of an otherwise meaningful dialogue about the company.
“Anyway, I can't see Suzie having anything to do with that absurd break-in. She drove a Mercedes. Suzie had her shit together.” He dropped his voice again. “Of course, a few people around here hated her for somehow finagling one of the big offices—bigger than a senior accountant would typically get. Nobody wants to take it up with Fritz, of course, so they just whispered and grumbled about it, bitterly.”
From my limited experience with Corporate America, that sounded about right. Just then a guy around thirty-years-old entered the kitchen. He was about 5'8” with brown hair and average-looking almost to the point of nondescript. Quickly I glanced up at his plaque to confirm his name: James Williams. He was in Sales & Marketing with Bill. As he meandered towards us, he appeared tipsy. He said, “Is Bill filling you in on everyone here?” Guiltily, I froze, wondering how much James had heard. He came and stood between us. “I'll tell you all about this crew,” he went on, “but I'll tell you the truth.”
In the process of throwing his arm around me, he sloshed his drink on the floor. He didn't seem to notice, but Bill glanced down, then raised his eyebrows at me.
“I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, like Bill over here,” James slurred. “Okay, we've got normal people, like Bill and I, of course, and then we've got our cast of clowns...”
“Um, you probably shouldn't talk so loud,” I advised him gently.
He just scoffed, waved a dismissive hand that sent more of his drink onto the floor. “They can't hear anything all the way over there, with the music going. Now where was I? First up, we've got Diana—now she's a straight-up bitch. Nooo sense of humor at all. Then you've got Dede. Oh, sure, she looks all tubby and jolly, but she's so fake.”
“Really?” I blurted, intrigued but uncomfortable at the same time. On the one hand I was thrilled to get an inside look at Metropolax—but also, I felt unclean, anticipating the shame of being implicated in this ridiculously rude conversation. Academic journalism, I realized, was far more elegant than being out in the field.
“She's a total gossip,” James explained. “She'd gossip all day long if she could. And she's got a mustache!” he blurted, then chuckled. “In case you're blind and you didn't noti
ce that...”
“All right, buddy, you've had enough, I think...” Bill said, trying to extricate himself from James's “embrace.”
James was undeterred. “Then there's John, Mr. I-live-in-my-mother's-basement-and-haven't-gotten-laid-since-Bush-was-in-office. Yeah, he's real normal...”
“How about some coffee?” I offered, noting the coffee maker on the far side of the counter. “Bill—should I brew some for the whole group, in case people want it?” It would only take a few minutes, and I wasn't opposed to having a cup myself.
At that, James barked out a laugh that sent a tiny string of spittle flying. “I don't want coffee—I want to party!” As he exited, I found myself reflecting on his odd behavior. “I want to party”? What thirty-year-old man really said that? Especially in a tame venue like this, of all places? It felt sort of inauthentic, like a script from a bad movie. Granted, I didn't know James at all—so I was in no position to know when he was being genuine. Or when he was putting on an act.
Bill made no further comment on his friend's antics. “So, Caitlyn, have you given any more thought to temping here?” he asked. “We still need a receptionist. I could talk to Dede about it.”
Before I could answer, there was a loud crash, which brought both of us hurrying out of the kitchen.
Chapter 11
“Oh my God!” someone yelped.
“Are you okay?” Dede hurried over to Kendall Wallingham with concern. Soon the others followed and it didn't take long for Bill and I to grasp the situation. Apparently Kendall was a little drunk herself, and had fallen over while dancing. I couldn't help wondering: what was with this office? Two out of the six people present were intoxicated. That was one-third of the staff. Was it just me or did that seem like an unflattering statistic? Was there something about the Metropolax Company that drove people to drink?