A Billion Little Clues (7 page)

"Barry, I-" Roman began behind him, but the bulldog-faced man turned on him, fury bursting forth in his eyes.

"Don't you say a damn word, Roman!" he roared down at the billionaire. I was a little shocked that this man was speaking to his boss like that, but Barry seemed like his own little terrible force of nature. "I don't know what the hell is going on here, but you better keep your damn mouth shut."

Barry's eyes shot back to the crowd. "Where the hell is Zinn, anyway?" he muttered under his breath, probably speaking just to himself. I only caught the words because I was standing next to him. "Isn't that sleazy scumbag supposed to be around for things like this?"

I had no idea who 'Zinn' was supposed to be. But a middle-aged woman was pushing her way through the crowd towards us now, her eyes looking concerned.

"I'm a doctor," the new woman spoke up. "Someone called for-"

Her voice cut off as she spotted the body on the ground. She rushed over to kneel beside Silvers, her knees squishing down into the blood-soaked rug. I winced a little as I saw bloodstains (blood!) immediately appear on the knees of her pantsuit, but she didn't even seem to notice. She had one hand on Silvers' neck, but after a minute her expression shifted to one of defeat and sorrow. She looked up at us.

"No pulse," was all she said.

As if those were the magic words, the whole scene collapsed into chaos. Roman was on his feet, attempting to explain himself, but Barry had one short and stubby finger almost wedged up the billionaire's nose as he shouted back at him. Another slim fellow with slicked-back hair and a very expensive looking suit had shouldered his way in and was also yelling. I caught the words "Zinn, you bastard lawyer, where were you," from Bulldog Barry and figured that this must have been who he was cursing earlier.

A minute later, men in uniforms came charging in, roughly pushing us out of the way. The police had arrived.

Most of the party guests, myself included, immediately stepped aside as soon as the police arrived. I really didn't want to end the night in handcuffs! Roman, Barry, and Zinn, however, didn't give the officers the same level of deference. They kept on shouting at each other until one large and burly man with a long-suffering expression on his face ordered his fellow officers to slap cuffs on all three.

I didn't know what to do. Was I going to have to give my statement? Would I have to tell the police that I had kissed the billionaire, and that I might have been kissing a murderer at the same time? If this got out, it would be office gossip for days. I'd never be able to live it down, much less try and rise above it to command any sort of respect. So much for any hope of a promotion. Stupid, Melinda, stupid!

After a minute, the same burly officer that had signaled for the executives to be handcuffed stepped forward. He looked out at us for a minute, and then cupped his hands in front of his face to form a makeshift bullhorn.

"Okay, people, listen up!" he shouted out. "No one's in trouble here, yet! But we're gonna need all you to go downstairs, stand in the main entrance area. We'll be down to talk to you soon, and get statements from everybody."

After shouting out this, the man stepped back, paused for a second, and then stepped forward and raised his cupped hands again. His expression was slightly pained, as if an unappetizing thought had just occurred to him. "And even though you all have to wait, let's not keep the party going, eh?" he asked. "No drinks, nothing like that. Just wait quietly and we'll all be able to get home tonight."

With this statement issued, the man crossed his big arms over his equally big belly and glared at us. After a minute, with nothing else to do but accede to that glare, we all began to turn around and make our way back down to the main entrance area.

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

The police had asked us all to wait quietly down in the great entrance hall to be interrogated. Well, we all went down there, and we waited. But the executives were anything but quiet.

"Oh my GAWD!" I heard one woman beside me exclaim, her tone sounding more excited than horrified. "It's like we're in one of those real life murder mysteries! I can't believe this is happening! And on the night that I wore my new chiffon dress!"

I rolled my eyes at this. Didn't the daft woman care that someone had just been killed?

"It's all a trick," I heard from my other side. I turned and saw a young man dressed in a tuxedo that was just slightly too large for him, straightening a pair of spectacles. "I'm sure that this is some sort of recruitment stunt. They want to know which of us can best handle the pressure. They're probably planning out who will be promoted to the new Asia division."

I didn't know much about recruitment strategies, but that blood had looked pretty real to me. I definitely didn't think that this was a trick.

The next comment came from behind me, and I had to control myself to not go whirling around to stare at the speaker. "I bet the Bulldog did it," this man announced in a classic stage whisper - designed to sound quiet, but still carrying halfway across the hall. "He's been angry about not getting promoted over Roman ever since they brought him in."

"Barry? No way, Roman was caught red-handed!" This was from a woman who barely looked old enough to drink, but filled out her dark red dress in a manner that made it perfectly clear how she'd been promoted this far. "He probably snapped! You know how much pressure billionaires are under."

The stage-whisperer was nodding. "And he's got Zinn on his payroll, now, so he probably figures he'll get off," he commented in his carrying voice. "He hired Zinn what, a year ago? Maybe even been planning it since then."

"And the stockholders' meeting is coming up," added an older fellow, mostly bald, joining this little huddle. "He'll probably have to explain some sort of unexpected loss, and the worry just got away from him. Pretty reasonable, even."

Murdering another human being in cold blood was reasonable? These people might be executives, but they could still use a huge heaping of common sense! But the others in the little group were nodding as if this made perfect sense!

"What about you?" I jumped as I realized that the busty young woman was addressing me! "You were up front when we came around the corner - you saw it all! Who do you think killed Silvers?"

The others were listening in with barely concealed eagerness. I really was speechless for a second before I managed to recover.

"I think that we should leave this sort of thing to the police," I finally managed to get out. "I mean, I saw Roman down on the ground, but that doesn't mean that he did anything! Maybe Silvers just fell and hit his head, and Roman was the first one to find him!"

This suggestion sounded perfectly reasonable to me, but the looks on the executives' faces showed that they weren't convinced. "Just hit his head?" the older man repeated. "No. I'm sure that Roman killed him."

I almost threw up my hands in disgust. There was no hope of convincing these people! And then the young man in the too-big suit peered a bit closer at me. "Say, I don't recognize you," he said. "What division are you from, again?"

Oh crap. I was caught! But before I had to come up with some hasty lie, there was a brief electronic squeal from the stairs. We all winced as we turned to see what was going on.

The police officers had descended down from the upper floor of the house, and one of them had managed to locate a bullhorn somewhere and had given it to the burly man who had shouted at us previously. He now raised it up to his lips. "Hello!" he boomed, the call once again ending in a screech of static that made us all wince. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flamingos in the fountain flapping their wings and looking rather agitated.

The man lowered the bullhorn, hit it with the flat of his palm a couple of times, and then lifted it back up. "My name is Sergeant Pyle," he said, and looked briefly relieved when this announcement didn't end in a squeal. "Now, we're gonna come through and get statements from all of you. After we have your statement, you can go home. So the faster we get through this, the faster you can go back to your homes." The man didn't look as if he especially cared about us going home, but there was a definite rustle at the mention of leaving among the executives.

Sergeant Pyle was standing on one of the two grand staircases that swept down from the upper floors. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement on the other staircase. I turned to see who was coming down - and froze.

Roman Wayland was slowly, stiffly making his way down the stairs! Two officers were following closely behind him, and I could see that Roman's hands were pinned behind him. He must be wearing handcuffs! I felt my mouth drop open, probably for the tenth time that evening. Our billionaire CEO host was under arrest!

Other people had also spotted this and were turning to gape as our leader was escorted out. Sergeant Pyle, perhaps sensing that he was losing control of his audience, lifted up the bullhorn again. "If you all could just form a couple of lines, so that we can get on with this," he began, but no one was really listening. We were all staring at Roman.

The slick younger guy in the fancy suit was following behind the officers, his mouth moving quickly as he attempted to argue something. The officers escorting Roman didn't appear to be listening, although their mouths looked to be in tight lines. That guy must be Zinn, the lawyer, attempting to argue on behalf of his client. It didn't appear that he was doing much good.

Behind Zinn, (Bulldog) Barry was making his way down the stairs as well. This man, however, wasn't in handcuffs, and he looked deep in thought. He still wasn't smiling, but he wasn't shouting or angrily cursing like he had been doing earlier.

We all watched as Roman was led out of the house - out of his own house, his own party. Despite the handcuffs on his wrists, the man didn't look especially worried. Instead, he seemed rather calm - especially for someone currently being arrested for murder. He looked as if he was trying to work out a tough math problem in his head, something that involved more letters than numbers. He didn't make eye contact with any of the executives in the audience as he passed them.

But he did look up as he passed me. I was shocked when I felt his dark-eyed gaze settle on me. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. He looked... intent. I felt a bit as though my face was being memorized, sealed into his mind forever.

And then the moment was over and he was gone, being placed into a cop car outside. I wonder if the cops noticed how outclassed their vehicles were. Probably not. Cops usually didn't pay attention to those sorts of things.

Why had he been staring at me? Was he angry at me? Had I foiled his plan? Or was that a look of longing, as if he was lamenting the opportunity that we had missed to share together? Maybe he was still lusting at me. I almost smiled at that. Not likely. Even without having to deal with being accused of murder, there was no way that Roman Wayland would stay hung up on someone like me. He probably already had another supermodel in mind to seduce as soon as he got out of jail.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of flashing lights, gently inquiring police officers, and rampant gossip everywhere. No matter how much the officers discouraged it, the executives were determined to speculate about what might have happened. And the level of gossip jumped tenfold when we saw the paramedics come back down the stairs about ten minutes later, no gurney, looking defeated. It seemed that Geoffrey Silvers, CFO, was officially dead.

Eventually, it was my turn to give a statement. I had been going over my words in my head for the last hour, trying to figure out what to say. Weren't police statements a matter of public record? If I shared what had actually happened, would all my coworkers be able to look it up online and see what I had said? But on the other hand, I was pretty sure that it was illegal to lie to a police officer. I was really torn.

So when the officer looked up, saw that I was next in line, and beckoned me forward, I was very nervous. I could feel my knees knocking together beneath my dress, which now suddenly felt way too short. I was too exposed! Why did I have to wear such a slutty getup, anyway?

The man looked up from his notebook at me, his eyes showing no change. I could have been holding a knife between my teeth and waving a sign that said "I did it" and I don't think he would have reacted. After a second's glance, his eyes dropped back down to the little book of paper in his hands.

"Name?" he called out in a very tired sounding tone.

"Melinda," I answered, praying that my voice didn't crack. "Melinda Gaines."

"Position?"

I wasn't sure quite what to say to this. After a minute, the man looked up at me, his pencil poised to write. "Position?" he repeated again, his eyebrows raised.

"You mean like at Panther Worldwide?" I asked.

He blinked at me, a slow and deliberate gesture. "Yes," he said, drawing the word out.

"Um. I'm a receptionist. Well, not really - I sort of help out with all sorts of tasks around the office, and they're supposed to hire a receptionist soon to replace my job since I'm not really doing that any longer, but it's still kind of my official job title-"