Monahan 02 Artificial Intentions (12 page)

In hindsight, it was funny how she said that word “secretary”. But at the time, there was so much menace and disgust in her use of the word, it gave me a shiver. I pictured two people out for a walk in the park and one steps in a massive pile of dog shit. The stuff oozes up the sides of their shoe, and they say, in a panic, “Oh my God, I’ve got
secretary
all over me.” She clearly thought of me as a pile of shit.

“Natalie, I wouldn’t expect you to take orders from a secretary,” I said soothingly. “Last Thursday, I was a secretary. Today’s Monday. And today, I’m the chief executive officer. I’m sure a
nerd
,” and I put as much disgust in my voice when I said
nerd
as she had used when spitting out the word
secretary
, “can figure it out.”

I gathered up my things and left her with one parting shot. “I expect to hear from you by the end of the day.”

The stalker was fuming. Angry. How dare
she
come in here and question our work? Furious. That little bitch. The stalker could taste bile rising from a roiling stomach.
She
knows
nothing
.
Nothing
about Phoenix. Enraged.
Nothing
about the lives we have saved. Incensed. Through clenched teeth the stalker pictured her dead. Lying on the ground in the orange light.

I motioned for Carrie to follow me as I stormed through her office area into my office.

“So what’s up with Natalie Scott?” I asked her. Secretaries, the good ones anyway, always had a pulse on the personalities.

Carrie shrugged her shoulders. “Is she doing her ice queen routine?”

“Yeah. And I definitely don’t like it. Is she always like this?”

“Most of the time. Not when she was around Mr. Connaught though.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. Most employees are usually on their best behaviour around the boss. Although she didn’t show it today.”

“Maybe she’s having a little trouble with you being boss,” Carrie offered insightfully.

“That I figured out. But I caught other undercurrents. Like I’d pissed in her Corn Flakes or something.”

Carrie blushed a little at my profanity but gave me a blank look.

“Carrie, it’d be really helpful if you knew something and shared it with me. I don’t encourage gossip…” Which was a bold-faced lie, because as a secretary I used to thrive on it. Not the malicious type of gossip, but the threads of information that good secretaries would sew together so they could have the complete picture. I was a student of human behaviour, because how people treated me and acted around me dictated how we worked together.

Carrie continued to give me a dumb blonde look. Wide eyes and innocence. A wall had definitely gone up.

“Come on Carrie. Spill. Share. If I’m going to have a chance, I’ll need input from you. I’m a big girl and can handle it. You never gossiped with Tommy did you?”
She shook her head.

“You probably would’ve eventually, when you’d been together longer. We’ve only been at this a day. But considering the circumstances, a little help here would be appreciated. Whatever information you give me will stay between the two of us.”

“They had a relationship. Mr. Connaught and Nat.”

Now it was my time to snort. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope.” She held up a two finger salute. “Girl Scout’s promise. I swear.”

“Who knew?”

“Only a few people. Although Mr. Connaught never actually came out and told me. Not that it was any of my business.”

I lit a cigarette and walked over to the window. Tommy and Natalie. Somehow I couldn’t picture it. She was so mealy-mouthed and tight. What did he see in her? I felt Carrie’s hand on my shoulder.

“But it was over, Kate.” She said this to make me feel better, as if I was hurt, just because Tommy was in a relationship with someone.

“It’s okay Carrie. Tommy and I were divorced. Many years ago. He was free to do what he wanted. I’m just having trouble picturing the two of them together. When did he break it off?”

“He didn’t. Natalie ended the relationship. About a month and a half ago.”

Somehow that made me feel a little better. When Tommy had left me the message on my machine in Toronto last week, asking me to come to New York, his voice was inviting. He wouldn’t have teased me like that if he’d been involved with someone. My thoughts were interrupted by something Carrie had said.

“Pardon?”

“I said, she ended the relationship when Mr. Connaught cut off the funding to her pet project. She was livid.”

Bingo. I’d just tripped over suspect number one with a motive.

chapter sixteen

While I was thinking malicious thoughts of how well the moniker
murderess
fit Natalie Scott, Rudolph Valentino the undertaker called. He wanted to know if I had thought any more about a memorial service for Mr. Connaught. I hadn’t and I was ashamed to admit it. Tommy deserved better than a quick cremation with yours truly as the only mourner. So I lied and told him I was still calling people and he’d hear from me within the next couple of hours.

Steve Holliday was surprised and a little embarrassed when I showed up at his office door.

“Katie, come in.”

The sound of his voice coupled with him calling me Katie gave me a shiver reminiscent of someone dragging their fingernails over a chalkboard.

“Kate,” I told him. “Or Kathleen. Please.”

“Sure.” He motioned at a chair in front of his desk. I ignored the offer.

“I need your help. Arrangements have to be made for a memorial service for Tommy. I don’t know any of his friends, co-workers or business acquaintances. You seemed like the best place to start.”

“Let me look after it,” he offered. When and where were the only two things he asked and I felt relieved to leave the whole thing in his hands.

“Tomorrow. Late in the day.” And I gave him the name of the funeral parlor. “Call Mr. Theodore Bradley. He’s dying to hear from us.” I chuckled at my little pun but Steve didn’t get it.

My next task was to get through a two-hour sales meeting pretending I understood what was being talked about. I was pleasantly surprised that the language was English and I that did understand. Status reports were given on current bids and RFPs, and the status of contract negotiations on bids we had won. The Vice President of Sales, Mark Hall, assured me that everything was on track and there were no surprises coming up. I listened closely for sounds of condescension in his voice but there were none. I decided I liked him. He wasn’t flashy and didn’t speak out of the side his mouth as you would expect from a sales type.

“Is there anything else you need to know at this point, Miss Monahan?” he asked me. “Any questions for any of the staff here at the meeting or anything we can get back to you on?” Mark sounded sincere.

“No. Thank you,” I said gratefully. This was such a change from the marble gargoyles I’d met from research and development.

I found two memos on my desk when I returned from the sales meeting. The first one was a very short note from Natalie Scott, stating that she intended to stay on at Phoenix (as if that were her choice, I thought) and continue to lead the R and D team. No apology and no indication that she had any remorse for the way she behaved. I had no idea how to deal with Nat Scott and frankly didn’t have the stomach for the stress of having to fire someone this early in the game.

The second memo was from Steve Holliday outlining the arrangements for the memorial service. It was scheduled for 3:00 p.m. the next day (Steve said in his memo we wouldn’t get as big a turn-out if we held it after 5:00 p.m.), he had pulled some strings and managed to get a small notice put in the New York Times for the next day’s publication, he had put all of the ‘girls’ (I sucked air through my teeth at the nerve of him putting
that
on paper) in the office on the phone calling all the business associates, and he had sent out an all-points-memorandum by e-mail to Phoenix employees. And I was to kindly let him know if there were any of our personal acquaintances I wished to invite.

The day was taking its toll and a low grade headache was starting to throb at the back of my head. Time to end this workday and go home. Which was a good idea until Carrie knocked on my door and announced that the police were here and needed to speak to me.

Detectives Bartlett and Shipley helped themselves to the chairs in front of my desk. If it was possible, Shipley looked even more rumpled and frumpy than the last time she was here, and not for the first time I wondered if her persona was a little bit faked. Like Columbo’s. I remembered her as being sharp and abrasive in her questioning. Today though, Bartlett started off.

“Ms. Monahan, we’d like you to tell us about the last time you spoke with Mr. Connaught.”

“I think I told you this already. The first time you were here to talk to me?”

They both stared back at me, not saying word, waiting.

Fuck it. “The last time I
spoke
with Mr. Connaught was about six months ago. He was in Toronto on business and we had dinner.” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

Shipley spoke up this time but first she flipped through her notebook, snapping the pages. “Yep.” She looked up at me. “We mean the last time you spoke with him on the phone.”

I had no idea where they were going with this. “I
told
you, the last time I spoke with Tommy was about six months ago. The last time I spoke with him on the phone would have been around that same time when we talked about where to have dinner.”

Shipley said, “Well, the Bell Canada records at McCallum & Watts show that you received a phone call from Mr. Connaught two days before he was murdered.”

I inched forward in my chair, tried to put my feet on the floor and leaned towards the Detectives. “Check your notebook Mrs. Columbo, because as I told you before, Mr. Connaught left me a voice message that day. We
did not
talk.”

My insides started shaking and I was angry. Angry to think that it had been less than a week ago that my life was somewhat normal. Five days ago Tommy was alive. And in the five days since Tommy had been murdered, the best they could come up with were the Bell Canada records at the law firm?

The Detectives ignored my snide remarks.

“Tell us about how life has been since you inherited all this,” Shipley said as she waved her arm around the office.

I assumed that question was rhetorical and chose not to answer it. My blood pressure was rising and I realized that the Detectives were trying to get a rise out of me. And it was working. With the combination of my body language and angry retorts to their questions, I was acting defensively and just like someone who had something to hide. Several deep breaths helped bring my blood pressure back to normal, and I tried a smile on New York’s finest.

“Well, it’s been a tough haul,” I told them. “Tom Connaught has been dead less than five days and I’m on a helluva steep learning curve. Learning about the company, learning about the staff, learning about our products, learning how to be a chief executive officer. And, learning how to get around in New York,” I said with some satisfaction. “And oh yeah, learning how
not
to kill exotic fish,” I added.

They both looked puzzled by the last comment but didn’t go anywhere with it.

“Your personal finances are in better shape, no doubt,” Shipley said.

“Just what do you mean by that?” I demanded.

“When we looked into your situation in Toronto, it was clear that you weren’t as financially well off as you are now,” she said. “A small retirement fund, no large debts, credit cards paid on time, no real assets except a 1990 Toyota Corolla, a small chequing account, no savings to speak of.” She was reading from her notebook and each time she noted something in the realm of my personal worth, her sidekick Bartlett held up another finger as if counting off the items.

People who know me don’t want to be around me when I’m pissed off and angry. Add embarrassed to the mix and I’m downright ugly. Detective Shipley had just summed up my sorry financial life in one sentence, and Detective Bartlett had added it all up on six fat fingers. Shipley carried on, in an almost apologetic tone.

“Things have changed for the better though, haven’t they? You don’t have to worry about the finances now, do you? I know what it’s like having an old car, one that gives you heartburn every time it doesn’t start. But you don’t have that worry anymore. In fact,” she turned to her partner, “she has a driver now doesn’t she?” Bartlett grinned and nodded.

I’d had enough. These two buffoons were wasting my time. Time that should be spent trying to find Tommy’s killer.

“Okay ladies.” I stood up. “You may think you’re going to get a rise or a reaction out of me. But it’s not going to happen. Why don’t you get off your asses and go and find some bad guys?”

Bartlett started to stand up but Shipley’s left hand shot out and motioned for her to sit down. When she spoke this time, her tone had changed.

“Our counterpart at the Toronto Police Service told us we’d have our hands full dealing with you.” She stared directly at me. “He said you have a habit of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

I took a deep breath and sat back down in my chair.

Shipley flipped a few pages back in her notebook and found what she was looking for.

“Detective Leech,” she continued, “told me all about you.” She looked down at her notebook and read from it. “Involved in a murder, a multiple shooting, a kidnapping, a suicide, and,” she turned the page of her notebook, “securities fraud. Hey Bartlett,” she said turning to her partner, “are there any felonies our Ms. Monahan hasn’t been involved in?”

Guilty as charged, I thought, as I rubbed the top of my ear where a bullet had grazed it. A couple of months earlier I had been an innocent, albeit involved, by-stander in all the mayhem she was describing. Detective Leech had been the lead detective on the case. To say that he and I had shared some quality time together would be an understatement.