The Temporary Detective

Chapter 2

Isobel stepped through the doors of the tall, silver office building that housed Temp Zone and paused to inhale a noseful of diesel fumes. The scent was as pleasing to her as a whiff of Chanel. Everything about New York was exciting, even the polluted air. She was finally living the dream she had nurtured throughout her Milwaukee childhood and four years at the University of Wisconsin. She would work her way up through the ranks like generations of actors before her, starting with shoestring showcases in moldy church basements. Then she'd move on to summer stock in barns, regional productions in actual theaters, and national tours in refurbished vaudeville houses, before making her assault on Broadway from the Off side (okay, Off Off, if necessary). Now, by the grace of James Cooke, she was on her way to subsidizing this neatly plotted trajectory with her first paycheck.

James Cooke. There was a story there, she felt sure of it. But this wasn't the time to speculate about him; she had more pressing matters to contemplate. As Isobel elbowed her way down Madison Avenue, she reviewed her performance.

Use of smile: effective.

Persistence: the right amount of pluck tempered with sweetness.

But she'd made that stupid comment about going to the principal's office. And she'd told him about the lobsters.

Isobel liked to think that others found her candor charming, but she knew from experience that this was not always the case. She tried to impose a one-second delay between her brain and her mouth, but sometimes she just couldn't stop herself from blathering, especially when she was nervous. Her mother, her acting teacher, and especially her precocious younger brother, Percival, were forever telling her that she didn't need to work so hard to make a good impression, but it was not a lesson easily absorbed. Her interview with James was a good reminder that a deep breath was never a bad thing, and as she paid for her venti latte at Starbucks on Twenty-fourth Street, she resolved for the umpteenth time to restrain her rebellious tongue.

She left the coffee shop and turned the corner. Bright rays of October sunshine glinted off the art deco spires of One Madison Avenue like neon lights above a theater marquee. Isobel glanced at her watch. Almost ten o'clock. Right on time.

Here goes, she thought, and made her entrance through the revolving door.

She showed her driver's license to the guard at the front desk, signed the visitors' log, and waited patiently for an elevator, scrutinizing her reflection in the polished brass. She always dressed to emphasize her compact figure. Today she had chosen a tasteful rose-colored button-down shirt and black pants.

It never hurts to look the part, she reminded herself.

Isobel trailed a sea of suits and skirts into the elevator and allowed herself to be squashed into the corner. By the time it reached the seventeenth floor, there was only one woman left. Isobel followed her out.

"Is this InterBank Switzerland?" Isobel asked.

The woman sniffed sideways as if a bad smell had just wafted by, and pointed to a frosted pane of glass next to the heavy wooden door. If Isobel looked sideways and squinted, she could just make out the company name etched into it.

"Thanks," Isobel said, but she was addressing a flowered rear end. The woman swayed down the hall, nodding indulgent hellos on either side as if she were a duchess passing among her tenant farmers. The office, which seemed to stretch on for miles in every direction, was buzzing. There were cubicles upon cubicles in the center of the giant space, with conference rooms veering off into obscured corner areas. There didn't appear to be a receptionist, so Isobel inched her way over to the first desk on the left. A stout, bearded man was on the phone, arguing. Isobel cleared her throat softly.

"What?" he growled, covering the mouthpiece.

"I'm looking for Felice Edwards."

"Sixteenth floor."

"But I'm supposed to be temping on seventeen-"

"Felice Edwards. HR. Sixteen!" He put the receiver to his mouth again. "They gotta move me. I swear, I'm like the freakin' doorman."

Isobel returned to the hall and rang for the elevator.

This is stupid, she thought. It's only one floor down.

She followed the signs to Stairwell A and descended the two half-flights to the sixteenth floor, but when she tried the door, it was locked. Cursing her luck, she darted back upstairs to seventeen and reached for the knob.

The door had locked behind her.

She pounded on the door, but it was solid steel. She called for help, but the thick metal absorbed her cries, and after a minute, her fists ached too much to continue. There was nothing to do except try every floor until she found a door that opened.

But there was no reentry on fifteen, fourteen, thirteen or twelve. She began to panic more about getting out alive than being late. Fully expecting the door on eleven to be locked as well, she went flying through it with such force that she knocked into a delivery boy, whose paper bag burst against his chest, splattering him with scrambled egg and cheese.

"Sorry! I'm really sorry!" she cried, ignoring the stream of accusatory Spanish as she ducked into an open elevator. By the time she arrived on the sixteenth floor, it was almost ten fifteen. The gracious gold lettering and wide glass-fronted doors made it clear that this was the main reception area. Isobel leaned against the rounded, wood-paneled front desk and steadied her voice as she addressed the receptionist, who was talking to a tall, curvaceous woman with coffee-colored skin and fabulously twisted hair.

"I'm here to see Felice Edwards."

The tall woman disengaged herself. "That's me. Are you Isobel?"

"Yes! I am so sorry I'm late."

Felice smiled. "I'm just glad you're here. Follow me."

Back in the hall, Isobel reached for the elevator button, but Felice continued toward Stairwell A, talking over her shoulder. "These elevators take forever."

Isobel opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. They trudged upstairs to seventeen, where Felice opened the door with a key that hung on a lanyard around her neck.

"You'll be working in Frank Lusardi's group," Felice said, as they passed the angry bearded man in the cubicle and rounded the bend to one of the distant corners. The floral-skirted duchess from the elevator stood waiting for them in an open area with three vacant desks.

"This is Paula Toule-Withers. She'll show you around." With a vaguely reassuring flutter of her fingers, Felice retreated.

Paula rapped sharply on the nearest desk. "You're late."

"I know, I'm sorry, I was-"

"We've already started our department meeting," Paula said in a voice that betrayed the remains of a posh British accent warped by years in the U.S. "Just answer the phones until we're finished. Surely, you can manage that?"

Then she, too, was gone, and as if on cue, three phone lines rang at once. Still standing with her bag slung over her shoulder, Isobel set down her coffee and started answering.

"Good morning, InterBank Switzerland, please hold."

"Good morning, InterBank Switzerland, please hold."

"Good morning, InterBank Switzerland, please hold."

She bit her lip and looked at the three blinking red lights. Praying that nobody else would call, she picked up the first one again.

"Good morning. Can I help you?"

"Lou Volpe for Stan. He there?"

"I'm sorry, but he's in a staff meeting."

"Tell him I called."

"Can I get your num-?"

Click.

Isobel yanked open a desk drawer and rummaged around for a message pad. She pulled out a pair of maroon-handled scissors, a used-up roll of Scotch tape, a bent metal ruler, and a crusted-over bottle of Liquid Paper. Clearly, nobody had occupied this desk for some time. As she fished in her handbag, she balanced the phone on her shoulder and took the second call.

"Is Nikki in yet?" said a sexy male voice.

"She's in the staff meeting."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," replied Isobel, with cheery confidence.

He laughed. "Don't worry, I'll call back."

Isobel frowned and picked up the third call.

"Doreen? How could you keep me waiting all this time? DOREEN?" shrilled the woman's voice through the plastic.

"Um, this is Isobel."

"Who? There's no Isobel."

"I'm temping today. Can I help you?"

"Let me help you!" barked the woman. "Always pick up Frank's line first. He's the Senior VP. The others are unimportant." Another line started ringing. "And don't keep people on hold more than a few seconds!"

Isobel pulled her ponytail in frustration as two more lines jingled.

"Tell Frank I called." The woman hung up.

"I would, but who the hell are you?" Isobel muttered to the silent receiver. She gave up trying to find paper and picked up the next line, hoping that remembering messages wouldn't prove any harder than memorizing lines.

But the phones kept ringing, and Isobel kept answering. She paused to catch her breath while four of the six lines blinked on hold. The fifth line rang. Isobel grabbed it and, without thinking, shouted, "What?"

There was a pause, then a familiar deep voice said, "This is James Cooke from Temp Zone. May I speak to Isobel Spice?"

She gasped and slammed down the phone.

"s**t!" She sank down in her chair. It was all over now. She couldn't handle the phones-she could barely get herself onto the seventeenth floor. The temp agencies were right to turn her away. She was in over her head.