Murder in the Marketplace (10 page)

I followed him through the cubicle to an inner office, the door of which he unlocked with great ceremony. “In here, Ms.—I didn’t get your name?”

“Liz Sullivan.” I stopped just inside the door. Larry went behind his desk.

“Sit down, sit down.” He pointed out a chair. “I’ll just get the forms—”

 “I am registered with an agency. You can call them and they’ll handle it.”

“Open an account with them?” He didn’t care for that idea. “Let me just get a little information on you first, Ms. Sullivan.” He pulled a pad toward him and took up a pen in his thick fingers. “By the way, how do you know Ed?”

“I don’t. Someone else I’ve worked for recommended me to him.”

The way he smiled said he didn’t believe that. “Would you just give me your address and phone number?”

Larry’s oleaginous vibes made my knee positively ache for action. “I’ll give you the agency’s phone number, or if you like I can call Mrs. Rainey and have her call you.”

“Certainly, if you wish to go through them.” He put his pudgy hands together on the desk. “It costs you their percentage.”

“It’s better for tax purposes.”

Larry shook his head. “Very well. You may have your agency call me.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I left the office.

Mindy leaped to her feet when I finally got back to my desk. The phone console blazed with flashing hold lights. She stayed for a moment to see how I handled it. I was pretty smooth by this time, I have to say—only gave one person the wrong extension.

Of course, that one person was Ed Garfield, the big cheese. He barreled out of his office door after buzzing the call back to me, and stood watching while I sent it to the right destination. Mindy put her hand on my shoulder and smiled brightly.

“Still learning,” she told Ed. “Liz is really doing great.” Ed leaned against the door frame, regarding me. He was a little stooped, as if hanging out with shorter people had affected his height. His blond-streaked hair fell over his forehead. A few intriguing lines crinkled around his bright blue eyes when he smiled. I remembered his smile from the previous evening—it was disarmingly shy and somehow conspiratorial, as though the two of us were bucking the world together. Today, it seemed mechanical, on the surface.

“Liz.” He came forward and took my hand, his own palm dry and hard against mine. “Did I thank you yet for helping us out? We were really in a bind. It’s a busy time for us, and not easy for someone to just walk into.” He shrugged, self-mocking. “Certainly I’ve been single-minded about it lately.”

“A new product, isn’t it?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mindy staring in frank admiration at Ed.

"That’s right.” He turned up the interest a little, and I felt the extra wattage. People who get ahead in business have a kind of star quality of their own, an intensity and drive that can be felt. Sharp intelligence beamed out of those blue eyes when he willed it. “Do you keep up with the software market?”

“Not really—just what I hear occasionally from Emery.” I gestured at the phone. “But from the calls today, you’ve really got something."

Ed turned the smile on Mindy. “It’s great of you to help out at the front desk, Min."

She blushed. “I’m glad to do it, Ed. We have to pull together, with Jenifer’s death on our minds.”

A cloud crossed his face. “Poor little Jenifer. How could something like that happen to such a nice kid?”

I looked from one to the other. “What happened?”

They were silent a moment. The answer came, surprisingly, from Door Number Two. “She killed herself.” We all turned. A woman stood in the doorway—presumably Suzanne Hamner. She spoke unemotionally. “Mindy, I need the documentation on the last software update for the new product. Ed, could I talk to you for a minute?”

Mindy scurried off. Suzanne and Ed faced each other across the reception roam. She was nearly as tall as he was, rangy and badly dressed in faded corduroy pants that had shrunk to reveal her ankles, which were encased in a grayish-white pair of those short athletic socks that have little pompons on their backs. Her running shoes were scuffed and dirty. Her shirt, a once-green polo, hung untucked. Abundant dark brown hair was pulled back from her intense, bony face with a rubber band.

Her face was beautiful, in the ageless way of fine sculpture. It could have belonged to a model—high cheekbones, great dark eyes, a full-lipped mouth held tight just then with irritation. She, too, looked to be in her early forties, not because of the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but from a sensation of maturity and pain that she radiated.

Between her and Ed stretched a nearly visible force field of vibrating emotions. It hurt just to be in its way.

“Can it wait?” Ed glanced at his watch. “I’ve got another appointment any minute.”

“This won’t take long.” Suzanne held her office door open, politely indicating that he should precede her through it. He straightened with an impatient sigh.

Before he could cross the room, though, the plate glass doors swung violently open. The young man who stood there carried his own aura of powerful emotion. His eyes were reddened, and his hair wildly disarranged.

He advanced on Ed, though he glanced at Suzanne. “So you finally did it.” His skin was pale, blotchy around his eyes. His words came with a shaky effort that was familiar, and I realized he was holding back those gusty, hysterical sobs that come—I had thought, only to adolescent girls such as I had been—after crying in the total abandonment of grief. “You finally killed my sister.”

Chapter 10

Ed stayed calm.

“You’re overwrought, Jason,” he said kindly, guiding the young man to the client chair in front of my desk.

Jason wouldn’t sit. He bounced up, shaking off the pats Ed bestowed on his shoulder. “It’s all your fault,” he shouted, sounding much younger than he looked. I put his age at about twenty-five or twenty-six. “I know what you were doing.”

People began to gather in the corridor between the dividers; Angel peeped curiously around the edge, along with Mindy and a couple of others I didn't recognize. In a place so open, arguments would have to take place behind Doors Number One or Two to keep from being broadcast wholesale through the office.

Ed stopped patting. He put one hand up to screen his hurt expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jason,” he said softly. “But if you want to blame me, go ahead. Maybe there was something I could have done—said—that would have stopped her.”

Jason looked uncertain for the first time. “You were working on her, pushing her all the time to have an affair. Couldn’t you see she wasn’t ready for that? God knows you’re old enough to know better.” He looked disbelievingly at Ed. “You’re past forty!”

Ed winced. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in my office,” he suggested. "This is hardly the place—”

“I don’t care who hears what I have to say,” Jason declared vehemently. He glared at the audience, which by now had filled the hallway and probably included everyone who worked at SoftWrite. “My sister is dead! Doesn’t that matter?”

Suzanne had been hanging back in the open door of her office, glancing nervously from the employees to Ed to Jason. Now she strode forward and put her arm around Jason’s shoulder. He didn’t shrug her off.

“Of course it matters.” Her deep voice was harsh with feeling. “It matters more than anything. But it’s over, don’t you see? Nothing you do can bring back the past. You just have to go on.”

There was silence for a moment, and in it Suzanne seemed to recollect herself. She dropped her arm from Jason, glancing around with an air of truculence.

Jason didn’t notice. He turned on Ed, his expression still accusing. “I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” he said. “And when I do I’ll find you there, seeking your level, you worm."

“That’s an interesting point of view.” It was Drake’s voice. Unnoticed by those caught up in the drama, which included me, he’d pushed through the glass double doors.

Everyone turned to look at him—except me. I looked from Suzanne to Ed to Jason. I was hoping for one of those revealing moments you hear about, when people taken unaware display their emotions so nakedly you can read them like a book. But Suzanne simply looked blank. Ed was faintly puzzled, trying to recall where he’d met Drake before. And Jason plainly didn’t care.

Drake looked around, taking the office in as if he was writing a description down in the messy notebook he kept. He passed over me blandly, as if I were just another anonymous receptionist. His gaze stopped on Ed and Suzanne, and the distraught young man who stood between them.

“Paul Drake. Police,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Mr. Paston.”

Jason looked defiant. It occurred to me to wonder if he were an actor—all his emotions seemed so apt.

“Ed Garfield—we met last night,” Drake continued, shaking hands. “And you were at Emery’s, too, Ms.—?” He looked inquiringly at Suzanne. She introduced herself, her voice dull again, with no sign of the passion that had infused it earlier. “I’ll need to talk to both of you,” Drake continued briskly. “And anyone else who feels they have something to add. Miss Paston’s death has been classified as suspicious, and that means a lot of routine and boring questions, I’m afraid.”

“As long as you find—as long as he’s punished—” Jason’s voice wobbled. Abruptly he sank into a chair and burst into the threatened sobs, interspersed with stuttering gulps of air.

Suzanne shooed the workers away; most of them were already evaporating on their own, with the exception of Angel, who had gotten a glass of water and offered it with genuine concern, and Larry, who had perched on a corner of the tansu chest, watching avidly.

Ed stayed in the open door of his office, and Suzanne retreated to hers, so they faced each other across the room again. Jason wept on his chair. Drake, hands stuffed into the sagging pockets of his sport coat, surveyed us all.

“I’ll want to talk to you all, one at a time,” he began. “I also want to look through Miss Paston’s desk.”

“That’s what I came to do,” Jason mumbled. “I don’t want strangers touching her things.”

“Given the circumstances of her death,” Drake said, not unkindly, “the police are going to have to touch things. And do more than that, perhaps.” He gave me a warning look. “We don’t like having evidence messed up."

Ed caught the look, though he didn’t know what it really meant. “That isn’t Jenifer’s desk. I’ll show you her cube, if you want. Everything’s just as she left it.”

Jason’s mouth opened, and Drake said hastily, “I’ll talk to Jason first.” He looked around, saw Larry. “What’s your connection with Miss Paston?”

Larry jumped up and backed swiftly away, his hands behind his back. “None,” he said, sounding a little less resonant. “I’ll just get back to work now.”

“If there’s no room with a door to use, we can do the questioning downtown,” Drake said.

“Use my office,” Ed said at once. “I’ll get a cup of coffee and go over some things with the marketing people.” He nodded at me. “Buzz me there if I’m wanted.”

Suzanne hovered for a moment before going into her office and shutting the door softly behind her. Drake looked at it.

“Wait for me in there,” he told Jason, gesturing to Ed’s office. Sullenly Jason walked into the other room. Drake came over to me.

“Are you keeping your nose clean? Remember what I said this morning.”

“Was it only this morning? I feel ten years older.” I glanced around the reception room. “There are land mines everywhere, Drake. If these people find out I was at the scene, I'm hosed. Nobody in an office ever forgives anyone who withholds juicy gossip.”

“Very funny.” He drove his hands through his hair. “Maybe you should get the flu, too, and get out of here.”

“I need the money.” I hesitated. “Look, it’s wasteful for me not to snoop around a little. I’m here, they’re talking—make use of it.”

“No way,” he said at once, before I could tell him about the intriguing bit of conversation I’d already overheard. “You’re not a cop, Liz.”

His voice had risen a bit on the last words. I shushed him. “This place is as private as the locker room at Rinconada Pool. You’re blowing my cover, Drake.”

“You have no cover,” he said, biting off the words. “Answer the phone if you want, but don’t nose around. I mean it, Liz. For once stay out of trouble.”

He went into Ed’s office, banging the door behind him. I felt sorry for Jason.

The ringing telephone called me back to work. It was the local newspaper, for Ed. I buzzed marketing.

“I’ll get back to them.” Ed didn’t sound eager for the free publicity.

When I told the caller on line 1 that Ed was in a meeting, she gave me about six numbers where she could be reached when he was available—by phone, fax, or cellular phone. “Tell him it’s about the MicroMax rumors,” she added. “He would want to respond to that, I’m sure. What do you know about it?”

Her sudden attack took me by surprise. “I’m the temp. I know nothing.”

She laughed. “Well, if you find out any information, give me a call. I might be able to do something for a good tip.”

It sunk in that she meant money. “You pay for stuff like that?”

“Sometimes—if it’s good and juicy and we can’t get it any other way. Somebody at SoftWrite already knows that.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think MicroMax got wind of the trouble? One of your guys leaked it. And I’m betting that person’s bank account is fatter now.”

The reporter hung up. I cradled the phone, staring at the twisty branches of the flower arrangement across the room. I had thought of SoftWrite as a simple little company like Emery’s, where everyone was so busy just trying to survive that there was no time for office politics. That was obviously untrue.

Mindy came back with the files Suzanne had asked for and plopped them down on my desk. “I don’t know if I want to go in there.” She chewed uncertainly on her lower lip. "Things seem kinda tense today.”

“I noticed.”

Mindy looked up as someone else approached from the cubicles. “Clarice. How are you feeling, honey? Did you want to go home now?”