Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (22 page)

I shuddered, remembering the errant e-mail and our close call. “I remember.”

“Well, one of them shows the contents of a bookcase. It looks like the one on the wall between Karp’s office and Hannah Murphy’s, next to his filing cabinets. Right
spang
in the middle of the second shelf is that book. Trust me. I’ve spent enough time with the copy of
A Pictorial Guide to Poisonous Flora of the Northeastern United States
Diaz gave me to recognize it.”

I struggled with the implications of this. “That’s interesting, but it doesn’t prove Karp is the murderer. He has hundreds of botanical reference books, and just like with the poisonous plants all over the place, anyone in the office could have helped themselves to that particular title out of Karp’s office.”

“True,” agreed Ingrid, “but unlike the plants, books with glossy book jackets like this one hold fingerprints. If you can get that book to Diaz without disturbing them, the police might be able to lift prints from the cover and even the inside pages to learn who’s been leafing through it, whether it’s Karp or anybody else. Besides, if Karp wrote his name on the flyleaf or put a bookplate in the front, it would at least prove that he had the information at hand to mix Alain that lethal latte.

“Good point. If I get it to Diaz today, maybe she can get it back to me before Karp misses it.”

“I don’t want to take that chance. I’ll drive home tonight, and tomorrow morning you can slip back into Karp’s office and replace his copy with the one I’ve been using.”

I approved the plan but had one more thing on my mind. “Ingrid, why was Alain in the office so early that morning anyway? Was he preparing for trial, or what?”

“I don’t really know,” Ingrid replied. “As I told Detective Diaz, Alain was one of those people who doesn’t require a lot of sleep. He came into the office at all hours, and he was almost always there before me in the morning.” She thought for a minute. “Most of the other lawyers and administrators knew he came in very early, so if they needed to see him, they’d use the computerized meeting planner to put a crack-of-dawn appointment on his calendar. That way, when he logged onto Outlook, he’d see the appointment and know to expect someone. I checked Alain’s calendar for that morning,” she added, anticipating my next question, “and there was nothing on it before 9:30, when the Litigation Department had a meeting scheduled upstairs.”

It was my turn to be thoughtful. “What if there was an appointment on his calendar, but someone deleted it? Someone computer savvy enough to delete it and then empty Alain’s recycle bin?”

Ingrid gasped. “You mean the murderer, don’t you? Karp or someone else could have lured him to the office for, say, a 6:00 a.m. meeting. Nobody else would have been in the place at that hour. The murderer arrives with a cup of Alain’s favorite amaretto coffee. They talk for a while, and Alain collapses. Then the murderer opens Alain’s calendar, since he’s already logged on, deletes the incriminating appointment and empties the recycle bin, just like you and
Strutter
did when you accidentally copied Karp on the e-mail. He wipes down a couple of keys, and away he goes with nobody the wiser. That could be it, Kate. That really could be it.”

I tried to remember what, if anything, Diaz had said about security log sign-
ins
the morning of the murder. Had there been any before 6:00 a.m.? No, there couldn’t have been. Why would a murderer sign in? Now that I knew the security guards were on top of their game, I knew that anyone signing in at that hour would have had to be known to the desk guard, or he or she would have been personally escorted to
Girouard’s
office after he had been notified of a visitor by telephone. My heart began to pound.

“It had to be Karp,” I said into the telephone. “He’s the only one who wouldn’t have had to sign in. He’s the only one with the elevator passkey who would know how to enter and double-delete an Outlook entry. He had the means and the opportunity, Ingrid, I just know it. How can I get onto
Girouard’s
computer?”

“You can’t,” she said, and I heard her drumming her fingernails in frustration. “Diaz impounded it, but you could get her to have our IT staff check it out on Karp’s computer when you tell her about the book. Even if Karp double-deleted the appointment on his machine and Alain’s, they should be able to find it by the entry date. It almost had to be sometime the afternoon or night before the murder.”

“Okay, that’s what I’ll do,” I said, jumping to my feet, impatient to get on with it. “I think this is almost over, Ingrid. We’re almost there.”

“To think I actually quit Alain to post for a job with that rat-faced little weasel. I’ll be on the road by noon,” Ingrid promised. “Let me know how it goes.”

At a few minutes before 9:00 I walked meekly up to the security desk in the Metro Building lobby and faced Charles Harris, Trinity College dean’s list student and nephew of
Strutter
. She stood next to me, obviously enjoying my discomfort. A small smile tugged at the corners of Charles’ mouth as he came out from behind the desk to give his aunt a deferential peck on the cheek.

Strutter
accepted the acknowledgment and turned to me. “Charles, I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine, Sarah Kathryn Lawrence. She’s serving a temporary sentence at BGB, probably as punishment for previous indiscretions,” she added somewhat unnecessarily, I thought. I glared at her.

Charles regarded me levelly. “Sarah Lawrence, huh? I would have figured you for a Gertrude, myself. Do I need to see some ID, Ms. Lawrence?”

I felt my cheeks redden but ate my crow with as much grace as I could muster. “I apologize for my unforgivable behavior, Charles, and for how long it’s taken me to express my regret to you. It was completely irresponsible of me. I only hope my foolishness didn’t cause you any inconvenience.” I held out my hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

Charles looked at
Strutter
for an okay.

“Oh, go ahead,” she said, scribbling in the log book, “but you’d best check to be sure she doesn’t have a joy buzzer in her palm first. She had an arrested sense of humor. It got stuck somewhere around the age of twelve.”

Charles laughed and took my proffered hand. “I’ll take my chances, Aunt Charlene. She doesn’t look too dangerous to me.”

Another uniformed guard appeared, ready to begin his shift. I busied myself at the log book as Charles gathered up his textbooks and lunch bag and prepared to take his leave. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Lawrence,” he said politely, “if that’s who you really are.”
Strutter
swatted at him, but he ducked expertly as he headed for the employee exit at the rear of the building.

“Nice kid,” I said as we walked to the elevator lobby. I really do feel bad for jerking him around like that.”

If I had hoped for sympathy, I was out of luck.

“Yes, anybody would feel bad for pulling a fool stunt like that,”
Strutter
agreed.

We rode a
Hellavator
to the twenty-eighth floor and spoke briefly to
Quen
at the reception desk, then headed down the internal staircase. We bypassed thirty-seven and went directly to thirty-six, where Karp and the other firm administrators had their offices. After making a quick circuit of the floor to be sure we were alone, we returned to the file cabinet outside Karp’s office.

Just as
Strutter
had said, a mug filled with pens and pencils sat on top of it. A large paper clip hung over the side, and
Strutter
fished it out. The end that had been hidden inside the mug bore two keys, one of which turned easily in the lock of Karp’s office door.
Strutter
replaced the keys in the mug and then stood guard at the door while I quickly scanned the spines of the horticultural references on the top shelves of Karp’s bookcase. There it was near the left edge of the second shelf,
A Pictorial Guide to Poisonous Flora of the Northeastern United States.
Following our pre-arranged plan, I took a large interoffice envelope from the pile on Karp’s file cabinets and a clean tissue from my purse. Carefully, I used the tissue to pull the book from the case by the top of the spine and inserted it into the envelope, then wound the cord around the two cardboard disks on the flaps to close it securely.

I slid the remaining books together to conceal the gap, memorizing the position of the book I now held so that I could return it tomorrow. I glanced at Karp’s computer, hoping to find that he had left it on, but of course, he had not. I left the office and pulled the door shut behind me, checking to be sure it was locked. Then we scurried back up the stairs to thirty-seven, the only place we could risk being seen without raising the suspicions of any other BGB employee who might be about. Once there, I opened the envelope and carefully removed the book using the same tissue in the same place at the top of the spine. With the tip of one tissue-covered finger, I lifted the front cover.

“
Ex
Libris
Harold Justin Karp” read the bookplate, a gaudy affair, predictably featuring a border of exotic flowers. The name was in Karp’s own handwriting.
Strutter
and I smiled at each other. Five minutes later we were on Church Street headed for our cars.

I drove straight to the Hartford police station, where I left the book, still in its protective envelope, with the desk sergeant. He informed me that Detective Diaz was out of state on urgent business, but he assured me that he would put it in Sergeant Donovan’s hands personally. I taped a note to the envelope explaining about the prints and Ingrid’s and my growing suspicions of Karp. I asked Donovan to call me himself or have Diaz call me on my cell phone as soon as they had anything to report.

That evening Ingrid stopped by with Diaz’ copy of the book. She also dropped off a thick package of plant photographs, each of which was neatly annotated on the back with the plant’s name and precise location. Seen all together like that, we agreed that the array was daunting in its sheer comprehensiveness. Oleander, lily of the valley, hemlock and foxglove were all included, as well as several others that hadn’t even made the toxicology report. Perhaps Karp was reserving those for future use. I promised Ingrid I would get the photographs into Diaz’ hands after I completed my errand at the office on Sunday morning, and she left, promising that we would talk the next day to see what I had learned from the police analysis of fingerprints on the book.

After my shower I took a crossword puzzle from the daily newspaper to bed. Jasmine curled against my thigh. Moses was having a fine time with the rest of the paper, diving under the sheets I had spread out for him on the floor. Oliver watched at a dignified distance. At a few minutes past ten o’clock, just as I was beginning to doze off, my phone rang. I looked at it dispiritedly. Lately, it had not been an instrument of good news, and I wondered what new difficulty was about to appear on my horizon. I picked up the receiver and was greeted by the usual burst of interference that signaled an international call.

“Hello?” I said loudly. “Armando, can you hear me?”

For one magical moment the line cleared. “
Mija
! Finally, I have managed to get through to you! You cannot believe how many times I have tried.”

He was right. I couldn’t believe it, but I held my tongue. “Where are you, Armando? Are you still in Colombia?”

Another burst of static met my ear interspersed with phrases like, “…for the moment …” and “…flying out Monday.” In another clear interval, he said, “Can you meet the plane?”

My heart leapt, but I quelled undue optimism firmly.
Maybe he wants me to meet the plane so he can introduce me to his new bride or show me photographs taken of him and an old girlfriend,
I thought bitterly,
or maybe he just wants me to give him a ride.
I certainly had the feeling he had been taking me on one for the past few weeks.

“Yes, yes. I’ll meet you,” I yelled into the telephone. “What’s the flight number, Armando?”

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he managed to make himself heard long enough to communicate that he and the crew would be flying out of Colombia on
Avianca
and would connect with United Flight 2048, arriving at Bradley International Airport at 8:45 Monday evening. I had just enough time to repeat the information back to him, and we were cut off.

Well,
I thought, staring at the lifeless instrument,
at least we’ll have plenty to talk about on the ride home.
It occurred to me that Armando knew nothing of what had been going on at BGB since he left for Bogota. That seemed fair, since I knew nothing of what had been going on with him either. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine our airport reunion. Would he be warm or distant? Would I be able to tell by looking at him if his feelings for me had changed during his absence? Would he tell me if they had?