A Clean Kill

forty-seven

By nine thirty April and Woody were in the Anderson Agency offices. It had the old-world atmosphere that Eloise had described the day before—gold paint on the moldings, French doors, heavy curtains, a vase of fresh red and yellow tulips on the table in the reception area. But instead of inspiring the confidence of old traditions, it was kind of creepy. A gray-haired woman worked the phone at an antique desk, apparently too busy to acknowledge them.

"Lieutenant Woo Sanchez from the police department to see Miss Anderson," April said as soon as she deigned to look up.

"She's not in yet. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"What time does she get in?"

The woman consulted a chunky gold clock with a cupid sitting on it. "She usually gets here around ten, ten thirty."

"We'd like to see her assistant."

"Certainly, please take a seat and I'll call her."

April did not take a seat. She wandered over to the window and gazed out at pedestrians on Lexington Avenue being battered by the rain. Several

long minutes passed before a prim young woman with a black headband and black-rimmed glasses came in. She was dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse, and wore no jewelry. April thought that with a radical makeover she could be pretty.

"I've called Miss Anderson. She'll be here in about five minutes," she announced quickly, and turned to leave.

"I'd like to have a word with you, please," April told her pleasantly.

"Of course." With a wintry smile, the girl leaned forward in a half bow. "How can I help you?"

"Let's go into your office where we can talk."

"We're not authorized to take people into the office. I only have one chair there, and it's not private. I can offer you the parlor."

"Is the office equipped with surveillance cam-' eras?" Woody said suddenly.

She nodded. "How can you tell?"

"In the parlor, too?" he asked.

"Everywhere. We had an incident last year. The new owners put them in."

"What kind of incident?" April jumped in.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Miss Anderson," she said apologetically.

"I'd like to see the office, Miss . . . ?" April waited for a name.

"I'm Josie. Can you wait until Miss Anderson gets here? I could lose my job if I let you in there," she said nervously.

"No, I'm sorry. We don't have much time."

"Oh, God." She exchanged worried looks with the woman at the desk, then opened a stout wooden door that led to an old-fashioned bull pen

where five middle-aged women sat at desks with computers, talking on the phone. They all displayed surprise at seeing visitors.

Josie pointed at the empty chair on the far end. "That one is mine."

"Miss Anderson's office?"

"In there." She pointed to a closed door opposite her desk.

April nodded. They were going to have to talk to all the women. "Let's go to the parlor," she said.

When they got there, Woody whistled at the antiques and decorations on the wall. Josie smiled at his reaction, and her face softened. "Josie, how long have you been here?" April asked.

"A year."

"Do you like your job?"

She hesitated. "I need my job," she said softly, trailing her hand along the inlay on the desk.

"We all need our jobs. Do you get along with Miss Anderson?"

"She's been very nice to me," Josie said guardedly.

"I guess you feel loyal to her then."

"Of course." She glanced at the door longingly as if she wished she were back at her desk.

"You know that two of your clients have been murdered?"

She nodded solemnly and looked frightened.

"Did you know them?"

"Only from taking phone messages. I don't deal with the clients personally. Is it okay if I sit down? I feel a little sick."

April waved her hand at the French chairs. "Of course."

Josie sat in the closest one and hugged her chest. April took the chair near her. "Do you know Miss Anderson's schedule?" she asked.

Josie shook her head. "She keeps that very confidential."

"Do you know where she is at the moment?" April asked.

"No." Josie chewed on the inside of her mouth.

"Does she call you to let you know when she'll be here?" April asked with a raised eyebrow. "Uh-uh."

"Does she come in every day?" April was pulling teeth.

"Absolutely." Josie knew the answer to that one and nodded vigorously.

"How about yesterday? What time did she come in?" She started doodling.

"Mmmm. Maybe nine thirty, ten. I'm not sure," Josie said.

"What about the day before?"

She looked up at the ceiling, then at April's notebook. "I don't remember," she murmured apologetically.

"That's okay," April assured her. "Tell me about your job. What do you do here?"

"I get coffee. I run errands, take messages. I do background checks on new people," she said slowly.

"Do you get Miss Anderson coffee when she comes in?"

"Yes, and a muffin."

"Do you have to go outside for that?" April kept on.

"We have a coffee machine. I get the muffin on the way here. She's like the queen. She doesn't like to handle money," the girl said with a sudden sparkle.

April smiled. She didn't like to handle money, either. "You don't note the time when she comes in?"

"Well, if she's really late, 1 have to make another pot of coffee," Josie said slowly.

"What about Monday? Was she late then?"

"Honestly, 1 don't know."

"You said you take messages. Was there a message from Mrs. Wilson on Monday?"

"Not that 1 recall, but Miss Anderson can access the voice mail from outside. She sometimes does that early in the morning so she doesn't miss anything important."

"Did you make a second pot of coffee on Monday?"

"Probably," she admitted. "She's been coming in late recently."

"Josie, did you do a background check on Remy Banks and Lynn Papel?" April asked.

"That 1 do know. 1 don't work on the trouble girls."

"What are the trouble girls?"

"Oh, my God." She bit her lip. "I don't know why 1 said that. 1 really don't know what 1 meant. Everybody here is great. We don't have problem people. We don't take them on. That's a rule. Can 1 go now? I'm really sorry." She rose from the chair.

April's cell phone rang. She picked it up and walked over to the window. "Woo Sanchez," she said.

"You called last night. I'm calling you back. It's not good news about Alison Perkins."

"Dr. Gloss, thank you for getting back to me," April said, then quickly, "What's the bad news?"

"I can't give you a definite COD at this time."

"What do you mean 'at this time'? Is that something that is likely to change?" April said softly.

"Look, don't quote me, but there are no clear indicators like contusions on her neck, or a crushed hyoid, to point to strangling. The cause of death was, she stopped breathing. The exact reason an individual stops breathing is not always readily apparent. There can be contributing factors."

"Like?"

"She was impaired in some way, intoxicated or drugged."

"Is that what happened here?"

"Not exactly. My guess is that she was prevented from breathing. She might have been smothered, but sometimes you can't really tell what happened."

April was speechless. "But it wasn't a natural death-"

"No, not considering the position in which she was found, and the fact that she was washed with something like Mr. Clean. We're doing some tests to see what the cleanser was and if it was in the house. But you know in a court of law, you could have a defendant with a motive and even rubber gloves and disinfectant on his hands who you could prove was in the house at the time of death, and his lawyer could claim she was already dead when he cleaned her up. There's no law against washing a dead body."

"That is bad news. What else did you find?" April stared out of the window.

"Oh, some deterioration in the nasal passages.

We don't have the toxicology reports back yet. Her liver was enlarged. She was heading for trouble on that score later on. The big surprise was she was pregnant. You'll want to check with her doctor on that. She may not have known it."

Once again April was stunned. Alison was pregnant? She wasn't sure about the law in New York State about killing a fetus along with its mother, whether that would be ruled a double homicide. California had changed its statute on that after Laci Peterson's body was found. In any case, Alison's pregnancy raised the stakes for her killer. Three people were gone, not two.

"That's sad," April said. "I'll bet she didn't know it. I think she was high the day before she died. Dr. Gloss, I'm wondering about something that you said. You're guessing that she was smothered. What is your reason for supposing that?"

"Feathers. There was one in her hair and another in her mouth. Check her pillows. And don't ask me about the prelim on either of them. I need a few more days."

"Thanks, I appreciate the call," April told him.

"Well, I always enjoy working with you. Let's have lunch someday."

"As soon as I can keep it down," April murmured.

"What, are you pregnant, too, kid?"

"No way, just a touch of the flu," she said, as she watched a large woman in a plastic raincoat run across Lexington, dodging oncoming cars with a kind of bravado not even seasoned New Yorkers attempted very often.