The Temporary Detective

Chapter Four

James Cooke grabbed the remote from the floor, snapped off the television and began to search for his stash. He was pretty sure there was a small bottle of Jack Daniel's, the kind you get on airplanes, hidden somewhere in the kitchen for emergencies. And this might well turn out to be an emergency.

He rarely turned on the eleven o'clock news, and he couldn't decide if he was glad he had or wished he hadn't. Tonight's story about the murdered secretary at InterBank Switzerland hadn't mentioned Isobel Spice, but he couldn't help wondering if she was involved somehow. He found Isobel both extremely irritating and maddeningly appealing. She reminded him of the girls at Columbia who had turned up their noses at him, though Isobel had hardly snubbed him. In fact, she had almost seemed to be flirting with him. He banished that thought from his mind. Jayla, already fast asleep in his bedroom, was the most irrationally jealous person he had ever dated, and she could smell another woman on his mind as sure as he could smell an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's.

He finally found the bottle tucked behind some old cookbooks his mother had given him. He set it on the kitchen counter and wiped his sweaty hands on his boxers. InterBank Switzerland was a sizeable operation. Chances were, Isobel hadn't been anywhere near the dead woman; she'd probably never set eyes on her. Still, the fact that she hadn't called him after her shift—although, he reminded himself, he hadn't asked her to—now struck him as ominous.

But was this worth falling off the wagon? He knew he should call Bill, his AA sponsor. He also knew how much relief the Jack would give him. He shuffled back and forth between the phone and the counter, muttering to himself. Through the thin wall, he heard Jayla moan in her sleep. He began to unscrew the bottle. Then he reached for the phone, picked it up and slammed it back down.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!"

He shoved the bottle into the makeshift appliance garage behind the electric mixer and cracked his knuckles loudly. He couldn't tell if the fear he was feeling was for his job or for Isobel's safety. He tried to convince himself it was the latter, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that what was really scaring him was the possibility, however unlikely, that Isobel had somehow, accidentally of course, plunged a pair of scissors into a secretary's chest, just like she'd dropped boiled lobsters on a nun.

He took a manila folder from his messenger bag and let the pages cascade through his fingers until he found Isobel's application. He grabbed the cordless phone off the counter and punched in her number.

Buried at the bottom of Isobel's shoulder bag, her cell phone rang and rang.

*  *  *

Isobel smacked her alarm clock, rolled over and went back to sleep. She was vaguely aware that there was a reason she needed to get up, but it seemed somehow to be connected to her last dream and, therefore, not real. Fortunately, she'd hit the snooze button instead of the off switch, so the alarm blared into her consciousness again nine minutes later. As she squinted at the time, the reason burst through the fog in her head.

InterBank Switzerland. Phones, light typing—and murder.

She hunkered deeper under the thin, scratchy blanket. She did not want to return to the bank for just about every reason she could think of. After the police had released her, she had headed straight for the nearest coffee shop and wolfed down a greasy excuse for a meal. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was from the day's events until she returned to the Evangeline Residence, where she sat down on her bed to take off her shoes and promptly fell asleep.

The one thing she'd resolved before she had nodded off was to get up extra early and sign up for the second day of the auditions she had missed. With any luck, she would either be released early from the bank or be able to take a lunch break this time. She showered, dressed, and ate her breakfast, which was included in the price of her room, then headed uptown.