Where The Bodies Are Buried (The Jeri Howard Series Book 8) Read online

  “A secretary in the legal department at Bates quit this afternoon, without giving notice. I told ’em you could start tomorrow morning.”

  Twelve

  “THIS IS YOUR WORKSTATION,” NANCY FONG TOLD ME in a businesslike voice.

  She was a short, slender woman in her mid-forties, her straight black hair streaked with gray and cut into a no-nonsense ear-length bob. She had a tiny mole just to the left of her mouth. Her navy blue dress and her manner were equally crisp. I hadn’t seen her smile since I’d stepped off the elevator.

  Back to the world of time cards and regular paychecks, I told myself Thursday morning as I dressed in one of Ruby’s borrowed suits, a gray linen number that was a little too big in the hips. But my workday wouldn’t be limited to those hours I would spend working as a temporary employee. I’d had to reschedule a number of appointments for early morning or late afternoon. Working this undercover job meant fitting the rest of my active cases in around the edges.

  The corporate headquarters of Bates Inc. was a rectangular four-story building on Webster Street between Second and Third, in the middle of what Oakland old-timers called the Produce District. More recently, people referred to this area as the Jack London Square district, since the square itself was nearby, where Broadway dead-ended at the Embarcadero. But I always associated it with the produce warehouses clustered along the streets in this part of town. From early morning to midday it was difficult driving through this part of town, what with having to dodge forklifts hauling crates of tomatoes. The air smelled of squashed onions and oranges, and the litter at the curbs often contained bruised and discarded fruit and vegetables, easy pickings for the street people who frequented the area.

  The other reason it was sometimes difficult to navigate this area was because of the trains. Tracks ran down the middle of the Embarcadero and, until recently, Third Street. Sometimes freights loaded with containers would inexplicably stop, leaving impatient vehicles and walkers stranded until the train rumbled and, with stiff metallic protests, began moving again. To mitigate the problem, two pedestrian bridges had been built over the Embarcadero.

  A train pulled into the new Oakland Amtrak terminal as I walked toward the Bates building. There was a parking garage underneath, Ruby had told me, but it was for the executives only. The rest of the employees had to make do with a crowded lot across Third Street, or parked on the streets themselves. I’d wedged my Toyota into a narrow spot next to one of those oversized vans that always seemed to take more than its share of space.

  As I crossed the street, heading toward the wide front steps and the wheelchair ramp at the front of the building, I thought that Clyde Bates had chosen his location well. It might not be the most glamorous place for a business, but it had access to both the produce warehouses and the tracks. It was a plain, solid, utilitarian building, its stucco exterior painted pale blue, streaked with soot due to the proximity of the Nimitz Freeway barely two blocks away. On the lower floors, I could see where the loading docks had once been. But this was office space now. It looked like the windows opened, which was a nice change from the sealed glass of the modern skyscraper.

  I went up the steps, through the double glass doors, and presented myself to the receptionist. She was a well-dressed woman in her fifties who presided over a counter and a console, an earphone affixed to her right ear. She told me to have a seat on one of the low gray chairs ranged in a semicircle in front of her counter. She phoned the legal department, then directed me to the elevator, visible behind her, and told me to go up to the fourth floor.

  Nancy Fong met me at the elevator, introduced herself, and escorted me down the hallway on the south, on the Webster Street side. We rounded the corner into another corridor and stepped into a windowless rectangular room on the interior of the building. It was divided into three identical square cubicles, separated by gray metal partitions about five feet high. Where there weren’t shelves, the cubicle walls were covered with gray cloth. Each had a telephone with lots of buttons, a transcriber with earphones, and a computer with a monitor resting on top of it and a pullout keyboard drawer.

  The workstation Nancy Fong had indicated as mine was in the middle, and it didn’t offer much in the way of privacy. It also looked as though its former occupant had left it without a backward glance. Pens and paper clips were scattered across its gray surface. A bright pink message pad and some yellow Post-its provided notes of color. A precarious pile of papers was stacked in a black plastic in box, waiting for someone to file them away. That someone would be me.

  To the right of the door was a long table. On one end sat three plastic letter trays, in red, yellow, and white, each containing several documents. An oversized wire basket at the other end was overflowing with papers. Next to the table was a bookcase, its shelves piled with reams of paper and other supplies. In the corner I saw a stand holding a laser printer and a fax machine.

  “We have three attorneys,” Nancy Fong said briskly as I surveyed my new surroundings. “Alexander Campbell is the general counsel. He also handles labor and employment matters. Hank Irvin handles corporate and antitrust matters. Patricia Mayhew’s specialty is regulatory, federal, local, and state. Food law is of major importance in our business, of course. Both Hank and Patricia write and review various contracts and agreements.” She looked at me as I digested all of this. “I understand you used to work in a law office.”

  “Yes. I imagine this will be different.”

  She nodded. “We don’t usually handle litigation directly. We have outside counsel for that. Our attorneys act as advisors. There’s a lot of variety here you won’t find in a law firm.”

  “Not as much pressure?” If memory served from my days as a legal secretary, the pressure in high-powered law firms was the primary reason for the burnout rate in legal secretaries.

  “I can’t promise that,” she said with a slight frown. “Things can get hectic around here. We’re backed up right now. The secretary who left didn’t give us any notice.” Her mouth tightened with disapproval at this breach of employee protocol. “We have... had a paralegal. That position is vacant, too, but we’ll be filling it soon, I’m sure.”

  It was a rather bloodless way to describe Rob’s death, but I guessed Nancy Fong was a woman who kept information to herself most of the time. She wasn’t going to tell a temp fresh off the street just why the paralegal position was open.

  She pointed to the three letter trays on the table. “The attorneys prioritize their work requests. If something’s in the red tray, that means it should be done right away. Yellow means it’s needed in a day or so. White means it can wait. I’m the general counsel’s secretary, but when there’s work to be done, we all pitch in. That includes the filing, which needs catching up.” She indicated the overflowing wire basket. “The attorneys have some files in their offices, but most everything else is in our file room near the freight elevator. I’ll give you the tour.”

  She stopped as a woman about my own age entered the room, carrying a coffee mug and an attitude. “This is Gladys Olivette, our other secretary. Gladys, this is Jeri. She’s our temp, for the time being.”

  Gladys Olivette was tall, thin, and elegantly dressed in a teal blue suit with a yellow blouse. She tilted her head back, gold earrings visible on the lobes beneath her short black curls. She gave me the once-over, then her bright red lips curved into a smile. Evidently I’d been deemed acceptable.

  “Glad to have you, Jeri,” Gladys said. “Otherwise known as, thank God you’re here. Welcome to the funny farm. Martha just up and quit yesterday, without so much as a by-your-leave or a two-week notice.”

  “Why would she do that?” I asked, returning her smile.

  “Rats deserting a sinking ship,” Gladys said. On my right I saw Nancy Fong narrow her eyes and frown. “Actually, Martha got a better job and she starts Monday. Of course, that left us overworked and shorthanded. Especially since our paralegal took a dive out a window last week.”

  “No k
idding,” I said, wide-eyed.

  Nancy’s frown got deeper. She was plainly unhappy that Gladys had mentioned Rob’s death. “Alex is looking for the Ralston file, Gladys. It’s on my desk. Would you take it to him, please? While I show Jeri around.”

  Gladys rolled her eyes. She set the coffee mug she was carrying on the table, picked up the thick folder Nancy had indicated, and left the room.

  Nancy continued with my orientation. “Working hours are eight to four-thirty. You get an hour for lunch. People usually go around noon or twelve-thirty. The employee cafeteria is on the first floor, and it’s open for lunch from eleven-thirty to one. The food’s okay, but not great. And of course, there are all sorts of restaurants in the Jack London Square area. Now, let me show you where a few things are. Then I’ll introduce you to the attorneys.”

  I followed her out of the room. We were on the Third Street side of the building, so that made this the east hall. Nancy turned left. All the doors along this corridor had square opaque glass panes that showed the light from the offices they led to. We passed the door of a darkened office and turned left again, into the north hallway. Midway along this passage were the restrooms. Just this side of the entrance to the women’s room an open doorway led to a short hall, its carpet of lesser quality. The first room on the right held the copy machine.

  Nancy walked past this to the open area in front of the freight elevator. On the wall next to this I saw a time clock and a metal tray full of time cards. I wouldn’t have to worry about punching in and out. As a temp, I would note the hours I worked on a Woods Temporaries time card, which Nancy, as my supervisor, would sign.

  “This is our file room,” she said, opening a door beyond the freight elevator. I peered in at a square room, its walls lined with beige metal cabinets. Then Nancy turned, and we retraced our steps to the copy room.

  The huge copy machine looked as though it required one to be a NASA engineer to operate it. Pale green buttons were spread across its white exterior, and at the moment it issued forth a variety of hums and thumps as it went about its business, shuffling paper into the collator at the side.

  The woman who was waiting for her copies stood with her hands folded across her chest, staring as though mesmerized at a large green posterboard affixed to the wall above the copier. In block letters, the sign warned copier users on pain of equipment jams not to let a single staple, paper clip, or Post-it drift anywhere near this expensive and delicate machine.

  “What is that?” I asked Nancy, pointing at a keypad with an electronic readout. It protruded from the top of the copier like a brown rectangular mushroom.

  “It’s a pain in the ass,” said the woman who was making copies. She was short, with gray hair and a disgruntled expression.

  The machine stopped its sorting serenade after emitting a series of whines and clicks as it stapled her copies. She stacked the papers on top of the copier, then gathered them to the bosom of her green seersucker dress and departed. I looked inquiringly at Nancy.

  “It’s something that’s just been added, like the time clock,” she explained, compressing her lips into a thin line that told me just what she thought of both innovations. “This device is on all our copiers now, to keep track of supply usage. Before you can use the machine, you have to punch in your user code, then the department ID number. You have to do the same thing when you send a fax or make a long-distance telephone call. It takes some getting used to.”

  “I’ll bet.” In fact, I thought, it’s damned cumbersome. I could see why the woman in the green dress called it a pain in the ass.

  Another woman hurried into the room bearing a single sheet of paper, placed it into the sheet feeder, and doggedly punched in a series of numbers. The keypad beeped at her, evidently refusing her access to the machine. She swore at it, and punched in some more numbers. This time the keypad deigned to let her make a copy.

  All those numbers, I thought, were going to put a crimp in my investigation. What if I found some documents that could shed some light on Rob’s death? This made unauthorized copying a bit difficult. I’d have to figure out a way around it.

  Nancy was already moving back out to the north hallway. I followed her. “These offices along here are human resources and public affairs,” she said, waving at the doors, again with opaque glass insets, lining either side of the corridor. “The offices of the chief executive officer and the chief financial officer are on the west side of the building.”

  We headed back the way we’d come. When we turned the corner, Nancy stopped abruptly. The office that had been dark now showed light through the pebbled glass. Nancy opened the door. I saw a small windowless room, about eight feet square, with a desk facing the door. The walls were crowded with filing cabinets and bookcases, and it looked as though every surface was covered with documents and files. Gladys sat behind the desk, rummaging through some files that had been piled there.

  “What are you doing in here?” Nancy asked, her voice sharp.

  Gladys looked up. Her expression told me that she was surprised at Nancy’s tone. When she replied, her voice was tart. “Hank wants the Barelo Industries file. I know Rob had been working on it before... Well, Rob was the last person to have it.”

  “This was the paralegal’s office?” I asked, stepping into the doorway so I could get a better look. I itched to get in there and dig around, the way Gladys was doing right now.

  “Yes, it was,” Nancy said. “I haven’t had time to sort through things. It’s only been a week since he died.”

  “You packed up all his personal stuff, didn’t you?” Gladys asked.

  “Yes, earlier in the week,” Nancy said. “I delivered it to his sister last night after work. But now I need to sort through all these files, to see what he was working on.”

  “Well, I’m positive he had that Barelo Industries file.” Gladys rooted through some more files, then cried, “Aha!” in triumph. She unearthed a folder from the middle of the pile and held it aloft. “I knew it.” She stepped between Nancy and me and headed down the hall with the folder tucked under her arm.

  Nancy turned off the overhead light and firmly shut the door to the room that had been Rob’s. “I’ll deal with that later,” she said, more to herself than to me.

  I would have liked to deal with it there and then. But Nancy was already beckoning me to follow her.

  Thirteen

  “THIS CORNER OFFICE IS ALEX CAMPBELL’S,” Nancy said, continuing with her commentary as we walked along the east hallway. “He’s in a meeting, so I’ll introduce you to him later. Hank Irvin has the office next to Alex.”

  She tapped on the door she’d indicated, then opened it. I stepped from the perfectly adequate carpeting of the hallway onto the thick plush. The carpet was a deep rich brown, setting off the furniture, which looked like mahogany. At one end of the room stood two filing cabinets, wooden with lateral drawers. Next to this was a small round conference table with three chairs. The wide desk had a few files neatly arrayed on its surface. At a right angle from the desk I saw a matching computer stand with the usual equipment— computer, monitor, keyboard.

  Behind the desk, leaning back in a brown leather chair, was an athletic-looking man with short blond hair. He wore a well-cut gray pinstriped suit complete with snowy white shirt and red power tie. He was talking on the telephone, hands moving as he spoke. He gestured, indicating we should wait. Nancy pulled out one of the chairs at the conference table, and I did the same, glancing briefly out the window at the water glinting in the estuary. A moment later, the man ended his conversation and hung up the phone. He stood and moved around the desk, smiling.

  “Jeri, this is Hank Irvin,” Nancy said. “Hank, this is Jeri Howard. She’ll be working with us temporarily.”

  “Hi.” Hank Irvin stuck out his right hand and flashed a friendly smile. His eyes were blue, and I saw a dusting of freckles across the fair skin of his face. Mid-thirties, I guessed, about the same age as I was, with a firm handshake. As I shook
his hand, I noticed that the knuckles were skinned. He looked as though he worked out. Perhaps he’d had an encounter with some exercise equipment.

  “Welcome aboard,” he said. “Glad you were able to get someone in at such short notice, Nancy. I’ve got quite a few projects coming up, some of the things that Rob was supposed to be handling.” Nancy tightened her mouth and nodded. Hank Irvin turned to me. “Have you ever worked for a corporate lawyer, Jeri?”

  “I’ve worked for many different kinds of lawyers.” It was true. Not only had I worked for several law firms as a legal secretary and paralegal, but some of my regular clients as a private investigator were attorneys.

  “I think you’ll find things are different around here than in a law firm,” he said. His phone rang again, and Nancy took that as our exit line. “Nice meeting you, Jeri.”

  I’d noticed that everyone seemed to be on a first-name basis around here. That was different from the law offices where I’d worked years ago. Things were considerably more formal then. But perhaps that had changed, as well.

  Out in the hall, Nancy repeated her knock-and-enter routine at the next door. The office it opened onto was decorated differently from the one we’d just left. The carpet was cranberry, the miniblinds on the window pink. A clear vase that looked like expensive crystal sat on the credenza behind the desk, full of lush red roses dropping petals onto the oak surface. Bright red slashed through the abstract painting on the wall above the credenza.

  The woman wore red, as well, her suit the shade of an excellent cabernet. She was a sleek brunette whose curly hair had been resolutely tamed. It was wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She herself looked as though she was wound too tightly. She was on the phone, standing between the oak desk and the credenza that held the flowers and her computer setup. As she listened to whoever was talking on the other end of the line, her posture was rigid and she clutched the receiver with slender fingers that ended in bright red fingernails. Tension marred her oval face, as did the dark rings under her brown eyes.