So About the Money (23 page)

Her gaze swept the office. A pistol-toting shrimp of a man perched his scrawny rump on the corner of Marcy’s desk, swapping stories with Phoua. A woman Holly didn’t know, apparently Tim’s new temp, hung on the uniformed officer’s words. As he spoke, the officer tossed glances in Lillian’s direction, which seemed to further fluster the woman. Her gaze darted between the other three, obviously trying to follow their words. Occasionally, her eyes dropped to the pistol, handcuffs, and other menacing metal stuff attached to the patrolman’s belt.
 

Now Holly understood how the interview had spiraled out of control. She’d bet money Shrimp was the first officer on the scene, not JC.

JC nudged Holly into the office. Four heads swiveled in their direction, but Holly focused on the relief pouring off Lillian’s shoulders. The payroll clerk’s hands began a ballet of words—fingers, hand shapes, gestures.
 

“Slow down,” Holly signed. The men’s attention was a distraction, making her fingers awkward. “You aren’t in trouble,” she said as she signed. “The police have questions about Marcy.” She gestured toward Marcy’s desk.
 

The Shrimp slid off the desk. “Why’d you say that out loud? She can’t hear you.”

She flashed an impatient glance at him. His slight stature was deceptive. Defined muscles bulked his shoulders under the dark blue uniform.
 

His attitude raised antagonistic bristles, but for Lillian’s sake, she pushed them down. “She reads lips.”
 

He gave first Lillian and then Holly a disgruntled look. “She sure acted like she couldn’t understand a word we said. How’s she even work here if she can’t hear?”
 

“Dickerman.” JC’s voice carried a warning note. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who’d caught the derogatory tone.

Shrimp’s face lost all expression. “Are you the interpreter?” he asked in a polite, neutral voice.
 

Fed up with the crap Lillian was forced to put up with—people who couldn’t be bothered with someone who was different—Holly slammed her hands onto her hips and got in Shrimp’s face. “Reading lips isn’t just lips. It’s the mouth, the whole face. Body language. Expressions. Those things communicate as much as the words. If you pulled the cop-face routine and didn’t remember to speak directly to her, no wonder she couldn’t understand you.”

“Cop-face?” She heard JC’s amused tone from behind her.
 

She wasn’t interested in his attempts to lighten the atmosphere. “Why didn’t you just write down the questions? That’s how she ‘works here.’ Mostly with computer data and e-mail.”

Dickerman didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “We thought about it, but by then she was practically hyperventilating, doing head-on-a-stick. Swiveling back and forth between us.”
 

Disgusted, she turned to Lillian and signed,
The man’s an ass
.

At some silent message from JC, Deputy Shrimp left the office and returned moments later with two plastic chairs from the break room. Phoua and the new woman got the message this was their cue to leave. Holly couldn’t help but notice JC had taken charge without saying a word. Unlike the Shrimp, he didn’t need to throw his weight around.

The younger officer stepped toward Marcy’s old desk. JC stopped him. “We don’t need both of us here. See if you can find the next person on your list.”
 

He said it in a neutral tone, but Holly knew a rebuke when she heard one.
 

Shrimp did, too. With no expression on his face, but a lot of tension in his shoulders, he said, “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”

The door clicked behind him.

The stress level in the office dropped ten degrees.
 

Holly sat in front of Lillian’s metal desk, acutely aware of the man sitting beside her. He hadn’t cleared the room to be nice. He didn’t care about Lillian’s feelings. He wasn’t taking her side against the Shrimp. He was just trying to get what he wanted.

Of course, he
did
need any information Lillian could give him.
 

Let’s get this done.

With Holly interpreting, JC asked casual, general questions about what Lillian did and how well she’d known Marcy. The interlude gave the payroll clerk time to calm down before getting to the important stuff.
 

“Do you know who Ms. Ramirez was dating?”
 

Holly dredged the gestures from her memory, finger-spelling when she couldn’t remember the shapes.
 

 
“I don’t know who she dated. Sometimes she talked on the phone, but she turned her back.” Lillian pivoted her body and demonstrated—shielding her face from the watching pair.
 

“Were you aware of anyone who might have threatened Ms. Ramirez or wanted to harm her?”
 

Holly thought the question rather obvious, but faithfully translated it.

Lillian tapped her fingers on her desk. She toyed with the stapler, aligning it in the already organized workspace. Finally, she lifted her hands and swept them through a flow of words. “One time, a scary man came here. Marcy was upset when he arrived. I don’t know what Marcy said, but he said, ‘You weren’t hard to find.’ I stood up, to leave and give them privacy, but Marcy grabbed my arm. She pulled me back to my seat. Her hands were trembling like she was afraid.”

Was the “scary man” Marcy’s boyfriend or her husband?
 

“What happened next?” JC asked.

Holly translated the question. She noticed the subtle tension in his body. Under his relaxed body position, his muscles were taut. He held his torso forward slightly, ready for action. She could appreciate the self-control required to pull off the appearance of casual confidence. Knowing how aware of body language Lillian was and concerned his might distract her, she kept the payroll clerk focused on herself, rather than the detective.
 

“They argued. I tried not to watch, but Marcy became angry. Her face turned red, her gestures big.” Lillian’s hands mimicked the other woman’s gesticulations. “The man—Marcy called him ‘Lee’—never—”

“Lee?” JC touched Holly’s arm. Under the circumstances, she figured she wasn’t supposed to notice how warm his fingers were, or the electric effect the contact had on her. The way the warmth spread and her nerves gave off sparks in response.

“Are you certain?” His voice sounded calm and reasonable.
 

She turned to him. “Are you asking if I’m certain of the translation or if she’s certain Marcy called him Lee?” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lillian’s tentative frown and darting glance at JC.

“The latter. Go ahead.” JC gestured for her to translate the question.
 

Lillian raised her eyebrows, asking for clarification. Holly converted the words and Lillian nodded a definite confirmation. “Marcy called him ‘Lee.’ ”

“What did Lee do?” JC asked.

“He stayed calm. Never wrinkled his face or—” Lillian’s features hardened into an aggressive expression, neck tendons tight, jaw clenched. “He was very menacing. He scared me. Marcy must have been loud when she talked, because Tim came into the office.”

Holly stiffened and she sensed JC’s sudden interest. Tim had never mentioned this confrontation to her. Had he told the cops?

“Tim pointed at the door, telling him to leave. The man said something. Marcy drew back and Tim stepped between them. I only caught an occasional word, but Lee seemed to threaten them.”

Holly could envision the scene—the contrast of the organized workspace and the roiling emotions, the space too small to contain the anger and fear, the aggressive intruder and the intimidated women. Lee menacing. Tim trying to be in charge and protective.
 

“Lee reached inside his jacket.” Lillian mimicked a dive for an inner pocket. “We all cringed. I thought he had a gun. But he pulled out a thick envelope and threw it on Marcy’s desk. He said she’d better sign it and he would be back later.”

“Holy crap,” Holly muttered. Marcy had never breathed a word about any of this.

“Go on,” JC urged.

“Marcy sat down in her chair, like she’d fought a battle.” Lillian slumped, demonstrating. “I went to her, but she made the ‘I’m okay’ sign.”

“What did Stevens do?” JC asked.
 

Holly couldn’t help but wonder if JC’s real interest at that moment was in Tim or Lee. Her fingers wove through the appropriate signs, as interested in the answer as he was.
 

“Tim left, following Lee. I think maybe Tim wanted to make sure the man was gone.”

“What was in the envelope?”

“I don’t know. Marcy opened it. Whatever the papers said made her angry. She smashed them.” Lillian’s hand closed into a fist around imaginary papers. “She telephoned someone, grabbed her purse, and left.”

There was a moment of silence as they all processed the scene and the implications. Where had Marcy gone when she stormed out?
 

“When did this happen?” JC asked.

Lillian pulled out her calendar. Fingers touching the entries, she moved backward through the days. “Thursday, the week before Marcy disappeared.”

 
“Did the man, Lee, come back to the office?” he asked.

“Not while I was here.”

“Did Ms. Ramirez tell you what was in the papers that made her angry?”

“No.”

JC tried several more questions, variations on the same theme of Lee and the mystery papers. Holly could sense his frustration, but his voice and expression stayed calm. His two main suspects had been in the victim’s office, argued bitterly, and the only witness was deaf.
 

Holly signed, “Is this what you wanted to tell me? When I saw you on Monday?”

Lillian’s gaze darted toward JC before returning to Holly. She shook her head.
 

“What did you ask her?” JC’s voice intruded.

Of course he’d noticed the exchange. But apparently Lillian considered the topic unrelated to Marcy’s murder. Holly gave JC a disingenuous smile. “I asked if she thought you were cute.”

He leveled an exasperated glare at her that said she’d hear about that later, but she figured if Lillian wanted to talk to her about something personal, what business was it of his?
 

“Didn’t Tim mention this when you questioned him?” Holly asked.

JC immediately clammed up. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

A brisk tap sounded and a man stepped through the office doorway.
 

“Hello.” His hands swept through the greeting gesture in sync with his words. The interpreter had arrived.
 

To her surprise, Holly was reluctant to leave. What else did Lillian know that JC wouldn’t tell her later?

Chapter Twenty-two

Holly dashed into her office and grabbed her briefcase.
 

“Remind my mother about the Fred Zhang meeting, please,” she asked Tracey. “I’ll go straight there after Marcy’s funeral.”

She pushed through the front door. Two magpies exploded off the pavement in a flurry of black feathers. Instantly, she flashed back to the clearing at Big Flats and the seagulls surrounding Marcy’s body.
 

A shudder rippled through her. She rejected the image, but her eyes tracked the birds to a Russian olive tree on the hill behind the office. When she moved to the Tri-Cities, she’d thought the black and blue birds handsome and couldn’t understand why the locals hated the cheeky scavengers. She’d considered it more prejudice toward an import—until the first time she’d seen magpies eating quail babies in her backyard.
 

She bypassed the spot that interested the scavengers. She didn’t want to know what piece of road-kill had attracted them.
 

A sedan entering the parking lot distracted her. Tim wheeled his Mercedes into a parking space two cars beyond her BMW. Great timing. She had a million questions for him—although
What exactly was your relationship with Marcy?
might not be the place to start—and she didn’t have time to ask any of them.
 

Tim climbed from his car, doing his best imitation of a casual male.