Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

Blood covered the front of his suit and shirt and made a puddle under him. I couldn't breathe. Tears sprang to my eyes and filled my throat. I wanted to scream, but only strangled sounds and breathless gasps came from my open mouth. "Oh no, oh no."

My knees trembled, and I stood up shakily, putting a hand on the wall to steady myself. I felt something wet and realized blood had spattered the wall and I had touched it. I looked at my palm and felt sudden nausea. In addition to my usual queasiness at the sight of blood, I realized that was Carl's blood, Carl's life that had oozed away.

"Oh no." My stomach heaved. I gagged, turned, ran to the ladies' room across the hall, and lost my breakfast in the first toilet.

I didn't know how long I knelt in front of the bowl, shaking with alternate spasms of hot and cold, but realized later it must have been only a few minutes. When I could spit up no more, I rose from the cold tile floor and lurched to a wash basin. I washed my hands and mouth three times, wondering if I'd left blood stains on the toilet bowl but didn't go back to look.

My tongue tasted horrible, and my throat burned. I filled a paper cup with water, rinsing my mouth again and again. Then I gulped some water, swallowing slowly. Finally, I dried my hands and face on six or seven paper towels and staggered out. I had to get back to Carl. I had to do something. Perhaps no one else had heard the shots. Only one other company occupied an office on that floor. Perhaps their employees hadn't come in yet.

In the hallway, I picked up my belongings and, trying not to look at the body, used both quivering hands to insert the key in the lock and turn the knob. I had to step over Carl to get inside, but luckily my legs didn't fail me, and I made it. Hands shaking, I grabbed the desk phone and punched 9-1-1, but when a woman came on the line, I could hardly speak. My mind, irrational, visualized those emergency calls they sometimes showed on the television news, and I blanked out. The woman kept talking to me, and finally, I recited my story.

I sat in the secretary's chair and put my head on the desk. I was hyperventilating, feeling as if I couldn't get enough air, and tears came flooding down again, soaking the tissues I pulled from the drawer. Finally, I heard noises in the hall. One of the men who worked for the other company on our floor poked his head inside and saw me.

"Have you called the police?"

I could only nod.

He turned and talked to someone else in the hall, and I heard other voices. Then Brad walked in, took one look at my face, and came around the desk to put his arms around me. I cried harder, slobbering against his coat, making unintelligible sounds that meant nothing except that I felt engulfed in pain and didn't know what to do about it.

The rest of the morning blurred by. The police came, of course. Also reporters, paramedics, a coroner, and Brad's cop friend, Tom Ortega. And the new secretary—gray-haired, plump, and motherly.

Brad helped me into his office and put me in his own chair, and that's where I sat, feeling more like a defendant in a serious trial than a VIP. I could swear every person who worked in the building, including Velma Edison, who actually didn't, came by at some time or other. To say nothing of tradespeople who'd apparently heard about the murder on the fourth floor and decided to see for themselves. Parry came in and put her arms around me, but I couldn't speak, and she said, "Call me when you feel up to it," and went out again. Even Rose Hammond's attorney showed up, although I couldn't figure out how he learned about it so soon.

I told my story several times to different authority figures who asked questions, forcing myself to remember and relate every minute of finding Carl lying at our door.

"Did you see anyone else, maybe the murderer, in the hallway?" one detective asked.

"No." But the possibility that the killer was still nearby when I found the body made me shiver. I might have been his next victim. Or had he made his escape by then? If so, where did he go and when?

Sometime, well after noon, they took Carl's body away, and then Brad, probably realizing I must be pretty shaken up, even though he didn't know the extent of my relationship with Carl, suggested I go home. I let him drive me there, shed all my clothes, pulled on a sleep shirt, and crawled into bed. I didn't expect to fall asleep. I continued to have bouts of near-hysterical crying, but exhaustion and the body's need to recover from traumatic events finally took their toll, and I dropped off.

When I woke up, I saw darkness inside and out, and I was hungry. Two things filtered into my brain: I had slept a long time, and I had an appetite. Both seemed a little incongruous. Even so, I put on my ratty old slippers and a robe older than Brooke Shields and went into the kitchen.

Nothing in the refrigerator appealed to me, ditto the pantry. I craved something warm and comforting, but I didn't want to cook, even if my fuzzy brain would let me remember how. Instead, I picked up the phone and ordered a pizza to be delivered. While I waited for it, I found a jar of macadamia nuts I'd been saving for my next bridge night, opened it, and had most of them eaten by the time my dinner arrived.

A tray with the pizza and a can of cold root beer in my lap, a stack of paper napkins at my side, and the TV remote close by, I indulged myself, polishing off my dinner with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sauce and Cool Whip. I ignored thoughts of what all this could do to my waistline. Old movie after old movie passed before my eyes, and during commercials, I channel-hopped, anything to keep my mind from returning to the image of Carl's bleeding body.

Brad rang the doorbell around nine and said he'd delivered my car. I let him put it away for me, and after determining I seemed to be recovering from my basket-case behavior, he said his ride waited outside, kissed me on the cheek, and left.

Sometime after midnight I fell asleep on the sofa, awoke during a loud commercial, turned off the television set, and returned to bed. Monday had ended. Then I remembered. It had been exactly one week before that Debra Hammond came into the office and started the chain of events that led to my finding Carl's body in front of our door. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I had no tears left. Surprisingly, I went right back to sleep.

*   * *

I won't say I felt completely normal Tuesday morning. Even my mirror gave me nasty news. Time may heal everything else, but it does nothing for one's looks. I knew I'd never be quite the same again, and I empathized with doctors, nurses, police officers, and anyone else who had to look at people who died violently. Yet, it was worse when you knew the victim. Death and the idea of dying came very close. The fact that you, too, would die someday suddenly took on reality. Like they say, life and dying are the only games in town. Still, Carl was young. It shouldn't have been his time.

Dragging myself out of bed, I carried on my normal routine of showering, dressing, and eating without a case of hysterics. Carl was dead. I didn't love him, but had things progressed the way they seemed to be heading, I might have gone to bed with him. If I had, I'd probably feel even worse. However, I reasoned, sooner or later I'd get over the trauma of finding his body. I knew I needed to plunge into work and find out who killed him.

Then my brain cleared, and I remembered. Brad didn't need me. He had a new secretary now. Furthermore, the police were on the case, and probably no one was offering to pay Brad or me to find the murderer. Nevertheless, I knew I wouldn't rest until I did. Could it be the same person who killed Harry? I felt certain of it, even though I had no idea what either of them had done to provoke it.

I picked up my cell phone and pressed
One
and
Send
. Brad answered.

"Why are you answering the phone?" I blurted out. "Where's the new secretary?"

"She quit. One look at the dead guy in the hall, to say nothing of all the police and reporters badgering her, and she decided she'd prefer a job in an insane asylum."

My shocked silence turned into laughter. That was getting to be a joke. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, dammit." He sounded annoyed. "I finally decided you were right and asked the agency for a mature woman, and look what happened."

I didn't know how to answer. "Okay, I'm coming in."

He didn't protest.

Once again, I had to enter the office building and go up in the elevator. I found myself holding my breath, almost waiting for the sound of another gunshot, but nothing happened. As I turned the corner into our hallway, my knees weakened slightly, and my chest felt tight, but any sign of what had happened the day before had been swept away. No body, no blood, not even any yellow police tape. We were no longer a crime scene.

When I entered the office, Brad sat at his desk, talking on the telephone. I gave him a wave, then took off my coat and sat down at the secretary's desk. Crumpled tissues lay everywhere like dead flowers, and I swept them into the wastebasket, hoping none of the dozens of people who'd been in there the day before had walked off with anything vital.

The coffeemaker stood on the credenza, cold stale dregs in the bottom of the pot, so I took it into the ladies' room across the hall to wash it out. I remembered kneeling at the toilet bowl, retching, but thankfully I didn't feel the need to do that again. Every minute that passed seemed to make me stronger, more able to cope.

Even so, something in the lavatory seemed different to me, as if another memory of the day before struggled to return. I stared at my face in the mirror over the sink. What was different? Why did I expect to learn something I didn't know before? I shook my head. Probably I had nothing to learn. Yesterday I'd been sick in there, and today I wasn't. That's all.

When I returned, Brad had finished his telephone conversation and came into the outer office to ask how I felt. "You didn't have to come in today, you know. I can call the agency and—"

"No, don't. Don't get a new secretary until this case is solved. I want to be here. First, my best friend's husband was killed and now the man…"

"Olivia, were you…?"

"No!" To keep Brad from seeing my face, I put the coffeepot away, and when I felt composed, I sat down. "I'm okay, and I'd like to help you solve this case."

"Whatever you want."

"Brad, do you think the same person committed both murders?"

He perched on the edge of the desk. "I sure lean in that direction. Of course, it's possible Novotny killed Hammond. On that message he left for you he said he'd done something stupid."

"In the first place," I told him emphatically, "I don't think Novotny killed Hammond. Even if he did, why would someone kill
him
? If that person is so sure of his guilt, why not give the information to the police and turn him in?"

"I agree. More likely Novotny knew who
did
kill Hammond, and the murderer has been trying to shut him up. That's why he got whacked on the head a week ago. I never did believe that business about a random burglar."

"What do you think he meant about stupidity?"

"Perhaps that he didn't come forward and tell the police right away."

"Surely he couldn't have seen the crime being committed?"

"Probably not. But he could know something, have some proof."

I almost shouted it. "The videotape!"

"Oh yeah." Brad got up from the edge of the desk. "You left a message on my voicemail that you learned something. How does it connect?"

I told him what Mr. Woo had said.

Brad paced the floor while he talked. "Okay, so we know Hammond copied a videotape. Was it the same tape we saw in his briefcase or another one? And why should Novotny be killed over a videotape, when he said he didn't have it? Amanda says she found the tape with the jewelry pictures. Since Epstein is a diamond dealer, it makes sense that the tape Hammond copied might have had pictures of diamonds."

"Well, there's one way to find out if there were two tapes. If not the one in the briefcase, then Harry carried it home with him along with his clothes. I'll call Rose and ask if she found one when she unpacked his suitcase."

"Good idea, but if she didn't, we're no closer to the truth. Hammond could have done something with the tape. Given it to someone else, mailed it, stored it in an airport locker."

"Spoilsport." I remembered something else. "Have you called Mr. Epstein yet?"

"God, no." Brad ran a hand through his hair. "People swarmed all over the place yesterday, and I never thought of it until long after six Eastern Time. I'll do it now."

He returned to his own office, dialed the number, then filled me in. Mr. Epstein had gone to lunch, but his secretary took Brad's number and said she'd ask him to return the call. We were faced with another case of nobody being where you wanted when you wanted them. The proverb, "Many are called, but few are chosen," needed an update. I'd vote for, "Many are called, but nobody's answering."

My phone call was to Edgar, asking him to take over the bridge class I was supposed to teach that afternoon. I had forgotten about it, which wasn't surprising under the circumstances.

"The topic today is preemptive bidding."

"Threes, fours, and fives." As usual Edgar's voice was gravelly. "The 'shut-up' bids."

I corrected him. "They're 'shut-out' bids."

"You can call it what you want, and I'll call it what I want."

I grinned. "You usually do. I think that's why my students like you. You should become a teacher too, instead of only taking my place now and then."

"You keep saying that, but you know it would never work. I'm easily bored. I'd hear those stupid questions they ask and say something mean."

"No, you wouldn't." Edgar was actually the sweetest, kindest man I knew, very old-fashioned that way.

"I'd probably do my best to."

While I chuckled, he changed the subject. "I heard you're involved in another murder."

"You heard?"

"The local TV station covers only three topics: rapes, burglaries, and murders. If they go two days without one of those things to report, the anchors break out in hives."

"Why do you watch it then?"

"That blonde anchor has great boobs."

I pretended shock. "Why, Edgar, you dirty old man!"

"So go solve the murder while I teach your class."

When I hung up, I realized he had made me feel a little better. Calmer, anyway.

My next call netted some news. Rose said she found nothing but clothes in Harry's suitcase. Now we only had to track down what else he might have done with the videotape, a daunting prospect.

"Are you and Brad close to finding out who killed him?" Rose asked me. "The police came again yesterday and told me Mr. Novotny was shot and killed outside your office. Thank goodness I'm not a suspect in
that
."

"They questioned you already?"

"Yes, but I have a perfect alibi. I was having my hair done at the time. My hairdresser and three other customers will vouch for it."

That good news heartened me as well. Of course, I never believed Rose killed her husband. While studying some of Brad's detective literature, I'd learned that it was actually not easy to kill someone by striking him over the head. Skulls are quite hard, and it takes repeated blows or an extremely heavy and sharp object to break it. The awards statue fit that description, but it also had to be wielded with a strong arm and a lot of force. Of course, a victim can die from blows that don't break the skull but cause other trauma. Yet, Rose looked too fragile. It needed someone younger, more physically fit, and possibly male.

"We're moving forward." I answered her earlier question. "Brad has all sorts of leads, and now that there's been a second murder, I think the police are going to put more men on it too."

"Well, I'm not dismissing you. I still want Brad to find out who killed Harry, and I'll pay him for his time, even if the police solve it first."

"That's very generous of you."

I heard her voice crack and her breath catch. "I guess I misjudged Harry. I feel awful about that. Now I have nothing left but his money. Spending some of it to find his murderer is the least I can do."

After I hung up the phone, I glanced into Brad's office. He looked as if he were deep in thought, so I decided not to disturb him. I went back to typing up notes for the file.

The phone rang at eleven, and when I learned it was Mr. Epstein calling from New York, I switched the call to Brad and then shamelessly picked up my extension again so I could listen in. I no longer felt like a mere secretary, if I ever had. I decided finding Carl's dead body made me a partner, and I considered myself entitled to know everything as soon as possible.

Brad identified himself and made sure Epstein knew about the murders before beginning. "We've learned that Hammond bought diamonds from your company, and you met in Los Angeles a week ago Saturday."

"That's correct."

"You went to lunch at Caesar's restaurant, and during that time, Mr. Hammond excused himself on two occasions and left the restaurant. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Epstein didn't volunteer anything more.

Brad apparently decided he'd have to divulge more of what we knew. "We understand he went across the street to a video store and had something copied. Is
that
right?"

Another solitary, "Yes."

"Can you tell us exactly what he had copied?"

"It was only some information of mine."

"And what might that have been?"

"I'm sorry, but that material is confidential."

"Two men have been murdered, Mr. Epstein, and I think that material may have been instrumental in their deaths." Mr. Epstein didn't reply. "At the moment, the police aren't aware of your involvement."

"I am not involved in any murders!"

"I don't suspect you of murder," Brad said.

I wondered how he could be certain of that. For all we knew, Epstein went to the awards banquet. Did Brad check his name off the guest list he looked at? Couldn't Epstein have stopped in San Francisco on his way back from L.A. and killed Novotny? We didn't know of a motive, but he might have had means and opportunity.

Epstein spoke again. "I don't want to be questioned by the police. I don't need such trouble, and besides, it would be bad for business."

"I agree. And if you can help me learn what Mr. Hammond had copied, there's a strong possibility it will need to go no further than this office."

Another pause. Finally, Epstein said, "He copied the surveillance tape we made in one of our viewing rooms."

"What kind of information could he learn from your surveillance tape?"

"It shows a sight, that is, a collection of diamonds that we were showing to a customer. This is a precaution we often take."

"Only diamonds? Not jewelry in settings?"

"No, just uncut diamonds."

"Is the diamond purchaser visible on the tape?"

"Yes, it gives us a visual record of purchases as well as the written one."

"For which customer?"

"You know I can't tell you that. My clients' business must be kept confidential."

"I understand, but you gave the tape to Mr. Hammond, so it must have been something important to him."

"I didn't know anything about it at the time. I just, well, I thought he ought to be informed about it."

"Apparently he thought it relevant because he went across the street and had a copy made."

"He had so little time." Epstein then went into a lengthy explanation. "He had to fly back to San Francisco to give a speech, and I couldn't let the original out of my hands for very long. When he returned the first time, he told me he couldn't make the copy himself, but the people in the shop would do it for him."

"I see, but why did he feel he had to make a copy right away?"

"He needed it as proof."

"Proof of what?"

Epstein paused for a long time, and I worried that he might decide he'd already told us too much. "You understand this was his opinion. He felt it showed a…an, er, impropriety."

"In your company?"

"No, in his company. The tape showed some diamonds being purchased by his representative, but he believed those particular diamonds had never been delivered."

Brad let out a low whistle. "So he wanted to copy your tape in order to compare the purchased diamonds to his records when he returned to his office."

"Exactly. He seemed very upset."

"Do you have any idea of how the records differed, in what respect they differed? Other than your surveillance tape was a very old VHS tape."

"No, he wouldn't tell me that, but he seemed very grateful that I'd come and brought the proof with me. Yes, it was old, but, as you saw, it still worked. I don't often do that, you see. I mean, visit clients. However, I had to go to California anyway for my sister's husband's funeral, and I visited another client with a problem at the same time."

A funeral combined with a business trip. I assumed that visiting clients on the West Coast made the whole thing tax-deductible.

Brad finished the conversation by asking Epstein to phone him again if he remembered anything that might help us find Harry's murderer.

I hung up the extension on my desk and went into Brad's office, the first time I'd been in there since noon the day before. Apparently, the building cleaning staff hadn't been in, because a pile of empty drink cans, most of which had been used as ashtrays, lay on the floor next to his desk.

I stooped to pick them up. "Your cleaning skills leave much to be desired. Too bad the secretary who came in yesterday didn't think of it."

"Hey, you don't have to do that." He sounded like he did when he was a teenager, and I attempted to clean his room. "I found the stuff all over my desk this morning, and I meant to get rid of it."

"It's okay. I'll take care of it." I went back to the outer office and pulled out a plastic grocery bag from the credenza behind my desk. I'm a pack rat but a neat pack rat. I took it back to Brad's office where he helped me fill it with the debris the police, or whoever, had left behind. Then, not wanting to put it in my wastebasket, where the tobacco smell would bother me all day, I took it across the hall to the ladies' room and deposited it in the container there.

That's when it hit me. I remembered the strange thing about that restroom the day before, the smell of smoke. It never smelled that way. It couldn't. The only other occupied office on that floor was rented by a wholesale machinery salesman, and he had no women working for him. I was the only person who ever used that ladies' room, and I didn't smoke.

The meaning struck me with such force I had to hold onto the sink for support. The killer must have been hiding there when I rushed in after seeing Carl's body, and he'd left behind his calling card, the smell of tobacco. Perhaps he'd been lurking in one of the other stalls, standing on a toilet seat so I couldn't see him even if it occurred to me to look. Perhaps I'd been less than two feet away from Carl's murderer.