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The prestigious law firm of McAuley and Malcolm practiced family and criminal law at its location on the twelfth floor of the Bay Tower. It blended with similar glass office buildings downtown that hugged the shores of Elliott Bay. The good news was that there was a bus stop directly in front of the gleaming office tower. The bad news was that I fell asleep on the bus and woke up six blocks past my stop and had to jog back.
In the elevator I attempted to compose myself. I smoothed down my frazzled hair, straightened my skirt and took deep calming breaths. At the twelfth floor, the elevator doors whooshed open onto the reception area. A large mahogany desk, in the shape of a horseshoe, stood front and center. It was my duty to sit behind it and answer telephones. Since I was now an hour late, Jenny was there instead. She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised in amusement.
“You look like shit,” she said, getting to her feet so that I could slip behind the desk.
“I also feel like shit.”
“First morning taking the bus didn’t go well?”
“I’ve discovered a fascinating fact about morning transit commuters,” I announced, depositing my purse into the bottom desk drawer. “Most people who take the bus do not bathe and those that do, choose to do so in loathsome perfumes.”
A call came in and I put on my office voice and sang, “Good morning, McAuley and Malcolm. How may I direct your call?” I managed to transfer the call without cutting the person off.
“I thought maybe you looked like shit because of the whole pentagram and bloody Dumpster thing,” Jenny put in.
“Oh, that. I guess Lara told you.”
Jenny grinned. “She woke me out of a dead sleep to tell me every detail.” She leaned in. “Do you really think somebody was killed and tossed in that Dumpster?”
Before I could reply, the elevator doors opened and Clay Sanderson stepped out along with senior partner Ted McAuley. They appeared to be engrossed in a serious discussion as they passed through the reception area with barely a nod in my direction, but suddenly Clay stopped.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
Old Ted McAuley sniffed loudly. “Huh? What? I don’t smell anything.”
Clay shrugged. “Odd. For a second I was sure I smelled popcorn.” He glanced over at me, behind Ted’s back, and winked before they continued on their way.
“Oh, my God,” Jenny breathed. “He actually winked at you!”
“Yeah. Every time he points his baby blues in my direction I almost have an orgasm.”
Jenny laughed. “Lara told me he saw you working the theater last night but he agreed to keep it a secret.”
“I guess I’m pretty lucky. If word got around the firm that I was dishing up popcorn at night I’d be a laughingstock and I’d never be considered worthy of anything above receptionist.”
The day trudged on as it usually did. I answered calls, transferred most, lost some and muscled the word processor into producing a couple of interoffice memos. Jenny and I went to the deli next door for lunch where she interrogated me further on Lara’s Dumpster diving and I filled her in on the details of my nightmares.
The day picked up speed after lunch and the staff made their usual dash for the elevator at five.
Jenny paused while she slipped her arms inside her coat. “How come you didn’t sneak out with the FedEx guy?”
I shook my head. “Can’t today. I don’t have enough time to go home before I need to be at the Megaplex. I might as well hang around here for a half hour. Maybe I’ll get caught up on my typing.”
Jenny blinked at me and frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
I assured her I was, even though bobbing aimlessly inside my head were bleary images of a bloodstained Dumpster and a woman’s mutilated remains. If I had my way those images would be forcibly tucked away into the furthest reaches of my gray matter.
“Okay,” she said, eyeing me skeptically. “But if you need to talk just call me on my cell. I’m having dinner with Jed.”
“Jed? Is he the guy from last week, the one from the meat packing plant?”
“No that was Ed. Jed’s the guy from that doughnut shop in North Queen Anne.”
“I thought that was Fred.”
She shook her head. “Fred was the guy I faked orgasms with. The one who was into scented candles.”
“Oh.” Between the butcher, the baker and the candle-sex-faker it was getting harder and harder to distinguish Jenny’s dates from one another.
After Jenny left, the partners began filing out of their offices. Clay Sanderson was the last to appear. He pushed the call button for the elevator then sauntered casually back to my desk and stood smiling rakishly.
Feeling as though I should say something, I blurted, “Thanks for last night.” I nibbled my lower lip. “I mean, thanks for not saying anything about seeing me last night, working at the Megaplex.”
His eyes sparked and he leaned a hip against my desk then reached over and playfully tugged at a strand of my hair. “Lucky for you I have a weakness for a woman who smells of melted butter.”
Oh, boy.
Clay picked up his briefcase and strode back toward the elevator, which was taking an eternity to arrive. Suddenly, the doors did open and out stepped a stocky middle-aged man with skin the color of espresso. He wore a rumpled overcoat, a worn tweed suit and a dour expression.
The sight of him triggered another premonition, and fear tripped up my spine like a lover’s knowing touch.
Chapter Two
“T abitha Emery?” the man asked, his feet eating up the floor between the elevator and my desk.
“Yes?” I gulped.
Reaching into a pocket he pulled out his identification. “Detective Jackson.” He tilted his head. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”
“No.” I tried to control the flutter of my eyelids that came with a premonition, stress or after eating bad clams. My fluttering eyes noted that Clay Sanderson’s hand was holding the elevator door open, but he had yet to step inside.
“I’d like to talk to you about last night,” Detective Jackson announced.
“Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy right now.”
He frowned at his Timex. “You only work until five and it’s presently five-o-three. I think you can spare me a few minutes.”
Clay gave up on the elevator and let it leave without him. He walked directly toward me.
“Is there something that I can help you with, officer?”
Detective Jackson flicked a gaze in Clay’s direction. “And you are…?”
“Miss Emery’s attorney, if she needs one.”
My eyelids popped wide open. Aw geez! I did not need Clay Sanderson wading right into the cesspool section of my life.
“It’s okay!” I announced to Clay with a smile before turning to the detective. “I’ll answer your questions, but I don’t have lots of time because I have to get to my other job.”
Clay put his briefcase down and his eyes leveled with mine. “Tabitha, if you’re having a discussion with the police, don’t you think it would be helpful to have an attorney present?”
“I don’t need a lawyer. This is nothing.”
The detective merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call murder nothing.”
“Murder?” Clay and I chorused.
Clay’s voice was hard and clipped. “My office. Now.”
Clay Sanderson’s office had a large rectangular desk in golden oak and I’d often visualized him tossing files to the floor and taking me next to his inbox. There was also a large window that had a stunning view of Elliot Bay. A row of pigeons sat glaring at me from the ledge like feathered jurors. In the corner of the office there was a small round glass table circled by four chairs where Clay headed and parked his rather fine ass. The detective, who definitely did not have a fine ass, followed and sat across from Clay, and I took the chair between the two.
“What’s this about? From the beginning,” Clay barked.
“Well, after we finished work at the movie theater,” I began.
“I want to hear it from him,” Clay snapped.
I rolled my eyes.
“And don’t roll your eyes,” he added.
Sheesh!
“Well, sir—” Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair and pulled a small notebook from his pocket “—shortly after midnight Miss Emery called in a situation and—”
“I did not call it in, Lara did,” I corrected and received an icy glare from Clay.
“Fine. I just won’t say anything,” I sulked.
“That would be best,” Clay said, sounding too professional for my liking. It was getting so that I was having a hard time maintaining visuals of sex in his office.
“What situation was called in?” Clay asked.
“There’s an old boarded-up building at the corner of 156th Avenue and Eighth Street,” Jackson began.
“Across from the Movie Megaplex,” Clay added.
“That’s right. Last night Miss Emery and—” he glanced down at his notes then up again “—her friend, Lara Caruth, had a sudden desire to go Dumpster diving and—”
“We did not Dumpster dive!” I shouted.
The detective smothered a chuckle and cleared his throat. “Apparently the ladies felt a sudden calling—” he sneered “—to investigate the Dumpster behind the building. Then they called in the fact that there appeared to be blood inside said Dumpster.”
“Blood?” Clay questioned. “I thought you said this was about murder. Was there a body found?”
“No, sir, there was not. That is what brings me here to discuss the matter with Miss Emery.” The detective swiveled his chair to focus granite black eyes on mine. “Somebody spray-painted a pentagram on the Dumpster and the crime lab confirmed today that it was human blood found. There was enough blood to suggest that whoever lost it, did not walk away.”
“That poor woman,” I murmured.
Detective Jackson quickly stated, “I never mentioned that the blood was from a woman.”
It was Clay’s turn for an eye roll. “I’d say she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that one right.”
Jackson lowered his voice. “All right then, perhaps you’d like to clarify what you and your friend were doing in the rear parking lot of an abandoned building after midnight, peering into a Dumpster?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Clay stated firmly.
“It’s no big deal.” I shrugged. “Lara’s bus stops right in front of the building.”
“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing behind the building.”
I offered the detective a pissed-off glare. “I didn’t want to go behind the building. I had a real bad feeling about it, but Lara insisted because…” Again I shrugged. “Well, just because she was curious and thought it might be like the mutilated cat and—”
“Cat?” both men chimed in unison. Uh-oh.
“Um.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Yesterday after work I had my purse snatched and the guy ran through a cemetery. I had a bad feeling at the cemetery.”
“Most people have bad feelings in a cemetery.” Jackson snorted.
“This bad feeling led me to a mutilated cat lying inside a pentagram.”
Clay sucked in air through his perfect white teeth.
Detective Jackson’s gaze narrowed. “And it didn’t occur to you to mention this little tidbit of information to the officers on the scene last night?” He flipped open his notebook and demanded details. I offered him what few there were.
“I’ve been twenty years on the force, Miss Emery, and I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences.” Jackson snapped his notebook shut and buried it inside his coat. “Now would be a good time for you to tell me anything else you may be withholding.”
Clay stood abruptly. “This interview is over. Miss Emery has been more than cooperative.”
Detective Jackson left but not before uttering, “I’ll be back,” like an Arnold Schwartzenegger wanna-be.
After the detective left I realized I’d better hit the road, too, if I was going to make it to the Movie Megaplex by six.
“I appreciate that you stayed on my account, Mr. Sanderson but—” I began.
“Call me Clay and tell me about this bad feeling stuff you were mentioning.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’m not some weirdo psychic carrying a crystal ball. I just get a feeling for things sometimes, that’s all.” I shuddered and didn’t mention that this time bad dreams and foggy apparitions of a woman in a pool of blood were also included.
“Do you want to tell me about this so-called premonition?”
I shook my head. “Nothing really to tell, it was just a bad feeling I had.”
He smiled. “My grandmother used to claim to have second sight.”
“Did she make predictions?”
Chuckling, he said, “Well, her second sight was usually assisted by her love for vodka.”
