The Temporary Detective

Chapter Twenty-Two

Isobel had hoped to get to Stan before Conchita set up her guard post, but the Diet Coke had kept her awake, and, as a result, she didn't arrive at her desk until nine thirty. She'd have to wait until Conchita's lunch break and hope that she could snare Stan then. She set aside Doreen's flash drives to return to Frank, took phone messages, placed a few equipment orders, and researched non-Equity performing opportunities.

"InterBank Switzerland, this is Isobel," she said, picking up the phone absent-mindedly as she clicked on the Blue Hill Troupe, the oldest Gilbert and Sullivan company in the city.

"It's James. I have to talk to you."

Isobel turned her back on Nikki's desk, even though Nikki wasn't in yet. "More suspicions to fling around? Shall I put you on speaker phone?"

"It's important," he said. "Meet me for lunch."

"I'm not taking lunch today. There's an audition tomorrow—"

"There's a diner at Twenty-third and Park Avenue South, northeast corner. Twelve thirty." Before she could argue, he hung up.

She stared at the phone, vaguely irritated. He hadn't given her much choice. On the other hand, maybe he planned to apologize for putting her on the spot with Nikki. She hoped he'd gotten more from Felice Edwards or knew where the police investigation was heading. She had certainly picked up a few interesting tidbits since they'd last spoken, although she hadn't yet decided if she wanted to share them.

The morning dragged on, leaving her plenty of time to speculate about the urgency of James's phone call. At twelve twenty, Isobel walked around the bend to Frank's office to let him know she was taking a quick lunch. He nodded his assent, but when she turned to leave, she saw that Conchita was nowhere in sight and Stan's door was open.

Damn, she thought, glancing at her watch. I don't have time for this now.

But she knew this might be her only chance to avoid the self-appointed Cerberus. She banished James from her mind and darted into Stan's office.

"Hello!" she said, rather too energetically.

Stan squinted at her through his doughy cheeks.

"Who are you?" he asked, his speech high and adenoidal, probably a result of his cold.

"Isobel Spice. We met last week? I'm temping. I mean, I was temping, but now I'm filling in for Doreen. Not filling in exactly...replacing her. But not permanently! Remember, I took a message for you last week?"

Thank God this isn't an audition, thought Isobel.

"Oh, right. Is there something you need from me?"

"Actually, I wanted to see if you needed anything from me. Any, um, filing or anything?"

"No, I'm okay. Thank you."

"I'm sorry about Doreen. I know you and she were—"

"What?" His features altered, for the first time, into a slightly less squishy demeanor. She noticed for the first time that he had remarkably long eyelashes.

"You were..." she paused. How much should she know? "You knew her outside of work."

Stan regarded her warily. "We went way back," he said. "I'm sorry, I have work to do." He picked up a yellow legal pad and flipped through the pages.

"I mean," Isobel stuttered on, "I'm sure it was a great loss. And, um, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

She wasn't exactly sure what had led her to say that, considering that Stan was still fairly high on her list of suspects. A pained expression crossed his face, and he ran his fingers through his thick hair.