Cross Cut (19 page)

“I thought research was a different department. That’s Graham Rudd’s position, isn’t it?”

“Research is a broad term.” She laughed. “The Research Department finds and investigates new ingredients for any fragrance we produce. That’s our Department of Research. Pretty much any department can have
researchers
. Seems nobody can do anything these days without it being tried, tested and witnessed.”

“So, he didn’t know Rudd very well then?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’d seen them talk a few times, but I’ve no idea over what. He was strange like that. He would keep to himself and only socialize when he felt like it. Although, I wouldn’t really call it socializing.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, he never talked about himself. Anything personal and he would redirect the conversation. That, to me, isn’t social.”

“So he talked to you?”

“Yes, and a few others. In fact, if you want a list, those who came to your office the other day are probably your best bet. But, I can assure you there’s nothing to be gained from it. He was just a working man.”

“So you’ve no idea why someone would want him dead?”

She paused for a second and then shook her head quickly. “No.”

The conversation went on and I found nothing of interest about Guy Lynch from Doreen Sharp.

She left me to walk around the premises freely.

I was walking down to Lynch’s old office on the first floor, with the intent on finding his old team, when I came across Graham Rudd. Actually, I came across the nameplate on his office door and peeked inside. He was standing by his window, looking out vacantly toward the other side of town, with the Disneyland Resort in the background.

I knocked, and pried the door wide with a gentle kick. “Hey.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “It’s you.”

“Like that is it?” I said sarcastically.

He sighed. “It’s always like that. What do you want?” He strode casually to his desk and leaned against the chair with his hands. His tie was crooked and he was unshaven.

“Just want to ask about Guy Lynch.”

“I told you Monday I don’t know anything about the man,” he said.

“Mrs Sharp says you talked.”

“Did she now. Well, yes, we talked, but about work. That’s all he would talk about.”

“Nothing personal?”

“Nope. But what’s strange about that, it’s just a guy thing, you know.”

I shrugged. “So, between you and me, any idea why he was killed?”

He sighed and tightened his grip on the chair. “No idea—I mean—nah.”

“Go on.”

“It’s nothing. Now can you leave, I have some work to do.”

“Just one more thing,” I said, like Peter Falk used to. “Why do you think he was in a ladies’ restroom?”

He shrugged casually, like the question seemed absurd and beyond him. “You’re the detective. Beats me. All I know is he’s dead. Now, please—”

I left him to it. He seemed restless, and I got the impression he was troubled. I exited the office and stood outside for a while with the door open a crack. He went back to the window, and didn’t seem intent on doing any work at all.

Guy Lynch’s office was now an empty room with the atmosphere of a rotting basement. All that was left of it was the carpet, an old cabinet and the single desk by a dirty window. Barely any light passed through, but I could see there was no sign of life. I doubt there was ever any sign of life, even when he worked in there.

I got the hell out. The only empty office I could stand to stay in was Ryder’s.

Next door there was a similar looking office. A little bit cleaner. A small young guy with a roguish haircut was sitting at a desk, sifting through papers with one hand, and scribbling on a computer drawing tablet with the other. He didn’t notice me at first, so I coughed, which startled him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I gave him my name and my reason for being there.

“Oh,” he said, “sorry. I’m Dan. You can ask me whatever you like, but, I hope you don’t mind if I continue working?” he asked obligingly.

“Fine by me. I take it you’re the artist?”

He grunted. “If I was a true artist I wouldn’t be in this dump.”

I moved round the desk and watched him work. He was compiling a landscape advertisement for one of their perfumes, most likely to be used on billboards. He was digitally altering a woman’s face. Skin tones and lighting. Seemed like good work to me, but I’m not an expert.

“You worked under Guy Lynch, right? What was he like?” I asked.

“Like?” He looked up and stared away from me for a few seconds. “This might sound dumb, but, I’m not sure how to answer that.”

I shook my head and said, “Not all that dumb. I’m getting that from everyone else. But you worked with him—”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t like we talked. He gave me assignments and I did them. Sometimes I’d tell him his ideas sucked and he’d ignore me. That’s pretty much it. I’m just a junior graduate, after all.”

“What about how he acted? Did there ever seem to be anything off about him?”

Dan thought about it and returned to his drawing. He was working on the textures of the background. “Sometimes he’d seem a bit weird. Like, I dunno—kind of sad. I mean, more than usual.”

“When was this?”

“Off and on,” he said. “I’ve been here for four years and every so often he’d just go quiet.”

“What about recently?”

“Yeah, definitely. Although, when I think about it—” He stopped. “The day before he died, he seemed content. Before, though, he was quite frantic. Like he was really struggling with something, and I know it wasn’t work.”

I registered that inside my memory bank. When the notebook seems like a chore, it helps if I remember word for word what clients have said for Ryder’s benefit.

“Did he ever get stressed over work?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” Dan laughed. “He had it easy. All these ad campaigns and product releases are about as original as reality TV. Seriously, how many brain cells does it take to realize sex sells. He got paid thrice my salary just for telling me to knock up pictures with perfume and tits on the front. If you ask me, he had it sweet.”

“Yeah, okay, I get what you’re saying—” I wanted him to be concise and definite. “What about deadlines and such? You’re telling me his work never got him down?”

“I’m telling you straight,” he said.

So Guy Lynch had been unsettled for brief periods of time, especially before his death. However, according to Dan, the periods of stress had nothing to do with his work. This seemed contrary to what had been said in the office on Monday with the Gillham and Mane higher ups.

“Is there anything else?” I asked. “He never talked about anything else? Any people, hobby, family?”

Dan scratched his chin with his other hand while he continued to draw. “Nothing like that. But, you know, the day before he died—when I said he looked content—he was writing a letter. I saw him. Even tried getting his attention, but it went right past him until he finished it. Whatever and whoever he was writing to; it was bringing a smile to his face.”

“Any idea what he’d written?”

“Nah, ‘fraid not. I don’t read people’s mail. All I could see was it was a full A4 sheet, and he’d got near the bottom.”

I stared for a second and nodded. Didn’t really help, but at least he was trying. “Anything else?”

“Not that I know of. You’d be best talking to that girl upstairs.”

“Girl upstairs?”

“You know—one of the lawyers. The one with long hair.”

“Laura Harles?”

“Yeah. They used to talk at lunch. I got the feeling they knew each other outside work, but I can’t be sure.”

I left him to his drawing. The room had a peculiar odor that I didn’t particularly want to stick around for.

I was lost on the third floor. It was more populated than the first and I couldn’t find Laura Harles anywhere. After a lot of office peeking and inquiring, I eventually found someone I recognized—Robyn Faith. She was about five-six, with short platinum blonde hair, with puffy cheeks. She spoke with a slight lisp.

“Hi, remember me?” I said.

“Oh, the detective. What are you doing here?” she said.

“Doing the rounds, I guess. I was looking for Laura, but maybe you can help too.”

“Laura goes home early on Friday. You might be able to catch her at the diner a few blocks away.”

“Oh, okay, I will. Have you got five minutes?” I asked.

“Make it two.”

“I’m asking around about Guy Lynch.”

“I thought we told you the other day we didn’t really know much about him. He kept himself to himself.”

I nodded and raised my hand. “I heard from someone else that he got on well with Laura. That true?”

She sighed and looked away. “People like to talk.” She sighed again. “Yeah, they talked. But it’s not what people thought. I mean, he was too old for her anyway.”

“By what, ten, fifteen years? I’ve known bigger age gaps than that.”

She shook her head. “She wasn’t into him like that. Don’t ask me why, but I think she viewed him as like a—father figure.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

She grunted. “I don’t know. It’s not as if I’m best friends with her. She walks in different circles outside this office. Pretty sure she was seeing someone—” She paused. I looked at her and gave her time until she continued. “Actually, that’s how I think she got to know Guy. She had a nasty break-up—or something like that. And he helped her through it, I think.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Oh, couple of years ago. It was pathetic really. I don’t think it was even a real relationship. It was just some guy who visited the diner from time to time.”

“Who was he?” I asked, unsure of why it interested me.

“No idea. Maybe it was just a figment of her imagination.” She almost laughed, but kept it in. “Guy was the only one who knew I suppose. Which I thought was weird as hell.”

I nodded and tried to get back on track. “How did she take his death?”

She closed her eyes and gave a half shrug. “Like all of us I guess. The way he died—to a serial killer—I think it’s affected us all. I remember seeing her when the news came in. She just sat by the window, shaking her head. I mean, I don’t think they’d been talking lately, but, I dunno.” She stopped, looked at her watch and stepped to my side. “I think she was seeing another person, but Guy thought he was bad news. And she did what any
daughter
does, and ignored Guy.” She looked at her watch again. “I gotta go. If you want to find out who the Cross Cutter is, I’d suggest looking at more interesting people than Guy Lynch. I don’t really understand your or the police’s interest in him.”

I moved aside and let her walk on down the hallway.

I looked around for a while and figured I wasn’t going to find anything on the meth lab here. I already had the address for the factory that Sully and I would check out later on. I also doubted anyone else had anything poignant to say about Guy Lynch, so I left the building and walked to the diner two blocks over, as opposed to driving.

Laura Harles was leaving the diner as I approached it. A small and tidy place that served an all-day breakfast, which, disappointingly, is nothing like an English all-day breakfast.

I waved from across the road and she simply stared back at me. When I reached her she stood neutrally, with her hands by her side. She possessed the plainest of faces. Her chin was small and her lips were rather thin.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey, can I have a word?”

“Okay. Walk me to my car.”

She walked at a fair pace, yet it never looked like she was rushing.

“You want to ask me about Guy Lynch,” she said.

“How’d you guess?”

“Why else would you want to talk to me?”

“Because you have nice eyes?” I said.

Her eyes closed for a second. “I doubt that.”

“I talked to Robyn—she seems to think Guy Lynch was your friend.”

“Friend?” She grunted. “I suppose so,” she said solemnly. “Two people can’t talk without it spreading stupid rumors.”

“I’ve got to ask,” I said, raising a finger. “Everyone had at least one thing to say about him today, but at our office, no one said anything. Why is that?”

She shrugged as she walked. “I think that’s just what we think as a group. You can say a lot of things about people, even if you don’t really know them. You should know that, being a detective.”

I nodded. “We have to figure it out, though. Seems you two got along just fine without that.”

She grunted. “That was just office talk. I—we talked about other stuff.”

“Other stuff as opposed to what?”

She grunted again and looked away from me, toward the park on the other side of the road. “People thought we went on dates. It wasn’t like that. He saved me one time—”