The Temporary Detective

Chapter Twenty-Three

Isobel sat on a bench in Madison Square Park, thoroughly disgusted with herself. She knew she'd been awful to James. Even worse, she knew deep down he was probably right. While she was grateful for Nikki's presence at InterBank Switzerland, there was something about her that didn't quite add up. Given that, she wasn't sure why she had felt the need to defend Nikki so ferociously. James was going to a lot of trouble to look out for her, and what had she done? Insulted him. And stuck him with the check.

She kicked a crumpled soda can, but her conscience got the better of her, and she tossed it in a recycling bin. Her imagination had been so fired up by her conversation with Stan Henderson that by the time she'd arrived at the diner, bursting with theories, she'd forgotten she was mad at James. Maybe if she'd shown up angry, she wouldn't have left angry.

Why did they always argue? Their first encounter at Temp Zone was far and away the most collegial, and even that had been a skirmish. They obviously brought out the worst in each other. It was too bad, because there was something about him she found intriguing. A college dropout? His comment came back to her now. Why hadn't he graduated? And why had he felt compelled to tell her he had a girlfriend? Did he think she was interested in him in that way?

Isobel knew she was being irrational, but she felt as if she were flailing about on a patch of ice and couldn't stop herself from falling. She would just have to wait until she landed, and hope she didn't get too bruised. Then she would look at the facts with detachment and make her own decisions about who could and could not be trusted. Maybe she'd decide that Nikki was right and James was the one who should be approached with caution.

She trudged back to the office, wondering what she could do to take her mind off him. Reformatting her résumé seemed like a good place to start. When she got back, she saw that Nikki had returned and was busy with a stack of invoices.

"Hey, I spoke to Terence and he said it's okay for your friend to come on Monday. Here's his card."

"Thanks."

Isobel glanced at the address and wondered whether going to the class was still necessary. Probably more so now, given James's suspicions. She needed to confirm whether the class really messed with one's emotions that much, or whether Nikki was faking hysteria to excuse her behavior. She was glad Delphi would be with her, although she couldn't quite believe that Nikki would invent a class in order to lure her to some parking lot, beat her senseless, and leave her for dead.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Isobel said, as casually as she could. "When you left here for that acting job, before you came on freelance, what was the show?"

"It was a whole season of summer stock," Nikki said, without hesitation. "The Oldyard Theatre in Ludlow, Vermont."

"What did you do?"

"Two original plays that weren't very good. And Summer and Smoke by Tennessee Williams." She gave Isobel a wry smile. "I was miscast."

Isobel felt her anger toward James rise again. It was one thing to lie about a play you'd done, but why say you'd been miscast? James just didn't understand how an actor's mind worked. Yes, their names were similar, and yes, they both had yellow leather pants, but why would she start out at InterBank Switzerland using one name, and then come back after the summer with another? The evidence that Annika Franklin and Nikki Francis were the same person was still basically circumstantial.

She reached for her flash drive, but it was gone, along with Doreen's.

"Have you seen the box of flash drives?" she asked Nikki.

"Yeah, Frank came by earlier to take them back."

"There was another one that was unlabeled. Did you see where that went?"

"I think he scooped it up with the others. Why?"

"That had all my personal stuff!" She jumped up and sprinted around the corner.

Isobel was so intent on getting her drive back that she was halfway into Frank's office before she realized there was a woman speaking to him from his visitor's chair.

"It's all done in a petri dish. You won't even have to—" The woman whirled around, a furious look on her face. "Don't you knock?"

"I'm so sorry," Isobel said.

"What is it?" Frank barked.

"I—um, my flash drive is in there."

Frank thrust the box at her, clearly annoyed.

Isobel fished out her drive and turned to the woman. "You must be Mrs. Lusardi. It's nice to, um, put a face to the voice." Audrey Lusardi was as glamorous in person as she was in her photo, and even though she was seated, Isobel could tell she was statuesque. She wore a sweater with faux fur trim at the cuffs and boot-cut velvet jeans. In fact, she looked more like a naturally occurring actress than Isobel.

"You must be that temp." Audrey wrinkled her pert nose in distaste.

"Isobel's staying on until I hire someone permanent," Frank said.

"Frank, I only have a few more minutes," Audrey said, giving her husband a meaningful nod.

Isobel turned to leave, but Frank's voice stopped her. "Hang on. Since you're here, I need you to pull an invoice for me." He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

"Where will I find—?" Isobel began, but a sharp shake of Frank's head told her she'd have to figure that out herself.

She closed his office door quietly behind her. She had no idea where to find the vendor invoice Frank had asked for. It was for a computer consultant named Lou Volpe, dated from March of that year. Lou Volpe—the man who had called for Stan on her first day.

"Conchita? Do you know where I would find this?" She held out the paper for Conchita to see.

"Nunca te ayudaría, querida," said Conchita. The phone rang. Conchita grabbed it and switched immediately to English.

Thwarted, Isobel returned to her desk. She was so distracted that she cut the corner too sharply and kicked over a stack of folders on the floor by Doreen's desk. Papers cascaded out.

It was all the junk that Detective Kozinski had removed from the credenza. Isobel was sure she'd stuffed it all back, but apparently someone had taken it out again, and arranged it in haphazard piles on the floor. With a sigh, Isobel knelt on the floor and started shoving the papers back into the credenza. All the annoyances of the last two hours suddenly overwhelmed her, and she began pitching the piles into the cabinet with increasing force. A pale pink envelope slid into her lap from one of the manila folders. It was a fine weave, not office paper, and it was unsealed. She withdrew a matching piece of pink stationery from the envelope.

It was an invoice of sorts, but it was not from or intended for InterBank Switzerland, that much was clear. The paper was covered in Doreen's handwriting, and Isobel recognized several of the names written on the page.

She also immediately and with certainty recognized the significance of the recurring dollar amounts next to each one.