1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (6 page)

I gave myself a mental slap upside my head. I couldn't afford to
lose this guy. "Then why do your neighbors think you're running a
meth lab?"

"Because Mr. and Mrs. Can't-Mind-Their-Own-Business are a
pair of geriatric nut cases who don't know the difference between
a meth lab and a darkroom."

Darkroom? And here I thought those were assigned to the antiquities section of the Smithsonian, along with typewriters and
adding machines. Didn't photographers use digital cameras nowadays? All the photographers who worked for Trimedia did. But I
decided this was not the time for such a discussion. Maybe Mr.
Zachary Barnes was an old-fashioned purist. What did I care as
long as he paid his rent on time?

"Last night," he continued, "the cops raided my apartment and
ruined three days worth of work when they barged in and turned on the lights while I was developing film. And that wasn't the first
time. It's been an ongoing problem."

He glanced at his watch. "Now I have to fly back to New Mexico to reshoot those three days in less than twenty-four hours in
order to meet my deadline."

He indicated the apartment with a sweep of his arm. "A place
like this is ideal. No neighbors and easy access into the city"

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

"Hey, I'm desperate here. You've got to believe me," he said.

I did. After all, I had my own geriatric nut case living under my
roof, didn't I? Besides, going head-to-head in a Who's More Desperate contest, I'd win hands down. I needed Zachary Barnes and
his rent check a hell of a lot more than he needed my apartment.
What I couldn't believe was my good fortune in finding a renter so
quickly. But then again, maybe I deserved a slight nod from the
Karma gods and goddesses, given the lollapalooza of a quadruple
whammy they'd recently dropped on my head.

I reached into my purse and handed him the standard lease
agreement form I'd purchased at Office Depot. His check for two
months' rent would make a nice dent in the enormous stack of
past-due bills sitting on my desk-bills that I, as Trusting Wife,
had assumed Karl had paid. Silly me to take my husband at his
word.

Or maybe I should wait with the bills and offer the money to
Ricardo as a down payment. How long would the gas and electric
company carry me before shutting off the power? Weren't there
some laws against doing that in winter? And what were the odds of
a loan shark accepting a payment plan?

"Sign on the bottom line, and the apartment is yours, Mr.
Barnes. When would you like to move in?"

"Zack," he said, extending his hand. "And how does Saturday
sound?"

"Saturday works for me." I shook his hand. "And it's Anastasia."

"You've saved my life, Anastasia."

Actually, he'd saved mine, but I wasn't going to let him know
that. I also wasn't going to mention the geriatric nut case living
mere feet from his new apartment.

I wondered how he felt about communists.

An hour later I pulled into a space under one of the parking lot
lampposts at Trimedia. The dashboard clock read six-thirty, thanks
to an overturned eighteen wheeler on Route 287 that had me stuck
in traffic for two additional hours. The parking lot was empty except
for Marlys's silver Jaguar, which surprised me, considering her big
date of this evening. Maybe it was a midnight supper.

I stepped from the car and stretched. My lower back ached
from sitting so long. The Hyundai's seats were sub-standard, hard
and non-ergonomic. As I entered the steel and glass structure,
using my magnetic ID to release the lock, I made a mental note to
investigate seat pads. Or maybe those beaded things that are supposed to give added support.

Scratch that. I had to reprogram my attitudes. Find creative
ways to make do instead of solving problems with dollars. After
all, I was a crafts designer and editor. Maybe I could make a seat
cover with some old macrame beads I had stored in the basement.

As I walked down the vacant hallways, passing one unoccupied
office after another, the staccato rhythm of my heels against the
Terrazzo floor echoed in the eerie silence. I don't often stay late;
however, when I do put in overtime, I enjoy the calm silence that
blankets the otherwise tumultuous environment that is American
Woman.

Tonight, though, disquiet permeated the emptiness surrounding me. Disquiet and the distinct odor of hot glue. A prickly shiver
crept its way up my spine, raising the tiny hairs at the back of my
neck. I shivered, hugged my arms to my chest, and hurried around
the corner to my own office.

The last thing I expected was to find Marlys sitting at my computer. She stared at the blank screen, her fingers poised on the
keys. "Marlys? Can I help you with something?"

She didn't answer.

"Marlys?" I stepped into the cubicle and placed my hand on the
chair's headrest. The chair swiveled around, the keyboard moving
off my desk and hovering in the air under Marlys's fingertips.

MARLYS STARED STRAIGHT AHEAD. She had ignored me plenty of
times in the past, staring through me as if I were made of cellophane, but this time was different. The macabre scene sent a truckload of the willies careening through my stomach. Marlys wasn't
just ignoring me this time.

Marlys was dead.

Just to be sure, I forced myself to reach for her wrist, hoping to
find a pulse. After all, I'm no Quincy. Medical Examiner isn't listed
in my Trimedia job description.

Besides, only yesterday I had read about a dog who was run
over by a car, shot by the responding cop to put it out of its misery,
then stuck in a morgue freezer. And damned if that mutt didn't
survive. You never know.

So I tamped down the squeamy ickies running riot through my
own body and gingerly fingered Marlys's suspended wrist in the
hope of discovering a beat. Her skin turned white under my searching touch, and no matter where I placed my fingers along
the usual pulse points, I felt no signs of life.

The hot waxy smell of melted glue permeated the small office.
Still plugged in, my hot glue gun lay on the counter next to the
computer monitor. Its nozzle, caked with remnants of vermillioncolored silk, continued to disgorge grayish-white globs.

Strings of glue hung from Marlys, the chair, and the keyboard.
Whoever had killed her had been in no rush to leave. He-or
she-had taken the time to glue Marlys's body into my chair and
attach her fingers to my keyboard.

I also noticed that he-or she-had taken the time to remove
the Cartier diamond necklace, matching earrings, and hair clip.

For all I knew, the killer could still be lurking somewhere in the
building. If my glue gun was still disgorging globules, he couldn't
have finished his task too long ago.

At that thought, my knees buckled, and I grabbed for the first
thing within reach to steady myself. Not a bright move, the nearest
object being Marlys's shoulder. Her head slumped toward me, her
hair prickling the top of my hand as if a thousand-legger had
scampered across it.

I yelped as I jerked away and ran for the nearest exit as fast as
my linguini legs would carry me.

Three flights of stairs later, huffing and puffing, thanks to my
aversion to any form of exercise more strenuous than racing
around Macy's during a three-hour sale, I pushed open the door
and sprinted for the safety of my car.

I fumbled in my coat pocket for my keys. My hands shook like
a wino with the DTs. Between rapidly panting breaths, I stabbed in
the dark for the lock.

Of all the nights for the damn lamppost bulb to burn out! Or
had it? I hazarded a quick glance upward as the key slid into the
slot. The lamp was shattered. Jagged edges of glass glistened in the
dim glow of a half-moon. Broken glass littered the ground. My
heart galloped into my throat. Yanking open the door, I jumped
behind the wheel, locked myself inside the Hyundai, and started
the engine.

I had to call the police, but I wasn't about to wait for them in a
dark parking lot with a killer on the loose. With my foot pressing
the gas pedal to the floor, I sped out of the parking lot. Taking each
turn on two wheels, I didn't slow down until I came to a well-lit
twenty-four-hour Quickie Mart about a mile down the road.

Leaving the motor running, I grabbed for my cell phone and
punched in the three digits.

"9-1-1 operator. State your emergency, please."

"M ... m ... murder." Even though I could barely get out the
word, I couldn't shake the ghoulish image of Marlys's blank stare
and creepy pose filling my head. "In my office," I added.

"Where are you, Ma'am?"

I stared at the sign above the store, the letters not making any
sense to me. Where am I? I'm in some crazy alternate reality. People like me don't find dead bodies glued to their desk chairs. Then
again, people like me don't get calls telling them their husband
dropped dead in Las Vegas when he was supposed to be in Harrisburg. And people like me don't get threats from loan sharks owed
money by that same dead husband. Obviously, this was all one
very long nightmare, and if I concentrated hard enough, I'd wake
up soon. The sooner the better.

"Ma'am? Are you still there?"

The operator's question snapped me out of the murder induced stupor. I told her my location. "But that's not where the
dead body is."

"And where's that?"

I gave her the office address. "I was too scared to stay. I didn't
know if the killer was still in the building."

"Okay, ma'am. I'm sending a squad car to meet you. Stay where
you are, and I'll remain on the line until the officers arrive." Her
calm voice attempted to soothe my jangled nerves. She wasn't succeeding.

I had seen dead bodies before, most recently my own husband's,
but I had never stumbled across a murder victim. I doubt most
middle-class working mothers do-unless they happen to work in
law enforcement. Which I didn't.

Besides, a dead body in a casket reposes peacefully. Cushioned
in satin, the deceased's hands are either folded across his chest or
placed comfortably at his sides, his eyes closed. You can pretend
he's sleeping. Marlys definitely wasn't sleeping.

When a black and white cruiser pulled into the parking lot
three minutes later, I felt safe enough to end the call. I unlocked
my car, left the motor running, and stepped out into the frigid
night.

"Mrs. Pollack?" asked one of the officers, a giraffe of a man. I
had to crane my neck to see his face.

I nodded-as best I could with my head cricked back to my
shoulder blades.

"I'm Officer Garfinkle." He indicated the driver of the cruiser.
"This is Officer Simmons."

I had heard that shock can make normally sane people do really stupid things. I can now vouch for the truth of that statement.
I glanced first at Officer Garfinkle, then at Officer Simmons, a
squat, beefy-muscled black man with a shaved head and a gold
stud in his left ear.

"Simmons and Garfinkle?" The hysteria I had fought back
since finding Marlys's body erupted with a force equal to when
Vesuvius buried Pompeii. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but not
from crying.