Dating Can Be Deadly. Wendy Roberts, LCSW
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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.