Death By The Riverside Part 5

How did you know that I find mug shots so exciting?" I said with one foot in the sink and the other edging over the sill.

"I know your type," she answered.

"No good-night kiss?" She swatted me on the rear for an answer.

I dropped lightly to the ground.

"Micky?" I turned to her silhouette. "Be careful out there." Then she shut the window and I was off to find the St. Charles streetcar.

* 37 *

CHAPTER 7.

Iawoke bright and early Monday morning. Bright and early is my least favorite part of the day. Madame Troussard's Temps had gotten me placed at Jambalaya Import and Export, as arranged by Ranson. I was to be there this morning. Hence bright and early.

Whenever I plan to put on stockings I have to feed Hepplewhite first. Otherwise she will, due to severe malnutrition, use my leg as a scratching post. Fortunately, I have a cousin who was a buyer for D.H.

Holmes. He pa.s.sed bargains on to me. So I have a wardrobe suitable for jobs like this.

Jambalaya was on the ninth floor of one of those buildings that was designed by someone with a fetish for mirrored sungla.s.ses. Every facet stares back at and distorts you.

It was a fairly large company, about one hundred people. At least it was large to me, but then I'm used to a company of one. Temp work had, I'm sorry to say, supported me through several lean times. Sorry for me, that is. I hate any job that forces you to buy expensive clothes and pays you very little.

I spent my first week word processing lists and invoices, then making copies of them. Boring. By Friday I knew every crack and corner of the copy room. I could enlarge, shrink, and collate in four colors.

The only interesting information I discovered was that behind the reception area there were two doors, one on either side. A lot of people went through the right one, very few people entered or exited the left one. What was behind door number two? More to the point, of * 38 *

the few people who went behind door number two, only one, Barbara Selby, the office manager, was a woman. The rest were men. Men of power, a little heavy, a little too complacent. They appeared when they wanted to, never before ten, sometimes after lunch, or even late in the afternoon. They seemed out of place here, like rich men in the poor part of town. I noticed one exception. A young man who showed up three or four days that week. He arrived at nine and stayed until five and always went straight to the back room. He was, at most, in his mid-twenties, pale and skinny, with nervous hands and a shy h.e.l.lo for anyone who greeted him. I wondered what his story was.

Other than that the only joy from this week was in my bank account.

Ranson let me keep my Jambalaya paycheck. But she did remind me not to forget any of it at tax time. Me cheat the IRS? Never.

I knew I needed to call Danny, but I kept putting it off, hoping that she would call me. I finally opted for the chicken-hearted approach and called her at her office, figuring that she couldn't yell too much if she was at work. But she wasn't there, out of town for the week, they said.

The second Monday arrived even earlier and brighter than the first one. Some things should not be allowed. Heppy was fed, pantyhose et cetera were on, and I was back in that ugly building, staring at a mean green screen.

But I got lucky. Joy of joys. In the afternoon I got sent to cover the phones while the regular receptionist went to the dentist.

There was a combination lock on the left door that everyone who entered had to use. This is why I carry a compact. By powdering my nose whenever anyone used the door, I was able to get the first three numbers. Then five o'clock arrived and it was time to go. I was working on schemes to prevent the regular receptionist from showing up tomorrow, when I heard some unladylike language from the copy room.

Barbara Selby was there by herself with a very big load of papers and a copy machine that had every malfunction light known to man blinking.

"Can I help?" I said, trying to make a few brownie points. Most of the rest of the staff were scuttling by trying to ignore this after-five-o'clock crisis.

* 39 *

"Sure, how long can you imitate a collating machine? This baby's gone home for the day," she said, kicking the big copy machine. There was a smaller one, but it didn't have a collator.

So I stayed late helping collate forty copies of a fifty-page doc.u.ment. And getting to know Barbara Selby.

She was in her early forties, divorced with two kids. She was a little overweight, her hair a sedate, but not real blond, and she wore tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses that spent a lot of time slipping down her nose. But once I got a good look at her eyes, I knew I liked her. They were lively brown eyes that radiated both good nature and intelligence. I hoped she wasn't mixed up in this. I knew she was a good office manager because the office was managed well, but that was no guarantee that she was a nice person. She kept up a lively conversation, making jokes about modern technology, how she rued the birth of Xerox, etc. She also made it clear that I didn't have to do this and could leave at any time. It took us about forty-five minutes to finish up.

"I owe you a beer," she said as she turned out the light in the copy room, "but not tonight. I've got to pick up my kids."

"I do understand the priority of kids, but I never forget offered beers," I answered as we walked down the corridor.

"How about Friday?" she asked.

"Sounds great." We pa.s.sed out the main door to the elevator banks. I ignored the security guard, who was obviously stationed there to prevent anyone entering after working hours. Something very useful to know.

We parted. She to her kids, me to my cat.

I heard Heppy's meows on the second-floor landing. She had blissfully slept through my leaving food for her in the morning and not having seen me do it, probably never bothered to check her dish. I had started to mutter catty obscenities under my breath when I noticed that my floor mate, Miss Clavish, who ran a mail-order Cajun cookbook company, was locking her office. I didn't think she would appreciate any blue language, since she was of an age that still occasionally wore white gloves.

"Sorry about the cat," I said. "I guess she didn't like what I fed her this morning." I didn't want Miss Clavish to think that I was a cat-starver.

* 40 *

"She just started," was her answer. "She can probably recognize your footsteps and saves her act until you're here."

I had to chuckle. Someone who knows the wily ways of cats.

Hepplewhite, you've been found out. Miss Clavish waved goodbye and headed down the stairs. She and I have a relations.h.i.+p built on odd stair pa.s.sings. At least today I'm in a skirt and look respectable. Her other glimpses have, I'm sure, given her the wrong impression about me.

Twice she's seen me with a rather full bag from Antoine's Spirit Store.

Once she caught me leaving dressed completely in leather with a dog collar around my neck. It was for a friend's birthday. But I didn't think that trying to explain that would help matters. That left the question of what sort of friends did I have anyway? And once I took off my jacket coming up the stairs and she saw my gun. She had to have a strange opinion of me.

I picked up Hepplewhite and dropped her on top of her food, hoping that if she got her feet in it, she might notice it.

I thought about calling Danny, but let myself off the hook by deciding that if she hadn't called me she must still be out of town. I also thought about calling Ranson, but I didn't have anything to tell her.

I ended up sitting with a cat in my lap, sipping Scotch, and re-reading Pride and Prejudice. Oh, the exciting, glamorous life of being a P.I.

Next morning I got another lucky break. The regular receptionist had had her wisdom teeth out and wasn't going to be in today either.

Barbara was even kind of apologetic about my being stuck behind the phones for another day. I smiled and said that it was okay, I could manage.

By lunchtime I had the rest of the combination. The big problem was to figure out when I could get in. Then it came to me-if the copy machine could break once, then it could break again. All I needed was a big copying job late in the day and the proverbial bobby pin.

After being kicked off the reception desk, I opted for the crummy desk up front so that I could check up on who came and went. I didn't get my chance until Thursday. It was easy to break the copy machine.

And there I was, stuck at four-fifty-seven with a pile of papers to copy and only the small, slow machine to do it on. Barbara offered to stay and help, but I told her no, to get home to her kids, and if she felt really * 41 *

guilty, she could buy me two beers tomorrow. She agreed and left.

This was beginning to look too easy. As far as I could tell, everyone was gone. There should be no one waiting for me behind door number two.

I hung around the copy room for a few minutes, actually doing some work, to make sure everyone was gone. If I could get the copying done in an unsuspicious amount of time, I would; if not, then the second copy machine was going to be roughed up a little.

The hallway was clear. I walked quickly to the reception area and punched in the combination. The door opened. Sanctum Sanctorum.

Now it was up to lady luck. For an inner sanctum, it was pretty boring.

Lots of file cabinets and stacked-up boxes of imported junk, Mardi Gras beads, tourist trinkets, and the like. Also some phone equipment still in boxes. I a.s.sumed that those were legit, that the stuff actually carrying the drugs would go to nondescript warehouses. That left the files. Now, if I were a drug importer, where would I keep records of what Freddie the crack dealer owed me? A was too obvious, same for Z.

H for heroin? C for cocaine? M for Micky sounded good. I played my hunch and started flipping through M. Nothing that looked suspicious.

Then I tried H, because it was close. Pure as the driven snow, the cold kind.

There were a couple of unlabeled file drawers under Z. I decided to try those. The first one contained coffee, tea, cups, spoons, etc.

The second one had a few paper clips and a couple of blank pieces of yellowing notebook paper. I had to kneel to get to the third one. I pulled on the handle. It didn't budge. Bingo. An unlabeled locked file drawer in a locked room.

Then I noticed a glow in the room that hadn't been there before.

The door was open. I was not alone. A flashlight beam hit my eyes, blinding me. s.h.i.+t creek and no paddle flashed through my head.

"What are you doing here?" It was Barbara Selby. I was never so glad to hear a woman's voice as I was now. My chances of modeling cement overshoes for the Mississippi catfish had just decreased markedly. Hopefully the worst that she would do would be to have me arrested. Which would not be that bad considering that I was working for the police.

"I don't suppose you'd believe that I was just looking at the scenery?"

* 42 *

"No, I wouldn't," she replied. Another in the long list of people not really thrilled to see me.

"Could you get that light out of my eyes?" I asked. There was the possibility that she was part of the drug ring. If, for example, she were pointing a gun at me; my inquiring mind wanted to know.

She lowered the flashlight. No gun. I s.h.i.+fted my weight, releasing tension.

"Don't move," she said. Then I realized that she was nervous, too.

From her side of the file room I seemed very threatening to her. "Now, tell me, what are you doing here?"

"Do you know what this company does?" I countered.

"Import and export, of course," she answered. "I'm going to call Mr. Milo and let him deal with you," she said, starting to back toward the door and the phones.

"Don't do that," I said. I took a step toward her. I was perfectly willing to tackle Barbara Selby to keep her away from the phones.

Better her a few bruises than me a bullet in my head.

She saw me move and aimed the flashlight at my eyes again. I used the light as a target, took two running steps, and hit her about mid-waist. She wasn't expecting it. She was on the floor and I was on top of her. I had my hand over her mouth, my thumb and index finger pressing in her cheeks, so that if she tried to talk, she'd end up biting herself. I knew it was hurting her, but it shut her up. I had to talk fast. She was in pain and the security guard probably made rounds.

"I'm not going to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. This company does a lot of importing, but it's not what you read on these invoices. Heroin, c.o.ke, you name it. These are not nice people you work for. If you call them and tell them that I was in here, they'll put a bullet in my head."

I s.h.i.+fted, putting more of my weight on the floor and less on her.

Then I relaxed my hand, but still kept it very close to her mouth.

She didn't do anything for a moment, then she said, "Please, I've got two kids." She was very scared, I realized. It was time to let her up and hope that she took it in the spirit intended. I don't like scaring people.

I stood up, then reached down and lifted her up. She was breathing quickly, like a scared kitten.

"Please don't yell. It's all going to be all right," I said. "Let's get * 43 *

out of here, before that guard shows up and starts asking questions. I'll explain everything once we're out of here." She nodded. I picked up the flashlight and we left. I heard the guard whistling, so I ducked us into the copy room.

"Why shouldn't I just call the guard?" she asked, starting to realize that I no longer had the upper hand.

"Because you'll feel very bad when you find out that I've got a .38 slug in my head."

The guard's footsteps got closer. I moved away from the door, making it clear that she could tell the guard if she wanted. Also making myself as unthreatening as possible. I maintained eye contact with her, not letting her betray me without looking at me. I was betting that Barbara Selby was basically a decent person.

The guard paused in the doorway, nodded to Barbara, and then moved on. His footsteps echoed down the hallway until we could hear them no more.

"Thanks," I said, letting out the breath I didn't know I had been holding.

"Don't thank me yet. I'm still of half a mind to turn you over to the police. What's the real story, industrial spy, theft, blackmail?"

"Why don't we get out of here and I'll tell you?" We headed for the elevators and got on.

"I came back because I remembered that tomorrow is Patrick's, my son's, school play. I thought you might be interested in that beer today, plus some help with the copying," she explained as we rode down.

"Where do your kids stay?" I asked.

"With my mother. We live in the same apartment building." She paused for a moment, then burst out, "Wait a minute, what is this? I find you behind a door you don't have a combination for, you make some wild accusations about the company I work for, and now we're talking about my kids?"

"Where's a good bar around here?" I replied.

"What?...Oh, all right. This way. I'm probably safer with you in a bar than out on the street." We walked a block to a wood and hanging plant type bar. It wasn't very crowded. I ordered a beer and she ordered white wine.

"Okay, Ms. Knight. Explain."

* 44 *

I handed her my private investigator's license. She looked at it for a minute.

"You're not police."