Armed and Fabulous (Lexi Graves Mysteries) (3 page)

I rifled around in my drawer for a new notepad and a pen, then rummaged in my purse for my emergency coffee money. I found a filthy ten
-
dollar
bill
tucked into a pocket of my wallet,
and I
folded it and taped it into my notepad. If I took my purse
,
Adam would totally know I was sneaking out
;
and I was way smarter than that. The IM box showed that Adam was typing something else
,
so I waited, my fingers tapping the desk softly until his message popped up.

Adam:
When you go to Starbucks, get me a tall Americano.

My mouth dropped open. Out-bloody-rageous. Not even
the
question of an
“
if'
”
!
What was he typing now?

Adam:
And one of those cake things you like. With the marshmallows.

I think a made a cross
little
noise. When I peeked out from my monitor
,
Adam was focusing on his screen, face completely blank. He caught my eye and... I think he winked at me
!
It's entirely possible my heart skipped a beat.

Me:
I am
NOT
going to the library. I am going to Starbucks.
I typed crossly, then realized what I had typed and went to hit the
“
delete
”
button. Instead
,
I got
“
enter.
”
Shit. Why did the
g
ods of
k
eyboards decide that putting the
“
enter
”
and
“
delete
”
keys so close together was such a good idea? Morons.

Me:
I meant that the other way round, obviously.

Adam:
Obviously.

Then...

Adam:
Regular is fine. I'll give you the money when you come back.

That was it. I was going to sacrifice my yummy
m
acchiato on principle today. I signed off the IM, locked my screen, picked up my notepad and pen
, and swanned out
of
the office. Swiping my identity card through the scanner, I passed into the corridor to the bank of elevators and hit the
“
down
”
button.

The basement librar
y
wa
s made up of a series of stacks that span
ned
the length of one wall
,
while
a few computer stations and a cluster of reading cubicles
occupied
two other walls, leaving the last free for the elevator and
the
exit to the stairs. Without natural light
,
or a heating system that could sustain human life for longer than a couple of hours, it wasn't a
very
popular space. The whole room had a deathly air of quiet about it. Just for kicks, I
loudly
faux sneezed. T
hree
people jump
ed
.

Finding a free terminal, I dropped onto the plastic seat and typed in my search keywords, waiting for a list to come up that would show me every yawn-inducing pamphlet, journal, book or article that had been tagged with those words in the system. It was a blessedly short list
,
so I printed it out and went to round up my afternoon reading, along with the current year's survey file, before settling into one of the desks. Sometimes
,
it reminded me of being at college with the windowless room and
fluorescent
lights
over
a
broad bank of desks where people quietly read and scribbled notes
.
The
piles of books
that surrounded us were the kind
not a single person would choose to read unless
said person was
as dull as dishwater.
But seeing
as this was the insurance industry, they probably were, but that was beside the point.

Actually, as I got into reading and making notes, it wasn't quite as dull as I first
estimated
and the survey would
definitely
change the information and statistics the brokers who worked with Green Hand would give to clients, as well as alter
their
premiums.

Insurance depended on many factors and it was hard to keep the various policies straight in my mind, causing me to drift and play my favorite game of pretending to be a spy. I can attest, hand on heart, that I have seen every single James Bond film ever
made
and I have the theme song CD too. Once again
,
I cursed the government that wouldn't let me be a glamorous operative, or even a senator, even though that might be pushing it
a bit
, given that I have neither the drive
n
or the
patience
to get that far. So I
made a career of being a
temp and actually do
ing the
work
of a glorified gofer
instead. Life was so unfair.

When I had
accumulated
ten pages of notes on how the statistics had changed, along with various highlighted sections to paste into my report, I glanced at my watch. Crap. It was seven p
.
m. How had I spent three
hours
in here? I smiled. Adam hadn't got
ten
his coffee. That showed him dedication
,
alright.

I returned my reading to the stacks and headed back to the single elevator that served the basement. Just as my finger hovered over
“
Reception,
”
I remembered my purse still
tucked under
my desk
. That, and
I hadn't given
Green Hand Insurance’s
vice president
the report
,
so I hit the sixth floor and trundled up
. I felt
slightly buoyed by the thought that I could claim almost two extra
hours
of overtime
,
which would more than pay for cocktails on Saturday night with Lily.

Someone had propped the door open with a wedge so I slipped through, assuming the
custodians
were doing their thing.
The room was still and silent. Everyone else had gone home.
I walked over to my desk, jabbed a button on the keyboard and my monitor whirred back to life. Logging in, I called up the report
Adam had
requested
and sent it to the printer, dashing over to make sure I hadn't printed any lingerie pic
ture
s again. I hadn't. Thank goodness for that. It was bad enough Adam had seen my bra choices; he was healthy. Green Hand's
vice president
, Martin Dean, hadn't seen a day of exercise inside of a decade and would probably have
had
a heart attack
. T
hen I'd never get a decent reference out of
him to get a proper job doing something c
ool. I know. I know. I'm selfish like that. Actually
,
come to think of it
,
maybe
sending him thong shots would get me a reference faster.

Inside my head, I vomited at the thought.

Back at my desk, I raced through the motions of closing the computer screen, logging off and shutting down. Leaving a computer on in this building was akin to looking at porn. You might think about it occasionally
,
but you didn't want to
get
caught. So I'm told.

Picking up my purse and swinging it over my shoulder, I shoved my notepad in
to
my drawer and locked it, then stapled the report together and
headed across the room to
Dean's office.

Martin Dean, being the resident big shot, had an office
far
away from the plebian workers
and behind a set of double doors, outside of which his executive assistant
,
Dominic
,
sat. Dominic's monitor was off so he had gone home already
,
which meant I would have to take the report in and leave it on the desk myself.

I raised my hand to knock on Martin Dean's door
and hesitated, hearing voices inside
.

My heart sank.

Dean was still in and probably cross he would have to read my report this evening
,
instead of doing whatever he usually did in his downtime
. Even worse, the voices sounded
heated and
angry
.

At least
,
I hadn't barged in before remembering that he always liked an extra photocopy so Dominic
could read it too. Dominic was
in his early thirties and smart.
I thought
,
privately,
he
was
the one
really running the show.

Turning
on my heel
, I
sloped back the way I came, veering off into the corridor on the left that led to the nearest photocopy room,
and
shut
ting
the door behind me. Inside
,
I wasted precious minutes as the machine crawled back to life. Finally
,
I photocopied the pages
,
in sequence,
and rooted around on the
overhanging
shelf for another stapler so I could
attach
the pages together.