by Tim Kizer
This grave injustice had taught her an important lesson: cops were no friends to regular folks. Even after the lab test, when she had the scientific proof of poison in her coffee, Leslie was not planning to bother police with her suspicions. She was confident she could handle this little issue on her own.
“I never thought you were so paranoid, Leslie,” Rick said, reflectively lighting a Marlboro cigarette. “It reminds of that guy I know, that meth head from Torrance, maybe I told you about him. He thinks his neighbors hate him and are out to get him. And I would understand them if they actually hate him. He’s a dumbass. He still owes me a hundred bucks.”
“If you call me paranoid one more time, I’ll kick you in the balls,” promised Leslie coldly. She must have sounded very convincing since Rick never uttered this word in her presence again.
#
#
The blood test was quite disappointing. They found no traces of any poison. They did detect the cocaine and Zolpidem Tartrate from the sleeping pill Rick had taken before going to bed.
“We should have done that yesterday,” said Leslie, remaining perfectly composed. She did not regret wasting half a day on a useless blood test. On the drive to the lab, she had told herself that no matter what the test would reveal, she would stay the course and make Helen talk.
A negative result was still a result. Importantly, she was a woman with a plan.
#
#
“So you want me to fire Helen?” George settled back comfortably in his expensive leather armchair, his friendly eyes fixed on Leslie, his manicured fingers caressing the armrests.
“Yes, it is my recommendation.” A faint undertone in his voice, which could only be detected by a trained ear, rang an alarm bell in Leslie’s mind. She had known George long enough to recognize signs of reluctance. “The quality of her work has become inadequate.”
“Inadequate.” George emitted a quiet hum. “She’s been working here how long? Three years, right?”
“Yes, three years. And now it’s time to let her go. A monkey can do her job, George. I explained it all in my email to you. Have you read it?”
“I have read it.” George nodded. “Can I ask you a question, Leslie?”
You just did, she wanted to say, but opted to keep snarky remarks to herself.
“Sure, George,” she replied instead.
“And please don’t take it personally, ok? You know that I care about you.”
Now there were several alarm bells ringing in her mind. When someone asked you not to take things personally, chances were it would be a very personal jab.
“Of course, I know that.” Leslie smiled.
“Is it true that someone tried to poison you?”
There was a short period of silence, during which Leslie scrambled to find the pitch-perfect expression for her face. Should she look surprised? Shocked? Indignant? Or maybe calm?
“Certain events took place, George. I don’t know why you would bring them up right now.”
“So it is true? Someone wants to poison you?”
“I doubt it is relevant to Helen’s firing.”
“I believe it’s absolutely relevant here.” George kept the same soothing, amicable tone with which he had started this meeting. “I was told that you suspect Helen of poisoning you.”
Leslie drew an inconspicuous deep breath, while making sure she retained her composure. She did not expect that this slutty whiner Helen would run to the big boss to complain. Leslie only asked her why she had put poison in her coffee and what the fuck her problem was. Looks like this bitch had the guts to kill an innocent person but could not take a few simple questions from her supervisor. She did not remember being overly aggressive with Helen. She forgot if she had used any curse words or had only said them in her mind. Come to think of it, she recalled Helen’s eyes turning red as though she was about to start crying when they were done talking.
The bottom line of their little conversation? Just like Leslie had foreseen, Helen shamelessly lied to her face: she denied poisoning her coffee and pretended to be shocked and hurt by Leslie’s accusations.
Did Helen complain about mean Leslie before or after she sucked George’s dick? Why else would he even listen to this bitch? No doubt, this twenty five year old whore could give nice blowjobs.
“You can go ahead, George, and call me paranoid,” she said. “That’s fine, I won’t take it personally.”
George flashed another fake smile—Leslie knew it was fake; you can’t essentially diss a person and still have a sincere smile—and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk.
“I’m not calling you paranoid,” he objected. “Absolutely not. I’m only trying to establish facts, that’s all.”
“You are polite enough not to call me paranoid to my face, I understand that, but if you are telling me that my suspicions are somehow ludicrous, I’d rather you called me paranoid out loud.”
“Well, I’d be glad to hear your suspicions, Leslie. You can be totally open with me. Let’s discuss that, let’s find a solution together.”
At this moment, Leslie wished she were able to slap George in the face for his fake open-mindedness.
“Fine. I’ll answer your question. Yes, it is true that I have reasons to believe that Helen put something in my coffee. I was lucky my friend drank it. He almost died. He drank that coffee and almost died. Why do I suspect Helen? Very simple: she was the one who brought the coffee to me. These are facts, George. Cold hard facts.”
“You sent her to the kitchen to get coffee?”
“Yes, I did. I’m sure she told you that already. She had access to that cup. Is it unreasonable to consider her a prime suspect, George?” Leslie cast a scrutinizing look at her boss. “Now tell me I am paranoid.”
“What, in your opinion, is her motive to kill you?”
“I can only guess. Maybe she wants my job. Or she got pissed off at me for criticizing her work; we now both know how sensitive she is. Anyway, I can’t read her mind, George.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Think about it, George. There are four unguarded, unmonitored coffee pots in the kitchen, which are open to any sort of tampering. Anyone—a terrorist--can go into that room and poison those coffee pots. Then people will drink that coffee and die. And all because you, George, were too shortsighted to see a bigger picture.”
Leslie cast a furtive look at her phone to check on her condo: while at the testing lab with Rick, she called her security company and ordered them to install cameras in her condo. Was it an overkill? Surely not. The night Rick was recovering at her place, she went on a white pages website and typed in her name and the city she lived in. The query result was astonishing: the search did produce her actual address and home phone number. To say that it didn’t give her creeps would be a lie. Leslie did not expect it to be so easy to locate her residence, especially in a city as big as Fountain Valley.
In order to achieve maximum coverage, the security company guys installed five cameras: by the entrance door, in the living room, kitchen, and both bedrooms. The video feed was recorded on DVR and broadcast live through the internet so that you could watch it from anywhere on your computer or cell phone. Having the ability to monitor her apartment any time from any place made Leslie feel empowered and regular exercising this ability had quickly become a habit. In a move to mislead Helen or her accomplice and give them false comfort, Leslie took the security company stickers off her door and windows.
Was there any evidence of Helen having an accomplice? Not at the moment. Nevertheless, she could not rule out that Helen had an assistant, or assistants. George would surely call her paranoid, but she’d rather be called crazy than find poison in her milk one morning.
Leslie also hid a nanny cam in her office, which could record and transmit the picture live. Her office was an excellent spot to put a camera trap since everyone knew she frequently left the room and never locked the door during the day. The cam previously belonged to Ri
ck’s father, who had spied on nannies of his latest child, now old enough not to need a nurse. Leslie was glad she did not have to throw another five hundred dollars on strengthening her security. True, she was making six figures, but it was a low six figures and she would hate to go broke trying to catch Helen and her accomplice red handed.
“I’ll think about it. I have to talk to Human Resources about the potential impact the firing of Helen will have on the company,” said George. “And don’t work too hard, Leslie, okay? You look a bit tired. Beautiful as always but tired. Do you want to take a day or two off?”
Leslie shook her head.
“I’m fine, George. Thanks for asking.”
Another brilliant idea occurred to her on the way out of George’s office. A cool little project that would take a few days to complete. First, she had to buy a pressure canner.
#
#
Leslie was impatiently staring at the door, expecting a knock any time now. It was day 8 since this nightmare began and she was still alive and kicking. Yesterday morning, she apologized to Helen for having acted a bit inappropriately the previous week. She wanted Helen to lose vigilance, to believe that she had gotten away with her dirty stunt. She also told George that she had changed her position regarding firing Helen and renounced her suspicions. She blamed her behavior on a string of bad days she’d had lately. Leslie realized that George was a lost cause and she would be better off having him think she had come to her senses. After all, her objective was not to convince other people Helen was out to kill her, her objective was to stay alive.
Leslie was in a relatively good mood. One reason was the unregistered Glock 19 Rick had delivered to her yesterday. When she asked him to find an unregistered handgun for a reasonable price four days ago, he was a bit skeptical.
“You can get in a lot of trouble with a gun like that,” he warned. “Just for owning it, you know.”
“I’ll deal with it when the time comes,” she replied.
Rick also brought three boxes of ammo, with twenty rounds in each box. He promised to take her to a firing range tomorrow night and have shooting practice.
Another reason for higher spirits was the excellent idea that had come to her the night before last as she had racked her brain looking for a way to catch Helen in the act.
A few minutes ago, she asked Helen to bring her coffee. However, she did not tell her who was going to drink it.
Leslie was contemplatively tapping a pen on the table when Helen knocked on the door. Leslie told her to come in and silently watched as Helen set the plastic cup next to the document tray.
“Have a seat,” she said with a manufactured smile, pointing to a chair right in front of the desk. “It will only take a minute.”
When Helen sat down, Leslie took the cup and placed it on Helen’s side of the desk.
“Why don’t you take a sip?” she asked, still smiling.
The consequent surprised look on Helen’s face was delicious. It didn’t take her too long to figure out the purpose of Leslie’s request.
“Okay.” Helen removed the cap, brought the cup to her lips, and held it there for a couple of seconds. “It’s too hot.”
“Let’s wait till it cools down.” Leslie was a little taken aback by the lack of protest on Helen’s part. She had no clue what that could mean. There were several possibilities and each one was as good as the other.
“Okay.”
And then she drank it, at least three quarters of the cup. Helen got the drift and spared Leslie the trouble of having to ask her to have more than one sip. With her eyes fixed on the remaining coffee, Leslie thanked her and said that she could go. After the door closed behind Helen, Leslie put the cap back on the cup and locked the cup in the bowels of the twenty-inch high safe in the corner of her office.
Well, let the waiting begin. Helen will either be dead soon or…not dead.
The fact that Helen had drunk that coffee did not automatically mean there was no poison in it. Why would she drink the coffee knowing it was poisoned? If there was poison and Helen had refused to drink, Leslie would have called the police, had the coffee tested, and eventually gotten this bitch convicted for attempted first degree murder. Either way, Helen would have been finished, kaput, and she obviously knew that. She might have chosen to die from poison rather than get the death sentence and stain the family name.
Or she could have an antidote in her purse, you know.
Antidote, huh? Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
#
#
By the end of the work day, Leslie started feeling pricks of anxiety. She had made half a dozen trips to the area where Helen’s cubicle was located and each time she had found her alive and well, with no symptoms of poisoning.
Was it possible that she was wrong and there had been no poison in that coffee? Hmmm, interesting question.
When Leslie drove home, the inner voice told her that everything would be fine and her suspicions would eventually come true.
#
#
Gazing at the small quartz clock on the right side of the desk, Leslie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. It was 10:19 am and Helen had still not arrived at her cubicle. Her absence was definitely unplanned since she was supposed to inform Leslie if she was going to be late or stay home.
With each passing minute, the weight Leslie had had on her heart since yesterday was getting lighter. Apparently, the coffee was poisoned and something terrible did happen to Helen. Who was paranoid now, dear George?
11:35am. Still no call or email from Helen about being late. Leslie felt so relieved that she had stopped checking the video feed from the security cameras at her condo.
At half past two in the afternoon, she asked the employees who worked in the same room as Helen whether they had heard from her. To her joy, the answer was “no,” not a peep. By 4pm it had become clear that Helen would not come in.
#
#
The shooting practice was a lot of fun. The first thing Leslie asked Rick to teach her to do was refilling the magazine with new bullets. Glock 19 held an impressive fifteen rounds in a factory magazine, but Leslie still wanted to be on the safe side. As she pulled the trigger and watched the holes appear on the target, another theory formed in her head: what if someone had hired Helen to kill her? In this case, it would be so much harder to figure out the motives behind the attempt on her life.
Another thing--a poison could kill you, but it could also cripple you for the rest of your life. In light of this fact, what was Helen’s intent? To murder her or get her paralyzed? Suppose they wanted her out of the way but alive (that would explain why Rick had not died that day). It takes an expert to choose the right substance and the right dosage to spare the target’s life while damaging important body functions. An expert such as a chemist? But Helen was not a chemist; she was just a bimbo with a marketing degree from Fullerton State University.
If Helen had died, how was Leslie going to identify the forces behind her? That would be a very tough task. And in the meantime, these people would send a replacement killer instead of Helen.
Damn, it was too early to relax after all.
#
#
Luckily, Helen was still alive. When Leslie came to work the next morning, George told her that Helen’s mother had called and informed him that Helen was in a Santa Ana hospital, being treated for poisoning. Leslie had the urge to tell the boss that Helen had drunk her own poison the day before yesterday, but changed her mind: why waste your breath if he would not believe it anyway? Thanking her good fortune, Leslie took the address of the hospital from George and sprinted to the garage. Helen might have had just days to live and she had to act swiftly.
How was she going to squeeze information out of that bitch? Leslie did not have a specific plan, but there was a Glock 19 sitting in the glove compartment of her car, which could definitely play a role.
When she arrived at the hospital, she ponder
ed for a minute whether she should bring the gun to Helen’s room. She ruled against it since there could be a metal detector at the entrance and she needed getting arrested with an unregistered gun like a fish needed a bicycle. She turned out right, the hospital did have a metal detector with a burly security guard attached to it in the lobby.
Her string of good luck continued, Helen spilled her guts without Leslie having to resort to gun threats. She did not reveal the name of the man behind the curtain though; she did the next best thing.
“I want to tell you something, Leslie,” Helen almost muttered a few minutes into their conversation.
Leslie put her hand on Helen’s, slightly squeezed it, and asked:
“What is it?”
“I did not put poison in your coffee two weeks ago.”
“Why are telling me this?” Leslie spoke in the same low voice as Helen.
“That day, it was Kathy who went to the kitchen and got your coffee.”
Leslie frowned, let go of Helen’s hand.
“Are you saying that Kathy gave you that coffee?” she asked.
Helen nodded.
“She was going to go to the kitchen and I asked if she could also get coffee for you.”
Oh, so this bitch was too lazy to walk a measly hundred feet to the kitchen and back? Okay.
“Did you tell her it was for me?”
“Yes. I asked her if she would be back soon and let her know the coffee was for you.”
“Really?” Two deep wrinkles appeared on Leslie’s forehead. “That’s very interesting.”
Very interesting, indeed.
“I know you still think I put poison in your coffee. And you probably don’t believe a word I say. It’s up to you, Leslie. I am telling you the truth. Whatever was in your coffee that day, you should ask Kathy about it.”
#
#
Leslie sat in her car in the hospital parking lot for half an hour, mulling over the new information.
So it was Kathy Edwards, that timid, quiet woman in the accounting department, three doors down the corridor. If Leslie remembered correctly, she had started working there two or three months ago when Claudia had gone on maternity leave. How old was Kathy? Thirty five—forty? She must have been at least five years older than Leslie.