Little Deadly Things (37 page)

It was unlikely that there was a more uncomfortable person anywhere in New England, perhaps the entire eastern seaboard, than the woman who stood behind Marta Cruz, waiting to speak with the grief-stricken scientist.

She was a bookkeeper at NMech with neither managerial authority nor seniority in the company, having joined the accounting staff only months earlier. She recognized Marta—Dr. Cruz—but had never spoken with her. She knew Colleen Lowell from news vids. She had met Eva Rozen once, and then managed to avoid the CEO. That was an easy task. Denise Warren was, after all, just a bookkeeper.

But I’ve been a conscientious bookkeeper,
she thought.
I like it when things balance.
She believed that she’d been given a gift, a sixth sense that prompted her to dig a bit here and there. Sometimes, when she dug a bit here and there, she found something that Didn’t Fit.
Not so much a gift,
Warren thought,
but a curse that’s cost me two jobs, and now maybe three.

Her first disaster came two years ago when she uncovered something that Didn’t Fit—a scheme to inflate her employer’s sales figures.
My luck, I bring this to my boss and find out he’s the one who rigged the charade. He gets promoted. I get fired.
Nine months later her intuition led her to discover an innocent error, but the company’s restated financial report forced the business into bankruptcy. Warren’s position fell to a cost-cutting program prompted by her findings.

So it was with understandable trepidation that Denise Warren approached Marta Cruz to offer condolences, and to bring her Jeremiah-like intuition to bear on an inexplicable series of entries in the NMech accounts receivable department. The funeral of Dr. Cruz’s friend was neither the time nor place to discuss a business matter, but the discrepancies had aroused her curiosity, which led to more discoveries. The irregularities would be a serious issue for the annual audit. But what prompted a now-hypothermic Denise Warren to linger at the funeral of a stranger was a bothersome detail that looked, well, criminal.

But what do I know? I’m just a bookkeeper.

Denise blew on her hands and shifted from one numbed foot to the other. Despite the warmth-preserving fibers in her gloves and socks, her hands and feet seemed about as warm as meat in a butcher’s refrigerator. When the rest of the mourners had departed, she approached a weary and equally cold Marta Cruz.

“Dr. Cruz, I’m so sorry for your loss, and, urn...” Warren stammered and hesitated. Would this cost her job?

“Thank you,” Cruz murmured.

“I’m Denise Warren from accounting. I’m sorry to trouble you at Dr. Lowell’s funeral, but I need to tell you something. I know this is a bad time, but—”

Jim Ecco stood and placed himself between the two shivering women. “This
is
a bad time. Why are you here, anyway? Did you know Dr. Lowell?”

Warren’s eyes turned down and she felt them well with tears. She had visions of losing yet another job. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t urgent and I don’t know who else to turn to. My boss won’t listen to me, but there’s a problem that will hurt NMech.”

“There’s going to be another problem if you don’t leave my wife alone.”

Marta placed her arm on Jim’s and looked at the distraught woman.

“I know that I’m nobody.” Warren drew in a breath and then pressed on, “I’m an ant.”

Marta started. She looked more carefully at the accountant. “What did you say?”

“I, uh, I said, no, it’s not important.”

“Yes, it is. You said, ‘I’m an ant...”’ Marta’s voice trailed off. “Bibijagua...”

Denise looked confused. “N-no. Bookkeeper. I, uh, I’ve only worked at NMech a little while. But I found a problem and it can’t wait.” She faltered. It was useless. Why would a scientist care about a bookkeeping problem?

Marta looked at the woman. She was pale with cold, fatigue, and fear. Marta took her arm. “Ms. Warren? Are you as cold as I am? Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? In fact, I could use something stronger. Maybe a lot stronger. Let’s find someplace warm, shall we, dear?”

Twenty-five hundred miles southeast, on a small island off the coast of the Mexican resort town of Puerto Vallarta, two guards herded prisoner 14162C from his cell at the Isla Maria Madre Federal Penitentiary. The prisoner coughed and reached for a cigarette. One guard told him to get his things together. He was being released.

Prisoner 14162C did not comprehend the news. He had years left on his sentence, assuming he’d survive that long. He’d managed to make a place for himself in the minimum security facility. But he’d aged, and was weaker than a 56-year-old who had not spent most of his adult years in prison. Still, Isla Maria Madre was warm and blessed with fresh air. In another environment, 14162C would have perished from infectious disease or unrestrained violence.

The guards marched him past the prison’s encampments, construction sites, and farming areas. They stopped at the prison commissary where he was allowed to purchase two loaves of bread for his journey. The guards could not or would not tell him where he was going, or why. They herded him into a jeep and travelled to a small airfield. Prisoner 14162C was to be flown to the Mexican mainland, and from there he would be taken into custody by someone else. The guards were expressionless. The prisoner was confused, but excited.

When the small prison plane landed at the Puerto Vallarta International Airport, three security agents met 14162C. The prison guards unlocked the man’s shackles. The security agents gave him a change of clothing and slapped a narrow strip of nanofabric on his neck. It looked like a priest’s collar. They warned him that if he tried to escape he would be subdued quite painfully. One of the agents touched his datasleeve and the prisoner winced and clutched his neck, where the nanofabric had been placed. “That is just a taste of what you’ll get if you even look cross-eyed. Understand?” The prisoner nodded and was herded to a small plane bearing an NMech logo.

Rafael Cruz was headed north, a perplexed but willing guest of Eva Rozen.

___________________________________________

GUESSING GAMES

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
MONDAY, MARCH 2, 2045

M
arta Cruz watched Denise Warren stare at the place setting in front of her, glance at Jim, and then quickly look down again. Jim studiously ignored her. Dana gazed at her, fascinated. Denise had a round, open face, freckled, and framed by light brown hair cut in a pageboy bob. Her black slacks were an expensive blend of silk and wool, well-tailored and well-worn. A dark purple jacket with a Nehru collar was buttoned carefully over a black blouse. Marta looked at her eyes. Another day they might sparkle inquisitively, but now Marta saw only grief.

Marta felt protective of this woman she’d met only moments ago. She put her hand on Denise’s. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still cold. Right now I feel like I might never be warm again. Would you care for a glass of wine? And I hope you won’t make me eat alone.” She caught the waiter’s attention and asked for menus. She turned to Denise and asked, “Do you like red wine or white wine?”

The bookkeeper shrugged. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Marta assumed hostess duties. She pointed to the wine list and ordered a bottle of Stag’s Leap Chardonnay and one of Cakebread Cellars Merlot. “Please bring us three,” she paused and looked at her son, “no, make that four glasses. And some
apertivos
for the table if you would, please.”

Wine, water, and plates of bread materialized and Marta asked, “Red or white?”

“Either one,” said Denise.

“Oh, my dear,” said Marta, “I’m not sure what you think of me, but mindreading is beyond my capabilities. That’s my husband’s province. In fact,” she turned to Jim, “which wine does Denise prefer?” To her puzzled guest, she explained, “He’s good at this, you see.”

Jim studied Denise. “Red.”

“Good guess, dad,” said Dana, “but I think you’re wrong.”

Jim gave his son a look that said, “Don’t start with me.”

“I don’t quite think I understand,” said Denise.

Dana turned to her. “It’s like Mom said. Some people think Dad’s a mind-reader but he just looks for the tiny gestures people make. He sees things that others don’t see. But he’s trying to figure out why you’re here and he can’t. That’s making him nervous and he guessed wrong about the wine.”

Jim said, “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have an ungrateful child.’”

“King Lear?” asked Denise.

“Excellent,” said Jim. “Somewhere in Act I, if I remember correctly. I don’t know Lear, but I think every parent has that quote down pat.” He grinned at Denise and her face relaxed. They had found a small common ground.

Marta turned back to Denise. “Ms. Warren, this is a game that my husband and my son play. They call it ‘reading’ people. Do you mind?”

Denise looked back and forth between Dana and Jim and shrugged. “I...don’t know what you mean, but okay.”

Marta watched as Dana considered their guest for several seconds. Her pride in him helped to balance her grief. Dana was beginning to develop the features of manhood. His face was chiseled, quite unlike Jim’s; he looked more like Rafael, her father. Dana had a hawkish nose and pronounced Adam’s apple. The hint of a beard that he was developing added shadow to his face. He was built with broad shoulders, like Rafael, and would grow to about six feet, unlike anyone in Jim’s family or in her own. He was a unique individual.

Dana looked Denise over and said, “You’re a solitary person, but not always by choice.” A slight tension appeared on Denise’s forehead. “Ah, gee, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have started there. Mom says to start with the things people like to hear.”

“How did you know that?” asked Denise, interested and, for the first time since they’d met, a bit more at ease.

“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he continued. “You are more orderly than most people. You got laid off or fired before you came to NMech.” Dana paused and watched her reaction. “Twice?” She nodded. “Whistleblower?” She cocked her head and stared at Dana before nodding again.

“You thought about coming to the funeral all night and didn’t get much sleep. You made up your mind to come at the last minute. You have a cat—is it named Rex? Mom trusts you and she wants Dad to trust you, too. And he’s wrong, you prefer white wine.”

Denise stared, openmouthed. Jim smiled and Marta beamed at her son.

“How on earth did you know my cat’s name?” Denise asked. “Did you get that from your sleeve? I didn’t think that was in my cloud data.”