1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (10 page)

"Don't count on it," said Daphne. "Those guys are unionized."

Have I mentioned how low a priority cleaning is on my to-do list?

"We all need to pull double Erica shifts," said Cloris, a flaky
croissant poised in front of her mouth. "She's shaken up something awful. That poor kid is about to have a nervous breakdown."

Just what I needed with everything else going on in my life,
more Erica babysitting duty.

I eyed the croissant, my salivary glands kicking into overdrive.
Not only hadn't I had time to dry my hair, I hadn't even downed
my eye-opening morning cup of java, let alone breakfast. "Got any
more of those?" I asked.

Cloris took a bite and spoke around the mouthful of flaky pastry. "Two dozen in the break room. Compliments of Cuisine a GoGo." Several crumbs landed on the forest green Kiss the Cook
chef's apron that covered her 32AA bosom. One by one, she picked
them off and popped them into her mouth. Cloris hated waste.

"Cuisine a Go-Go?"

"I kid you not. It's a new take-out franchise. Non-traditional
fast food. Mostly French. You should try the escargot burger."

"Thanks but I'll pass."

She grinned. "Okay, so maybe escargot burgers won't catch on
in Peoria-or even New Jersey-but the croissants are to die for."

"Not the best turn of a phrase under the circumstances," I said.

"Right. Sorry."

I scowled in the direction of my empty cubicle. Hopefully,
Naomi could juggle the photo schedule. After all, it wasn't every
day I found a dead body sitting at my computer. Besides, Batswin
and Robbins had kidnapped my projects and supplies, and there
was a croissant in the break room calling my name. Both extremely
legitimate reasons why I couldn't go ahead with the scheduled
photo shoot.

"So tell me about Erica," I said, making a beeline for the break
room. Anything to take my mind off Ricardo, Marlys, and my
other problems.

"She's worried the police will think she did it," said Cloris as
she and Daphne followed behind me. "They've been questioning
her in the conference room for over twenty-five minutes."

"I expect they'll question all of us," I said.

"For nearly half an hour?" asked Cloris. "They must suspect
something. With me it was slam, bam, thank you, ma'am. In and
out in no time."

"Me, too," said Daphne. "I don't think I was in there more than
two minutes. But you know how Marlys treated Erica. If the cops get
wind of that from anyone, Erica becomes Suspect Numero Uno."

"As soon as the police question her, they'll realize Erica isn't
capable of squishing an ant, let alone whacking her boss," I said as
we entered the break room, an oversized, dingy closet of a space,
outfitted with a compact sink, mini-refrigerator, microwave,
chipped Formica table, and four rickety plastic chairs.

I grabbed a Styrofoam coffee cup off the shelf above the microwave. "Besides, I'm pretty sure the police already have a suspect"

"Who?" they both asked at once.

I lifted the coffeepot off the burner, filled the cup with the last of
the brew, and took a huge swig before I answered. "Me"

"Shut up!" cried Daphne, giving me a hard jab to my upper arm.
The coffee cup flew from my hand, spattering over the counter and
floor.

"Sorry! Didn't mean for that to happen." She ripped off enough
paper towels to sop up all five Great Lakes and went to work on
the mess.

I stared at the now empty coffeepot. My kingdom for a cup of
caffeine!

"I'll make a fresh pot," offered Cloris, noting the desperation
that I'm sure had telegraphed its way from my caffeine-starved
corpuscles to my face. She pulled out the basket of used grounds
and dumped them into the trash. "In need of a fix, huh?"

I grabbed a croissant, collapsed into a chair, and pushed a few
strands of damp hair behind my ear. "Desperate enough to suck
on unground beans."

"I don't get it," said Daphne, trashing the coffee-saturated
paper towels. "Erica, I can understand. But why you, Anastasia?"

"Yeah, why you?" asked Cloris. "Naomi I could understand. She
sure had reason to want the bitch dead. Not to mention Hugo after
the way she walked out on him after he lost control of the company.

"Or Vittorio Versailles," added Daphne. "Remember how he
threatened to kill her yesterday? But not you, Anastasia. Why
would the police suspect you?"

"Yes, do tell."

I turned toward the entrance of the break room. Detective
Batswin filled the doorway.

MOMENTS BEFORE, THE CROISSANT had sent my salivary glands
into flood mode. Now my mouth had transformed into the Kalahari. During an extended drought. I forced myself to swallow. "Detective Batswin."

She wore the same tailored gray suit from last night, but she
had traded the pinstripe shirt for a solid white one and the silver
earrings for a pair of dream catchers. The long black and white
feathers, falling nearly to her shoulders, echoed the light and dark
shades of her hair.

"I think you and I need to have another chat, Mrs. Pollack."

I glanced at Cloris and Daphne. Both had gone as white as
over-bleached poltergeists. They cast worried glances at each other,
then at me.

"I'll bring you some coffee when it's done brewing," said Cloris.

I mumbled my thanks, then feeling like a dead woman walking,
trailed Detective Batswin down the hall to the conference room.

Detective Robbins was waiting for us. Mighty Mouse had replaced Scooby-Doo as the crime-fighting cartoon character tie of
choice, but the detective's grim expression of last night remained
in place.

"Have a seat, Mrs. Pollack," he said, indicating the chair normally reserved for Hugo. He and Batswin settled in at either side
of me.

My clammy hands knotted into a perfect facsimile of a mutant
pretzel, my breathing on hiatus for the unforeseeable future, I
waited for the good cop/bad cop interrogation to begin. Over the
years I've seen my share of Law & Order episodes. I knew the routine.

Batswin began. "We found something interesting on your computer, Mrs. Pollack."

"Excuse me?"

This was the last thing I expected to hear. Besides company
memos and work-related e-mails, my computer contained nothing other than design and word processing files for past, current,
and future issues. Trimedia had a strict policy against using company computers for private net surfing or e-mails. Playing Tetris
or FreeCell or Solitaire, even after hours, was grounds for immediate dismissal.

"Who's R?" asked Robbins.

"I have no idea."

He removed a sheet of paper from a manila folder and passed
it face-down across the table.

I picked it up and turned it over.

From: R

To: Anastasia Pollack

Subject: 50Gs

Friday. Or else.

I gasped, dropping the paper as if it were as blistering as the
wax from my hot glue gun. How had Ricardo gotten my work email addy?

More importantly, how was I going to explain his threatening
message to the two very suspicious detectives now glaring at me?

Trapped.

No way could I lie my way out of this situation. Karl was the
poker face in our family, not me. If I ever tried to fib my way
through a polygraph, the needle would leap around so frenetically,
it would break off and fly clear across the room, impaling Mighty
Mouse to Robbins' thick chest. Reluctantly, I realized I had no
choice but to tell Batswin and Robbins about Karl and Ricardo.

Before I could begin, though, there was a light rap at the door.
Robbins rose to answer it.

Cloris entered with a tray containing three cups of coffee. Her
questioning eyes, filled with a combination of blatant curiosity
and genuine worry, scoured my face. "You okay?" she mouthed, as
soon as she had positioned herself with her back to Batswin and
Robbins.

I reached for some coffee and wrapped my sub-zero digits
around the Styrofoam. My trembling hands caused a tidal wave of
java to slosh ominously within the cup. Biting down on my lower
lip, I shook my head ever so slightly.

Her eyes bugged out. As she scurried from the conference
room, I regretted the silent communication that had passed between us. Cloris was my closest friend at Trimedia, but that friendship had never been tested by such juicy gossip as Anastasia getting grilled by the cops.

Once the door clicked behind Cloris, I took a deep swig of caffeine before plunging into an account of the events of last week. I
doubt Batswin and Robbins expected to hear anything so bizarre.
But then again, they were cops. And this was New Jersey.

"But I didn't kill Marlys," I said in conclusion.

I glanced from Batswin to Robbins and then back to Batswin.
They both stared at me, Batswin's expression just as grim as Robbins's.

"You have to believe me."

Neither looked all that convinced.

"And I didn't take the diamonds," I continued. "I'm the one
who found the body and called the police, remember? I'm the one
who told you about the diamonds in the first place. Why would I
be stupid enough to tell you about them if I took them to pay off
Ricardo?"

"To cover your tracks?" suggested Robbins.

At that moment I felt like pounding my head on the battered
conference table. Maybe I shouldn't have told them anything. Too
late I thought about the need for a lawyer-not that I could afford
one.

And forget court-appointed counsel. Over the years, I'd read
and seen enough news accounts, not to mention all those Law &
Order episodes, to figure out that court-appointed attorneys were
as effective as mosquito repellant in January-in Siberia.

Besides, I don't think the court appoints representation until
after a person's been formally charged with a crime. So far, at least,
I was lucky in that respect. Although my current predicament had
driven my normally rational and focused brain to digress into the
land of irrelevant minutia.

But if I had refused to speak before consulting an attorney,
wouldn't Batswin and Robbins take that as an admission of guilt?
Or at least that I knew something I wasn't telling them?

I asked the question I dreaded hearing the answer to. "Do I
need to call a lawyer?"

"Do you?" asked Robbins.

The man had a maddening habit of answering my questions
with ones of his own. My entire body, let alone my voice, quaked
like the California coastline after a seismic shift of the San Andreas
Fault. "Are you going to charge me with Marlys's murder?"

Batswin shook her head. She removed a sheaf of papers from a
beat-up leather satchel sitting on the chair next to her. "Not for
now. I'm still trying to decide whether or not to believe you, Mrs.
Pollack."

Instead of taking comfort in her statement, the blood in my
veins turned as cold as a Slurpee. Her not for now hung ominously
in the air above me like a craft knife suspended by a frayed strand
of embroidery floss. Any moment the strand would break, and the
knife would fall. Piercing one of my vital organs.

Detective Batswin spent the next eon rifling through the pages.
Then she glanced up and trapped me with her nearly ebony eyes.
"My gut suggests you're telling the truth, but that could just be the
tasty memory of last night's tequila and enchiladas."

Several of the frayed floss fibers split, and the knife dropped
lower, dangling precariously above my heart. I saw through her.
She expected me to drop my guard. Make a mistake. Then she'd
swoop in for the kill. Or in this case, the arrest. But I had no guard
to drop. I didn't murder Marlys.

"I'm curious," said Robbins. "Since you've already admitted
you intend to pay off this Ricardo, where did you plan to get the
money?"

I told them about renting out the apartment over the garage.
"If I can't get him to leave me alone, I'm hoping he'll allow me to
pay off the debt over time."

Robbins and Batswin exchanged incredulous expressions, their
eyes nearly rolling out of their heads. "And you really believe he'll
go for that? Accepting a grand or two when he's owed fifty? And
what about interest? Have you got any idea how much loan sharks
charge?"