Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (23 page)

Moses sailed high over the edge of the bed and made a four-point landing on my stomach, startling me from my speculation. I opened my eyes and scratched him under the chin. He purred loudly, then flopped face down into sleep with all four legs extended. Jasmine huffed off to the far corner of the bed, and Ollie climbed up to join her.
Time we were all asleep,
was the clear message. I switched off the table lamp and dropped like a stone into a deep and dreamless slumber.

Twelve

On Sunday morning I dressed and fed my herd of cats early, impatient to be done with my errand at BGB. I wanted desperately to talk to
Strutter
about Ingrid’s and my new theory, but I knew she took her son to early church and Sunday school, so our conversation would have to wait until later. I had also tried to reach Margo but got her answering machine, a sure sign that she was sleeping late this morning. I left a message saying where I would be and that I would conference call her and
Strutter
when my mission had been accomplished.

That reminded me to recharge my cell phone battery. While the coffee dripped through the filter, I fished the phone out of my purse and plugged it into its charger on the counter. The last thing I wanted to deal with today was more telephone problems, and besides needing to keep in touch with my fellow investigators, I was anxious to hear what Diaz and Donovan had made of the materials I had left at the station the day before.

Once again Charles Harris staffed the security desk when I arrived in the lobby shortly before 8:00 a.m. carrying the book in a briefcase instead of my usual purse.

“You’re working some long hours this weekend,” I commented as I dutifully signed the log book and noted the time. On weekends building visitors had to log in at any time of the day or night, not just before 7:00 a.m. While I jotted down my information, I cast my eyes over the few names above mine in the log. No one from BGB had signed in.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. It’s double-time pay on holiday weekends, so it’s a good chance to earn some extra cash,” he said amiably. “Besides, it’s easy duty. There are no deliveries or repair people checking in, and hardly anyone works on the Fourth of July weekend, so it’s good study time, too. You’re putting in some hours this weekend, too.”

“Yes, but not much. Mostly I’m just checking messages and e-mails for
Bellanfonte
, stuff like that. Well, I hope you get out of here and have some fun today, too. All work and no play, you know.”

“I’m off at noon, and I’ll be out the door two minutes after that,” Charles promised, and I headed once again for the
Hellavators
.

Since
Quen
would not yet be at her post on thirty-eight, I got off at thirty-seven and slid my plastic security pass through the sensor outside the locked lobby door. It buzzed open, and I went swiftly through and on to my pod. The only light came from the windows of the exterior offices whose owners had left their doors open for the weekend. Clearly, I was the only BGB employee on this floor, but instead of finding the solitude comforting, I found it oppressive. I was anxious to be done with this and back out in the sunlight.

I picked up the briefcase and headed for the back stairway down to thirty-six, which I negotiated in near darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, I thought I heard something and paused to listen.
It must just be a case of nerves,
I thought,
and no wonder.
Now that I felt certain Karp was the killer, the risks associated with letting myself into his office had skyrocketed. It was just as gloomy and uninhabited on this floor as it had been upstairs.

I walked cautiously to the file cabinet outside Karp’s office, looking around me as I went, and fumbled in the pencil mug for the paper clip that held the key. It turned smoothly in the lock. I stepped into the office and closed the door behind me as quietly as possible. Everything looked precisely as it had the day before, but I looked around apprehensively.

What overwhelming emotion would drive a nerdy little man like Karp to murder? Was it his secret passion for Vera
Girouard
or some misguided wish to punish Alain’s philandering on her behalf? Was it envy of
Girouard’s
prowess with women generally, compared to his own unsuccessful love life? I looked around the office for some clue that would reveal his motivation but saw nothing.

Suddenly, I realized that was what was so troubling about this office. Everywhere else at BGB, the surfaces of desks and walls and cubicles were covered with photographs of friends and family, mementoes of trips and vacations, plaques and framed certificates and awards. Karp’s walls and desk held no personal memorabilia at all. Throughout the firm the floral offerings of the horticultural society, poisonous and nonpoisonous, stood in planters of every size and shape on windowsills, side tables, desks and floors, yet the office of the society’s president was unadorned. The only evidence of his interest in botany was the row of reference books on the second shelf of his bookcase.

Reminded of my mission, I unzipped my briefcase and removed Diaz’ copy of the
Pictorial Guide.
At least this time I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, so fitting the book into the space formerly occupied by Karp’s copy was a simple matter. I took a few paces back to look critically at the result, trying to remember if the books had been lined up at the outer edge of the shelf or pushed back, and bumped painfully into the corner of Karp’s desk, causing me to stumble. Putting out a hand to catch myself, I knocked a stack of loose papers on the edge of the desk to the floor, where they fell in a jumble. I froze, panic rising in my chest. What had been on top? How would I ever get the papers back in the same order they had been? Now Karp would know for certain that somebody had been in his office, and after he learned about our visit to his landlady, he would naturally suspect Margo,
Strutter
and me.

I got down on my knees and tried to think logically. The papers had fallen together for the most part, winding up face down on the carpet. Only a couple of sheets had fluttered off to one side. By turning the entire pile over, I should be able to keep them in their original order. But where had the odd sheets come from, the top of the pile or the bottom? Carefully, I turned the main pile over for some indication of the order in which they had been placed. If it was a “to do” pile, maybe the order was chronological with the most urgent on top for Karp’s immediate attention. I sorted through them gingerly, moving each sheet only enough to see the date of the one beneath.

At first no pattern emerged. The dates on the notes and memos, when they were dated, seemed haphazard. They I noticed a second date written in Karp’s cramped, accountant’s handwriting at the top left of each item. I started over at the top of the pile. Bingo! The papers were in chronological order, not by the date they were written but by the dates Karp had assigned to them in some tickler system of his own with the items requiring the quickest attention at the top of the pile. Breathing a sigh of relief, I returned the main stack of papers to Karp’s desk and retrieved the stragglers to insert at the correct intervals.

One of the sheets was a handwritten note on a large sheet of yellow-lined paper ruled in blue at the left, the type usually found in the oversized pads favored by lawyers. It had been folded in half, and I opened it in search of Karp’s date notation. There was none. Puzzled, I found myself reading what appeared to be a confidential memo written to Karp from Alain
Girouard
about the IT department.

“Something has to be done about IT, and quickly. The situation is becoming very difficult, and I am relying on you to find a solution similar to those you have devised so effectively in the past. Please make it a point to schedule a conference to discuss other possibilities within the firm as quickly as possible. The upcoming opening in your department might work out very well. Keep me apprised.”

The note was signed merely “AG,” and it carried no date. I wondered vaguely what situation could be so difficult with IT, which to my knowledge was one of the most highly competent administrative departments at BGB. Perhaps IT stood for something else. I scanned the note again.

“Something has to be done about IT, and quickly.” Maybe IT stood for a person, a difficult client who was disputing his bill, or a disgruntled employee. Spotting the firm’s telephone directory on Karp’s desk, I leafed through it quickly to the T’s. Then I remembered that the firm alphabetized its directory by first name, which had always struck me as odd until I realized how many people one knows by first name only in a firm as large as BGB. I flipped back to the I’s and ran my finger down the short list: Ian Dougherty, Imogene Irons, Ingrid
Torvaldson
.

I dropped the directory and gasped aloud, then picked up the note in trembling fingers. I read it again, and my universe reeled as the events and conversations of the past two weeks fell out of the neat pattern into which I had put them. Then they realigned themselves, clicking solidly into place, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who had killed Alain
Girouard
.

“Every morning, we walk together for exercise,”
Esme
had told us. Shaking with my newfound certainty, I fumbled for my cell phone in the briefcase I had packed so hastily this morning, not daring to risk having Karp’s line light up on one of the desks outside. Keys, wallet, tissues, but no cell phone. Then I saw it in my mind’s eye, plugged snugly into its charger on the kitchen counter where I had left it.

I dared not stay in Karp’s office. I stuffed
Girouard’s
note into my briefcase and straightened the remaining items on Karp’s desk. Tiptoeing to the door, I listened for evidence of activity outside. Hearing none, I slipped out of the office and relocked the door behind me. I replaced the paper clip and key in the pencil mug and ran down the carpeted aisle to a secretarial pod. I grabbed the telephone and punched nine for an outside line. I didn’t have Diaz’ numbers with me, and
Strutter
would probably still be at church, so I dialed Margo’s number. It rang twice, and then the line went dead.
Oh, great. This is a fine time for the phones to act up.
I pressed the
switchhook
impatiently and punched nine again, but there was no dial tone. I switched to another line, still without success. Then I became still, the hair rising on the nape of my neck. Carefully, I replaced the telephone receiver on the
switchhook
and turned around slowly to confront Ingrid. She stood with the disconnected phone cord in her left hand. With her right hand, she aimed a small, but efficient-looking, pistol at the center of my chest.

Detachment descended upon me, much as it had the day I had discovered Alain
Girouard
dead in his office. The scene was simply not to be believed. I looked into Ingrid’s eyes and wondered why I had never before noticed how chilling that flat, blue gaze was. She must be quite mad, of course. Nothing else could explain her cold-blooded execution of Alain
Girouard
, who did not love her, and her methodical framing of Harold Karp,
Girouard’s
friend.

“How did you know that I had learned the truth?” I asked her calmly, curious despite the gun I now knew she was entirely capable of firing at me.

“You were in there too long,” she replied reasonably. “Replacing the book should have taken only a few seconds. You found something, and you must have noticed the passkey missing from the paper clip.”

For a moment I didn’t know what she meant, and then I did. On Saturday, the paper clip in the mug had held two keys. Today, there had been only the key to Karp’s office. Ingrid dropped the severed phone cord and fished in a pocket for the spare elevator passkey that she must have removed from the paper clip sometime yesterday afternoon, when we thought she was en route from Rhode Island.

“I never went to my sister’s, you know.” She laughed merrily at my gullibility. “All those calls on the cell phone, and I was right around the corner the whole time. You were never out of my sight. I knew what you were doing every minute.”

I shivered, imagining her laughing and talking with us, pretending to be out of state at her sister’s and really parked in her car, spying on us, just a few yards away.

“Why?” I asked simply, really wanting to know.

The blue eyes clouded over, Ingrid’s rage and humiliation almost palpable in the air between us.

“He was the only man I ever loved,” she said bitterly. “He wasted his time with that lesbian wife of his and those silly women Karp lined up for him, when all the time he could have been with me. He was a fool to reject me. I could not, would not, allow myself to be treated like those cows he’d used and discarded in the past.”