Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (21 page)

I did plan to go home at five o'clock, just as instructed, but it didn't work out that way. I wanted to type up all the notes for the files, and the sheer number amazed me: McDonald's visit to our office, plus his later phone conversation, my trip to Los Angeles and conversations with Leibowitz, the waiter, and Mr. Woo, and the telephone contact with Mr. Epstein. That didn't even take into account what we'd learned about Ziegler and Powell during our investigation into their shady pasts.

Being busy kept me from thinking about Carl, even though I had to insert a page in the file that detailed my finding him and the subsequent question and answer session with the police. I skimmed over it, leaving the details for Brad to fill in later.

At three, realizing I hadn't had any lunch, I decided to go down to the coffee shop and get something substantial enough to stand-in for dinner. I ordered a salad (making up for my excesses of the day before) and had barely begun eating when Velma Edison appeared. She trapped me in my booth and wanted to know everything about the murder.

I understood her curiosity. Photographs of our building, the hallway outside our door, and even of me, had been front page news in San Ricardo's daily newspaper and even rated prominent space in the San Francisco
Chronicle
. So I tried to accommodate her as much as possible without falling apart. This time, I had no need to invent an interesting case for Brad. Reality had overshadowed anything I could have made up.

"That must have been so thrilling," she said.

Thrilling to find the dead body of someone you knew? "How about horrible? Something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy." Not even her, although she was more nuisance than enemy. I certainly didn't hate her. I just wished she had more brains than your average bag of Doritos.

"Well, now, if there's anything I can do…?"

"Thanks." When I finally escaped and returned to the office, I found a message from my sister, Samantha, in Phoenix.

I returned the call and barely spoke before she said, "Livvie, I just heard. How awful."

"What did you hear? Who told you?"

"I'm down here visiting Mom and Dad, and Brad called me. He said you'd had a couple of dates with this Carl What's-his-name and were pretty shook up when he was killed."

"
That's
an understatement."

"He said you might want to come down here for a while. You can visit with the folks too."

"Brad means well, but as I already told him, I'm fine. My sole desire at this moment is to find out who did it and make sure he's arrested."

"Well, if you're sure you don't want to come…"

"I'm sure. Of course I'd love to see you, but now isn't the right time."

Samantha was prettier than I ever was. Or at least I thought so. However, she inherited the same nose and long legs, although she had two inches on me in the leg department.

"Actually," she said, "I didn't think you'd want to leave the scene of the crime so to speak. Even if you hadn't been the one who found the body, you'd want to be in the thick of things."

"I'm glad you know me that well."

"You were like that when we were kids, always involved in everything. I wasn't a bit surprised when you agreed to work for Brad whenever he needed someone. In fact, I think you should be a private eye too." She paused, and I grinned, even though she couldn't see me.

"But you must be careful. What are you doing right now?"

"Typing up reports." I didn't tell her Brad had taken me off the case and I should go home and not stay in the office. Instead, I asked about her current activities.

She always said she was happy being single but often urged me to remarry. After the two marriages, neither of which ended "happily ever after," I had no desire to marry for a third time. My brief madness with Lamar Grant left me with a magnum of angst. I kept his name, however, because it was short. Having to write "Olivia Featherstone" had become a chore I decided to forgo. Besides, working with Brad so much made it convenient to have a different last name.

We talked for at least an hour. After telling me about her own busy days and nights, she added, "Remember, if you need me, I could stay with you for a few days."

"Really, I'm fine." I assured her I would be all right and that her brother would protect me in the unlikely possibility that became necessary.

By the time we finished talking, darkness had begun to descend, and I had to turn on the light. I hit the save key on the computer and switched on the printer. While I watched the pages slither out of the top, I wondered when life would return to normal again. Images kept floating up from my subconscious mind, dancing around in strange patterns, and then disappearing. I felt on the verge of putting something together that would spell out exactly what had happened and who and why, but it eluded me.

My mind played "what if." What if Ziegler didn't take the videotape from Novotny when he killed him? On the other hand, what if the videotape contained nothing important after all? When the auditors completed their work, the irregularities would show up, and a tape of a diamond purchase wouldn't be necessary. Or could Ziegler change company records in such a way that even an audit wouldn't reveal what he'd done? McDonald apparently didn't mention getting a videotape from Epstein, yet he found out how Powell had swindled him with the same sort of scheme. An uncanny coincidence.

For some reason, Kevin McDonald's comment about no love lost between Hammond's company and his own lingered in my mind. Then the two thoughts merged. If no love, how about some other connection?

Ziegler and Powell both stole from their companies in the same way. Maybe they worked together, and one of them killed Hammond because he found out. Brad said Powell had served time in New York. Presumably he lived and got himself arrested there. Ziegler had worked for a Wall Street firm and Wall Street was located in New York. The two men could have met in that city and come west to hatch their scheme in California.

I liked that scenario. A smile took over my face. I felt proud of myself for figuring it out. Now, I just needed the proof. Powell had already skipped town, according to McDonald. Would Ziegler be next? Brad would have to be nimble to nail him. Or did Ziegler plan to tough it out and hope he'd covered his tracks well enough?

I picked up my cell phone and pressed the button for Brad's cell. No answer. I fumed. How dare he not have his cell phone on when I needed him? I visualized the thing ringing away in Amanda's living room while they were otherwise occupied elsewhere in her apartment. Or maybe not.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was a little after six. Where had the time gone? The very thought made me stop, and I let nostalgia sweep over me. Stephen had always turned that question into a joke we shared. I'd say, "Where has the time gone?" and he'd say, "Ticktock." And we'd laugh.

I came back to the present when, after four rings, a voice told me to leave a message. That was just as well because, as I started to leave a message telling him about my spectacular discovery, I realized it amounted to no more than a hunch.

I put my phone down. I wanted desperately to know all the answers and got up and paced the length of the office, never seeing anything except the pictures in my mind's eye: Powell at the television studio, Ziegler at the funeral, Carl lying on the floor. I wanted to wipe out that last one, but, as in the childhood game when told not to think of the color red and suddenly red is all that fills your mind, it refused to go away.

I wouldn't think of that. I'd think of Brad scanning a few dozen videotapes, one by one, in hopes of finding the one Harry had made that fateful Saturday. Poor Brad.

And then two more thoughts merged. Carl had told me he'd see me at the office Monday morning. As early as I'd arrived, he'd arrived there ahead of me. He lay on the floor in front of the office door, shot moments before I stepped off the elevator, and they found no videotape on him, but what if…?

Of course. It could have happened that way. What if Brad had forgotten to lock our office door again and Carl just opened it? What if Carl had hidden the videotape, not at his own company office, because after all Ziegler might find it, but in
this
office?

My scalp tingled, and the hair on my forearms rose with a chill. I just knew I was right. Carl hid the tape somewhere in our office. Okay, wait a minute. What if Brad had locked the door? I'd had to unlock it to go inside and call 9-1-1, hadn't I? I remembered fumbling with the keys with shaking hands. Did I unlock it or not? I had no idea. For that matter, perhaps Carl had found it open but then locked the door behind him after hiding the tape. To check my hunch, I'd have to search for the tape right then. If necessary, I'd turn the place upside down.

Brad's instructions to go home at five o'clock crossed my mind. So it was after six. No big deal. Anyway, I'd been running around our little town at night for more years than he had, and I had no intention of stopping just because my overprotective kid brother thought I might be in danger. In my opinion, the murderer, if he
was
in the ladies' room when I went in the day before, had hidden himself carefully and knew I'd been far too preoccupied disgorging granola to see him. He knew I presented no threat and had no need to kill me.

The thought of finding the missing information went straight to my head, making me a little giddy with anticipation. I turned off the printer and stacked the finished pages into the Hammond file, which had grown to an inch thick, then looked around. If I were a videotape, I asked myself, where would I hide?

First, I checked every drawer of the desk but saw only the usual familiar items: pencils, pens, scratch paper, yellow Post-it Notes, a letter opener. Next, the credenza. Nothing but office supplies, boxes of file folders, letterhead and envelopes, telephone books, business directories, and maps of cities in California, Oregon, and Nevada. I pulled out the coffeemaker again and looked behind it. On the lowest shelf, clear in the back, I found an umbrella and a white sweater. So that's where I left those. Still, no videotape.

The filing cabinet took most of my time because I had to go through every file to make sure the tape wasn't stuffed between the papers or the hanging folders. Fortunately, at the moment, Brad's business had generated only two drawers of files.

So much for the outer office. Next, I'd tackle Brad's. But first, I needed to go to the ladies' room. I opened the door and discovered the hallway was dark, building lights turned down to dim (read, only a baby step from out). That happened at seven each night, when they locked the front doors. The gloom gave me pause because I still felt a little leery going into the room where Carl's murderer might have been lurking when I went inside to be sick. Yet, I had no choice.

I left our office door standing open to throw more light into the hall and dashed across, reached in, and flipped on the light. The room seemed empty, and my footsteps echoed, but I stooped down and made sure no legs showed in any of the stalls. I made short work of my errand, washed my hands, and grabbed two paper towels to dry them while I hustled the short distance back.

I went around my desk to drop the used towels in my wastebasket and then turned toward Brad's office, which I intended to tackle next.

I did a double take. Someone stood in the dark just inside Brad's office door.

My chest got tight. My breathing stopped. I backed up against the wall and reached for the doorknob, ready to flee into the hall. At the same time, reason told me to calm down. How could anyone have come in? I hadn't been gone more than two minutes and left doors open. I waited, standing very still, staring at the large black shadow. Finally, the truth dawned on me. That was no person. That was a coat hanging on the coat rack.

I forced myself to go forward again, reached a hand inside, and turned on the light in Brad's office. The sudden glare told me what I had begun to realize. The bogeyman had been nothing but an empty coat. I stood still for a long time, letting my heartbeat go back to normal, feeling relieved no one had watched my little charade. Nevertheless, I'd be glad to finish my chore and get out of the building.

I went to Brad's desk, sat in his chair, and opened every drawer, looking at everything inside, feeling guilty for trespassing even though I knew I had to search. Naturally, I couldn't open the drawer he kept his guns in, since it remained locked, and he, alone, had the key, but I felt certain he'd taken at least one of the weapons with him that morning. His briefcase sat in its usual place on the floor next to his desk, and I opened that too. No videotape.

Frustration and disappointment at my lack of success welled up in me. Why had I been so sure I'd find it? After I looked everywhere, it seemed incongruous to think Carl could have hidden the videotape there.

I sighed, shrugged, and turned off the light. Through the window, I saw part of the new Bay Bridge and the lights that climb the steel cables. Controlled by a computer, they present a unique light show every night. I felt my heart beat with pleasure.

Inside the office, once more the coat rack with its single garment turned into a sinister shadow. I smiled to myself, remembering how it frightened me thirty minutes earlier. Halfway through the connecting door, I had a sudden urge to look at the coat again. It seemed strange to me because Brad never used that rack. He fancied himself more as a Sam Spade than a Columbo with a battered raincoat as a prop.