Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hands. “I’m outta here.” I glanced at Fielding, whose lips curled in a grimace. He shrugged and gave me a what can I do? look.

I left the room, but waited outside the door. There was a brief back-and-forth I couldn’t make out between Fielding and Lopez, then silence. When I was pretty sure the coast was clear, I snuck back in and handed Fielding one of my cards.

“Call me,” I mouthed. He nodded and stuck the card in his shirt pocket.

I scampered out, knowing where two employees on the accounting staff stood.

At the opposite end of the long hall was Big Wig Central, where Brad said the president had his corner office and his veeps huddled around him for warmth. I could put my tail between my legs and slink off or I could try talking to Sondra Jones in Cooper’s stead. So talk to her, I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? She’ll tell me to leave her alone and talk to Hirschbeck. Or not. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I walked into an anteroom large enough for ten desks. I counted four. One, with a monitor and a phone that resembled the console of the Starship Enterprise, faced the door. The rest were perpendicular to the wall and near three office doors. A long black vinyl sofa with gleaming chrome legs filled the opposite wall. Magazines covered a faux-wood coffee table. Freestanding cabinets and shelving completed the decor.

At a far desk, a twenty-something woman with carrot-colored hair and a black micro-miniskirt chatted with a light-skinned black woman.

“Could you believe when he shot her? I couldn’t believe that,” the black woman said.

“Yeah, that shocked the hell out of me.”

I hoped they were talking about a movie or a TV show. I looked around, saw Sondra Jones’s name on a door and headed for it.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed the black woman gesture my way. Red rushed over to intercept me, tugging at the skirt hem which barely concealed her underwear preference. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Sondra Jones,

” I said, attempting an authoritative voice.

“Do you have an appointment?” Red went to the front desk and checked a calendar.

“No. But this is very important. I’m investigating the situation involving Bradley Higgins.” Okay, I’d left a few details out, but I wasn’t lying.

Her eyes widened. “Then she’ll want to talk to you. Can I have your name, please?”

“Sam McRae.”

“One moment.” She picked up the phone and I heard a faint ring coming from Jones’s office. She relayed the information to Jones then put her hand over the phone. “Are you with the police?” I shook my head. She told Jones, said “Okay,” then hung up.

“She’ll be out in just a moment,” she said, in a solemn voice.

“Thanks.” While inspecting a poster of an old pinball game over the sofa, I heard the door open and turned to see one of the tallest, thinnest women I’d ever laid eyes on. She wore a black suit and a pair of black spike-heeled pumps. Her raven hair, cut in an expensive careless shag, framed a pale face, pointed chin, cat-like green eyes and bright red lips.

“Come in and have a seat, Ms. McRae,” she said, with a lightness in her tone that contrasted with her appearance. She followed me into the office and closed the door before shaking my hand. “Sondra Jones. Since you’re not with the police, may I assume you’re a private investigator?”

“No. Actually, I’m an attorney representing Bradley Higgins.”

“I see.” She stiffened slightly. “Just a moment.” She picked up her phone and punched four buttons. “Len,” she said. “There’s a lawyer here about the Higgins matter. I need you to come to my office. Now.” So much for catching her off-guard.

“Our general counsel is coming,” she said, as she hung up. “He insists on being present at any meetings we have with lawyers.”

“I understand. While we’re waiting, I was wondering if your offices have hidden security cameras.”

Jones kept silent.

“Seen any good movies lately?” I asked.

Jones simply folded her hands. It appeared that even the most mundane chatter had to be monitored by Hirschbeck now. The silence stretched into an interminable five minutes before someone knocked.

The door opened and Leonard Hirschbeck came in. He was only a couple of inches taller than my own five foot eight. He’d put on weight since I’d dated him in law school, and his curly brown hair was receding. From the look on his face, I knew he was as happy to see me as I was to see him.

Jones and I got up. “This is Leonard Hirschbeck, general counsel for Kozmik Games. Len, this is—”