Swag Bags and Swindlers (9 page)

“All of her responsibilities,” Priscilla said. “All of them. That's what you told me. Right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Everything. Correct?”

Wow, she was making it really hard for me to blame whatever was wrong on somebody else.

Hard, but not impossible.

“Let's move this along, Priscilla,” I said. “What, exactly, is the problem?”

She drew in a breath to calm herself and said, “Suzie was our facilities manager, a duty you assumed, which means you are in charge of seeing to it that our office has everything it needs to run smoothly.”

Oh, crap.

“Now, I'm hearing complaints,” Priscilla said. “A light is out in the ladies' room, the breakroom is out of necessities, the plants are dying, office supplies are running short. There's no pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer. What is going on?”

Thankfully, I'd consumed nearly all of my Frappie and my brain cells were hopping pretty darn good.

“I'm glad you came to me, Priscilla, because I had intended to schedule a meeting with you first thing in the morning,” I said, using my I-sound-like-I-know-what-I'm-talking-about voice, and gestured to the vendor file folders I'd—thank God—placed on the corner of my desk. “I've been going through these contracts and, frankly, I have some serious concerns.”

Priscilla gave me a double blink, the beginning stage of back-down mode.

“You do?” she asked.

“I wouldn't dream of taking over the position of facilities manager without first doing a complete audit of the vendors,” I told her. “It would be totally irresponsible on my part.”

“Oh.” She was in total back-down mode now.

“The prices we're being charged for the services we're receiving are questionable,” I told her.

Priscilla glanced at the vendor folders. “Really?”

“I urge you not to blame Suzie,” I said. “After all, she had a great deal on her mind and I'm sure she was doing the best she could.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you're right,” she said.

“And don't be hard on yourself either, Priscilla. I'm sure you trusted Suzie and used your very best judgment in giving her this responsibility,” I said. “But don't worry. I'll handle everything.”

“Oh, well, yes. Thank you, Haley,” she said.

“We can keep this between the two of us, if you'd rather,” I offered, as if I was doing her a big favor.

“Oh, dear. Yes, that would be a good idea. Thank you, Haley,” Priscilla said. “Let me know what you uncover when you complete your audit.”

“Of course.”

Priscilla left the office and I collapsed in my chair.

No two ways about it, I'd had enough of L.A. Affairs today. I grabbed my things and headed out.

I was meeting Jack Bishop.

C
HAPTER
12

J
ack had sent me a text message earlier in the day, asking me to meet him at a restaurant in Sherman Oaks after I got off work. I was scheduled for a shift tonight at Holt's, but oh, well, I would just go in late. No way was I passing up the opportunity to get the info I needed from Jack—and it was merely a coincidence that he was totally hot.

I took Ventura Boulevard, found the restaurant, left my car with the valet, and walked inside. The place had an industrial vibe to it with concrete floors, exposed pipes, and lots of metal—like the decorator thought maybe you'd want to weld something while you waited for your drink order.

“Haley.”

Jack's breath brushed my right cheek and his voice activated my toe-curling-gooey-stomach gene.

I turned and oh, wow, he looked great. Jeans, a charcoal sport coat, and a black crew neck sweater that accentuated his dark hair and gorgeous eyes. Tall, handsome in a rugged, I-could-model-for-J-Crew kind of way.

“Jack.”

I'd meant to sound sexy and cool, but I'm pretty sure I didn't pull it off. Understandable under the circumstances.

“I have a table for us,” he said.

We wound through the bar to a spot in the corner. The place wasn't particularly crowded yet, and the music was low. A perfect spot for talking.

When we reached the table Jack had staked out for us, I saw a beer at one place, a soda at the other. Jack knew my policy about drinking and driving—one of the things I was a real stickler about.

“Is this a social call?” Jack asked, as we sat down.

“I need you,” I said.

“Happy to accommodate you,” Jack said, and grinned.

Jack had a seriously toe-curling grin. Still, I thought it was better to stick to business.

“I want some phone records,” I said.

“Not exactly the need I was hoping to fill,” Jack said, turning up the amperage on his grin. “Whose records?”

“Ty's,” I said.

Jack's expression shifted, as if he was definitely not willing to accommodate me with phone records—or with anything else.

There had always been some heat between Jack and me, but he'd kept his distance because I had an official boyfriend—something else I was a real stickler about. After Ty and I broke up, Jack had still held back, telling me he didn't think things were over between Ty and me. I guess now he figured he'd been right—and he wasn't all that happy about it.

Jack sipped his beer. “Are you stalking your ex?”

“It's that thing with Kelvin Davis.”

“I know he's involved,” Jack said. “What's that got to do with you?”

I wasn't surprised Jack already knew that Ty was a person of interest in the homicide investigation. Jack knew everything. It was way cool.

“Stay out of it,” Jack said. “It's high profile. It could turn into a media feeding frenzy in a heartbeat.”

“I can't stay out of it.”

“You don't owe him anything,” Jack told me.

“I know but . . .”

Jack's expression changed again and I knew he realized I was holding something back—and he wasn't happy about it.

I probably should have told him about the cash and gun in Ty's duffel bag that I'd discovered in my bedroom closet, but I couldn't trust the info with anyone—not even Jack. Besides, I didn't want to involve him any deeper.

Jack pushed to his feet, grabbed his wallet, and slapped a twenty down on the table.

“Ty Cameron doesn't deserve you,” Jack said. “He never deserved you.”

He walked out.

 

I pulled into the Holt's parking lot and found a spot near the door. I glanced at my wristwatch. My shift had started forty-five minutes ago. I'd run into my apartment and changed into jeans and a T-shirt after leaving the restaurant where I'd met Jack, further delaying my arrival, but there was no need to waste the mental energy coming up with a good excuse for being tardy.

Not when something else way more important was on my mind.

My meeting with Jack hadn't gone exactly as I'd hoped. Not only had I not gotten the phone records I asked for, I'd made him so mad he'd stalked out.

I felt really icky about it. Jack and I had always helped each other out with cases in the past, so I wasn't sure why my request for Ty's phone records had crossed some sort of line with him, even though I knew he'd never especially liked Ty. I didn't want to lose Jack as a friend—or whatever it was we were to each other.

Still, I needed those phone records. I hadn't been able to find any connection between Ty and Kelvin Davis that involved the financial scams that had devastated so many people. That could only mean one thing—whatever had gone on between Ty and Kelvin was personal.

I glanced at my wristwatch again. Now I was fifty minutes late.

Ty's personal assistant had access to his phone bill, which might have a list of the numbers he'd called, depending on the carrier, but I didn't really want to involve Amber. I didn't want her to know what I was up to. She was cool about Ty and me, but I didn't want to put her in the middle of something.

I sat there for a while trying to figure another way to get the records, or another course of action I could take, but nothing came to me. Maybe I should have hit Starbucks and gotten another mocha Frappuccino on the way here.

I checked my watch and saw that now I was fifty-six minutes late. I grabbed my things and went into the store.

The place was quiet, as usual for this time of night. The customers seemed to be holding back, getting ready for the big after-Thanksgiving sale coming up soon.

I spotted Bella and Sandy, and two other girls who worked here whose names I couldn't remember. I waved as I went by—sort of like being in a parade.

The breakroom was empty when I walked in, but I knew it wouldn't be that way for long. By the time I stowed my handbag in my locker the door flew open and in stormed Rita.

I hate her.

Rita was the cashiers' supervisor. If she dressed in Holt's clothing it would be an upgrade. Tonight she wore her usual stretch pants and a knit top with a farm animal on it.

Somebody ought to report her to PETA.

“You're late,” she told me.

Rita lived for someone to be late for a shift—especially me.

She hates me too.

Holt's we-never-got-out-of-fourth-grade attendance policy stated that if an employee was late for a shift, their name was written on the whiteboard by the fridge. Five tardies in one month and you got fired.

“I'm not late. I'm early,” I told her, and pointed to the time clock. “Two minutes early.”

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” she said.

“I was?” I gasped—yes, I actually did that—and said, “I must have read the schedule wrong.”

“Don't give me that,” Rita said. “You're late and you know it.”

“If I was late, would I be
exactly
one hour late?” I asked.

Rita glared at me but didn't say anything. I mean, really, what could she say?

I punched my employee number into the time clock, pressed my finger to the reader, and headed out of the breakroom. Rita gave me major stink-eye as I glided past, but she didn't write my name on the whiteboard.

I win.

My day had been kind of crappy, so what better way to end it than working in a crappy store in a crappier than crappy department. I headed for the area I'd been assigned to these last few days, where I'd been moving the current stock to another location to make room for what would surely be yet another brilliant campaign courtesy of Holt's marketing department.

“Hey, Haley,” someone called.

I spotted Grace in the customer service booth. She had the place to herself for the moment—no annoying customers—so I walked over.

Grace was in her early twenties, going to college and working at Holt's so she could—well, I didn't remember, which was bad of me, I know. She was petite, and she always did the coolest things with her hair. Lately she'd been wearing it super short with blond spikes. She really pulled it off.

“Are you working with me tonight?” she asked.

I'd served my time in the customer service booth—really, they should issue orange jumpsuits for that department—and was glad I'd been released.

“I'm in the new section,” I said.

“Can you believe what marketing is doing this time?” Grace asked, and rolled her eyes.

I couldn't—because I had no idea what she was talking about. Somebody had probably told me at some point, but I'd drifted off.

That happens a lot.

“The guys from the display department hung the sign today,” Grace said. “Check it out.”

I didn't really need yet another reason to wish I was elsewhere tonight, but I pushed through and headed toward my assigned department. I mean, really, how bad could it be?

I turned the corner and saw just how bad it was.

Suspended from the ceiling over six empty shelving units was a huge blue and gold sign that read, P
APER
-P
ALOOZA
.

Really.

“Hi, Haley,” someone called.

Colleen popped up from behind one of the shelving units, smiling and waving for no apparent reason.

“We're working together tonight. You and me. Together,” she called. “Isn't that the coolest thing?”

No. It wasn't even mildly cool.

Colleen was young and she'd worked here since before I started. I liked to be generous in my thoughts about her, but it was impossible. Either there was something wrong with her mentally, or she was the nicest person on the planet. I didn't know which. It took all the patience I could muster to deal with her—which wasn't much even on a good night.

“We've got this whole new department to stock,” Colleen said, still smiling. “Isn't that cool?”

“Not really,” I said.

“And it's all paper.” She pointed to the sign. “That's what the sign means. Paper-Palooza. That's what's on the sign.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“The stockroom is full of it. The paper. Like all kinds of paper,” she said. “Like the sign says.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You know, like paper plates, paper towels, paper napkins—”

“I got it,” I told her.

“—copy paper, toilet paper, tissue paper—”

“I understand, Colleen. Really.”

“—paper cups, paper—”

I walked off.

The housewares, bath, and kitchen departments were a blur, and of course, so were the customers, as I hurried toward—well, I didn't know where I was headed. I just had to get away from Colleen.

No, I realized, it wasn't just Colleen I wanted to escape. It was the ridiculous Paper-Palooza, the endless stocking, the hideous merchandise—everything about working at Holt's.

I stopped beside the shoe department as a totally fantastic idea flew into my thoughts.

Maybe I could quit now.

Like now. Right now. Tonight. I could march into Jeanette's office, resign, and leave the store doing a series of high-kicks worthy of the Rockettes in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

I heard myself sigh as the idea oozed through my head, sinking into every brain cell and lighting up each of them as if I'd just found a Louis Vuitton satchel on a clearance table.

Then the image of a different handbag rose to the top of my thoughts—the Sassy satchel. I really wanted to find one and I really wanted to buy it at a discount—something that wouldn't be possible if I quit before the Nuovo acquisition went through.

I thought about it for a while. A ten-percent discount. Was it worth continuing to work here?

Maybe, maybe not. But my medical insurance was worth it.

Damn. When did I get so responsible? It was seriously ruining my mojo.

I tried to calm myself—something I'm not particularly good at—and drew in a big breath. I only had a short while to go before my job performance review at L.A. Affairs would free me of this place. I could hang in there. I could do it.

With no other choice, I headed back to the Paper-Palooza—but I took the long way around, of course. As I circled the store and passed the accessories department, I spotted Detective Shuman.

Oh my God, what was Shuman doing here? He hadn't mentioned coming by the store.

My thoughts raced ahead—sort of like the big rush at the first moment of a sample sale.

Did he have some info about Derrick Ellery's murder? Good news? Like maybe the killer had been caught and the case was solved, meaning there was no chance the Hollywood Haven gala would be canceled and that my standing as fabulous event planner wouldn't be jeopardized so I could ace my job performance review, get full benefits, and quit my job at Holt's?

Was I overreaching here?

I headed toward Shuman and—what the heck?

A girl was with him.