Death by the Riverside (6 page)

Chapter 9

It was Monday morning again. But this was the last Monday morning that I would have to deal with bright and early, at least for a while.

Barbara and I had lunch together. She told me stories of Patrick’s play, with its missed cues and tottering scenery. Saturday had been spent watching Cissy’s (Melissa’s, formally) Little League team play. She made it sound like fun to be a single mom and have two kids.

My “This evening?” and her “Sure, why not?” were the only discussion we had about breaking into the locked file drawer.

The afternoon dragged slowly by. I wanted to go on an adventure, do something right, and impress at least one of the women in my life.

At last, four-fifty-one arrived and we were in the copy room by ourselves. I crumpled up a piece of paper, then ran it through the machine. It ate the paper and got indigestion.

“Oh, dear, the copy machine’s broken,” I said. Barbara started to giggle, then put her hand over her mouth to stop herself.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, in an exaggerated Southern accent.

I started to laugh. Then forced myself not to. Our hands touched and we looked at each other for a moment. I thought about kissing her, but I backed away. Barbara was possibly going to be a very good friend. A much better friend than lover. I wanted to keep her around for a while, something I hadn’t been very good about doing with lovers. So I backed away. I think she caught it, but she didn’t say anything.

We waited until there were no more people sounds from the office. Barbara took a quick look around just to make sure. Then we headed to the file room. She punched in the combination. We didn’t turn on the light, since there were two windows out to the street; instead we used a flashlight. I wanted to do this quickly and get out of here.

I crouched down next to the file drawer, and Barbara held the flashlight on the lock. It took me a couple of minutes of fumbling before I could get the lock open. No alarms went off when it finally gave way. A good sign. We’d be out of here in five minutes.

I slowly slid the drawer open. There was a flicker of red light, then it was gone. Shit. A bad sign. We had tripped some electronic eye.

“Get out of here,” I said to Barbara. Better they find me than her. I grabbed the top notebook out of the drawer, stood up, and kicked the drawer shut.

“But hadn’t you better re-lock it?” Barbara asked.

“No, they already know.” Her eyes widened. “Electric eye,” I explained as we left the room. “Now, go, get out of here.”

“But I can’t leave you…” she started.

“Yes, you can. You’ve got two kids.”

She was beginning to look pale. I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t feeling great myself. We hurried back to our side of the office. Just as we got to the hallway, I heard the guard getting off the elevator.

“Get out of here. I’ll be okay,” I said again. Barbara nodded and headed for her desk. I ducked into the copy room because there was no other place to hide without running straight into the guard. I looked desperately around the room for a place to hide the notebook. If Ranson wanted it, she could find a way to come here and get it. I heard the guard in the hallway. He was talking to Barbara. Not good. I was hoping he would let her out since he knew her pretty well. But it didn’t sound like he was going to. Even worse, I heard the sound of a second guard’s voice. One to block the door and another to search.

Where to hide this? There were stacks of paper and two copy machines, one with a broken sign on it. Inspiration hit. I opened up the broken copy machine, exposing the inner workings. That’s where I put the notebook. I had to sit on the cover to shut it, doing an untold amount of damage. Then I closed up the copy machine and figured it was time to bluff my way out of this place.

I walked out of the door and into one of the guards.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. What a clever question.

“That damn copy machine. It always breaks down when you need it, and the little one doesn’t collate,” I said in the best helpless female voice I could manage. He led me down to the reception area where Barbara was waiting with the second guard.

“Is something the matter?” I asked as innocently as possible.

“Break-in,” said a guard.

“No! Maybe we should call the police? You don’t suppose he’s still around,” I continued as a helpless female.

“You’re going to have to wait here,” was all one of the guards said.

“But that’s not possible,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend in twenty minutes in the Quarter and I’m always late. So last week we had a big fight about it and I promised, I mean, promised him I’d be on time. If I don’t show up he’ll kill me, I just know it.” My guess was that the best way out of here was the bimbo route.

“Sorry, lady,” said the guard.

“I’ve already tried,” put in Barbara. She looked nervous, but she wouldn’t fall apart.

“Can I at least call him?” Anything at this point. The two guards looked at each other. One of them shrugged.

“All right,” the other one said, “Just make it snappy.” He led me to a telephone, then stood by to listen in.

I dialed Sergeant Ranson’s number. Some bored clerk answered.

“Hello, is Jo there?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you know when he’ll be in?” I almost said she, which would have been a bad mistake.

“He? Sergeant Joanne Ranson’s a woman.”

“I know. But it’s important that I talk to him.” Catch on, dummy.

“Sorry, she ain’t here and I got no idea when she’ll be back.”

“Well, can I leave a message?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s Michele and I’ve got a problem. I’m stuck here at work and don’t know when I’ll get out. Got that?” Write down that I’ve got a problem, dimwit.

“Yeah, but Ranson’s out somewheres. I don’t know when she’ll get back.”

“Thanks anyway.”

The clerk hung up.

“All right, let’s go,” said the guard.

“But I didn’t get him. Let me try and call his mother. He usually calls her around this time of day.” The guard gave me an exasperated look, but shrugged okay. I dialed the number Ranson had given me for Alexandra Sayers.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Hi, this is Michele. I can’t get hold of Jo anywhere and I need to tell him that I’ve got a problem at work and can’t leave. I’ll meet him as soon as possible.” I hoped she caught my slight emphasis on
as soon as possible
as in
help.

“You can’t talk, right?” Alexandra asked.

“Right,” I answered, praising pagan deities that Ranson had backed herself up with someone who was not an idiot.

“Are you in danger?”

“Yes. And I’m not the only person stuck here. Barbara Selby, the office manager, is also stuck here. I know I’m always late, but this time I want Jo to know that I’m an innocent victim.” The guard was shifting from foot to foot, like he was going to break this off any minute.

“Okay, I’ve got that,” answered Alexandra on the other end.

“If Jo calls you, ask him if he could meet me at work,” I said. The guard made a cutting motion against his throat. Time was up.

“Right,” she answered.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Okay. Stay put. We’ll get there as soon as possible.” She hung up. I put down the phone.

“Geez, if I lose this boyfriend, it’s going to be this company’s fault,” I said and did what I thought was a flounce back to the guard’s station.

As we got there, Milo and a man best described as goon got off the elevator.

“Search the floor,” Milo said. The two guards went off. I was hoping that Milo’s goon would help, but he didn’t. At this point, if it were just Milo, I would have risked jumping him. But I wasn’t a match for two men with guns. We waited in silence for the guards to finish. They came back and reported that we were the only people on this floor. Then Milo left and went into the file room. He didn’t stay there very long.

I took the notebook because I knew that once that electronic eye was tripped we wouldn’t get off the floor without being caught. It had to be linked to the guard station, and I was sure they had orders not to let anyone or anything go once that warning indicator went on. They probably shouldn’t have let me use the phone, but they didn’t figure a ditzy office temp could cause any problems. The missing notebook should buy us time until the police arrived. I hoped. If all the books were still sitting in a drawer that somebody had obviously broken into, then the only possible leak would be the people who had broken into the drawer. As long as one of them was missing, then Milo had to find out where it was. He would keep us alive until he found out. If the wheel of fate was spinning in the proper direction, the police would arrive long before that point.

“All right, let’s go,” was all he said. I didn’t think he meant we could all go home.

“I can’t,” I said, trying to waste time. “I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend here. He’ll kill me if I stand him up.”

“You’re coming with us,” Milo said.

“Forget it, I quit,” I continued. “You just can’t make me work overtime whenever you feel like it. This is America, not Russia, you know.” I would have tap-danced to “God Bless America” if I had thought it would do any good.

“Turner, explain to the young lady,” Milo said. Turner was the goon. He pulled a gun out of his shoulder holster and pointed it at me.

“Is this some kind of joke? If it is, it’s not very funny,” I continued. Come on, Ranson, where are you?

For an answer, Turner put the barrel against my temple.

“Mr. Milo doesn’t joke very often,” said Barbara. “Now, I’m sure if you cooperate and be quiet, everything will be all right.” Barbara was a tough lady. She was playing her expected role of the older, experienced manager handling the latest office bimbo. She was also trying to get that gun away from my head and buy us a little time. I nodded my head in agreement with her. It worked. Turner put his gun back in his holster.

“Let’s go,” Milo said again and he punched the elevator button. We started to follow.

“My purse,” I yelled. What’s a bimbo without her makeup, nail polish, tissues, address book, .45?

Milo motioned one of the guards to go get it. He got it, then handed it to Turner, who looked in it. It was one of those big canvas bags, with lots of pockets and stuffed full. I held my breath. The gun was in one of the deepest pockets. Fortunately, Turner was looking for a fairly large notebook. It probably never occurred to him that I might be carrying a gun. Never underestimate a bimbo.

When we got to the lobby, they led us out the service exit, not the front door. We were on a back street and I didn’t see a single person, not even a dog or pigeon. I had hoped to spot some man that could pass for “Joe.” Anything vaguely male between twelve and eighty-four would have suited me.

I tripped instead, doing what I hoped they wouldn’t notice was a shoulder roll. I used my landing as an excuse to make some noise.

“Oh, shit, that hurt. I think I’ve hurt my back. I’ve got a bad back, you know.” I didn’t get up, but looked for more injuries to buy time.

Turner grabbed me under the shoulders and helped pull me up, then pushed me toward the waiting car. I faked a limp, but didn’t fall down again. I couldn’t push it too far or I’d get myself killed here and now. Barbara put an arm around my shoulder to help me to the car.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. I hoped she was.

Turner motioned us into the back seat of the car. It was a big, black ugly car, really a limo. It was the kind of car that ran a red light one night and took off the front wheel of Danny’s bike. She ended up with eighteen stitches and two cracked ribs. The car never stopped. I wondered if this was the same car.

There were two men in front, the driver and son of goon. Goon boy got out and Milo took his place. I started to slide over to the far side, but Turner got in and sat down, so he was between me and the door. No jumping out at any stop lights. Barbara got in beside me. Goon boy sat on one of those little extra seats that fold down when you’re not using them. He was facing us and staring unkindly in our direction. I heard the locks click shut. Obviously the driver controlled them. Even if Turner weren’t there I couldn’t have jumped out.

The driver started the car. Fate had one more chance to get back into my good graces. The limo nosed out of the alley onto the street. Fate blew it. There were no patrol cars, no dark blue undercover cars, no cavalry in the nick of time. We drove away in the twilight.
Thanks, Joanne. Next time, don’t call me and I won’t call you.

We were heading out of the city, taking the same road that I’d taken to get to One Hundred Oaks Plantation, though I didn’t think we were going there. I had to admit that the boys in this car had just displaced Karen Holloway from the top of my list of people I could do without ever seeing again. As a matter of fact, I would very happily trade where I was now to be in a locked room with her. Such pleasant thoughts on this scenic drive. I supposed that Cordelia would find it “tawdry” when she opened the
Times-Picayune
and found out that I was floating in the river with a bullet in my head.
Stop that, you’re not going to get killed. Something will come up and in less than twenty-four hours you’ll be taking Barbara Selby back to her kids.
Why was I even thinking about Karen and Cordelia? Two spoiled children. Perhaps because we were still heading down the road that would take us to their grandfather’s estate. I could feel the tenseness in Barbara next to me. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. After this was over and everything was okay, I was going to confine my detective work to finding lost Pekingese for rich ladies.

We passed the gate to One Hundred Oaks Plantation. Its grounds ended by sloping into a low swampy area. Not a good place to be running around in the middle of the night. We drove past the swamp, with its clumps of pine and oak on the higher ground, the cypress and marsh grass in the dark water. It continued for about a mile. Then we slowed, and the car turned into an overgrown drive. The property looked derelict. It had to be adjacent to One Hundred Oaks since this was the first turnoff we had passed after that bombastic gate.