Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

If Blondie was a hit man, why was he looking for Cooper? Was Cooper his client or his quarry? Did he knock Cooper out and dump him in the canal to make it look accidental?

I got up and began straightening and putting away files. Paperwork often took over my shoebox office. Doing something with my hands helped me clarify my thoughts.

Assuming Cooper was murdered, who would want him dead? Could it have been his partners in crime, if he was in on the embezzlement? Maybe they got greedy and decided to off him. Did Cooper sense this? Did he leave Kozmik knowing they were out to get him?

I stopped to look out the window. Dead leaves gathered at the bases of the street lamps and inside the iron tree guards around Main Street’s Bradford pears.

Had Cooper posed a threat to someone because of Brad’s discovery? When Brad discovered the phony vendor, Cooper might have decided to take the evidence to headquarters, in exchange for cutting a deal for himself. Come clean and avoid prosecution.

It would explain why Cooper had copies of the incriminating papers and why he rented at Elva’s. Too bad it didn’t work. But it didn’t explain the cash in Brad’s file drawer. An embezzler might have set Brad up and then dispatched Blondie to make sure Cooper never talked.

It was obvious that high stakes were involved. A bundle had been stolen to buy discs. People were dying because of what was on those discs. I wished I could ask Cooper about it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Like a pebble thrown into a pond, Cooper may have left some ripples—some evidence of his intentions. The contents of the fireproof box would soon be in my possession. Alex Kramer said the papers looked like “insurance” that Cooper was keeping as evidence of what the embezzlers were up to. If my hunch was right, Cooper had gone to Philadelphia for more than a cheesesteak. Perhaps he approached the parent company to cash in his policy, so to speak.

I got online and looked for the parent company, Mid-Atlantic Entertainment, Inc. Before dialing, I jotted notes of what to say and a list of responses to questions they were likely to ask. After listening to a litany of choices, I pressed “0” for a human being—a woman who spoke in a high-pitched, nasal whine. I explained that I was a lawyer, interested in speaking to someone about a matter concerning their Kozmik Games subsidiary. I reviewed my crib notes as I spoke.

“Can you tell me about the specific matter you wish to discuss?” the grating voice asked. “I want to direct you to the right person.”

“I’m representing a Kozmik Games employee who’s been placed on administrative leave, pending a financial audit. I believe his supervisor, Darrell Cooper, may have contacted someone at your office to discuss something germane to the audit.”

“Does this concern active litigation?”

“No.” Not yet.

There was some hemming and hawing. “I’ll direct you to Garland Perry, the vice president who handles that subsidiary.” She gave me a four-digit extension, in case we got disconnected, then said, “Hold please.”

I visualized what a guy named Garland Perry would look like and wondered why on earth a parent would choose such a moniker for a son. I repeated my story to an administrative assistant who put me on hold a moment, then patched me through to a man. His pleasant, bland voice told me he was bound for a lifetime of service in middle management. I pictured someone of medium height with a soft midsection and thinning hair, possibly a comb-over.

“A lawyer, eh? I’m not sure I’m supposed to be talking to you . . . .”

“If I promise not to use any Latin words, will you humor me?”

He laughed—a hearty Chamber of Commerce mixer laugh. “And a charming lady lawyer, too. You’re dangerous.”

“‘I’m not bad,’” I quoted Jessica Rabbit. “‘I’m just drawn that way.’”

Garland laughed again. I was getting good at this.

“Oh, dear,” he said, still chuckling. “Charming and funny. You’re lethal.” He composed himself. “Well, how can I help you today?”

His manner was light and casual, but his voice had a purposeful undertone. Garland was no fool.

“I was hoping to talk to Darrell Cooper, but he’s left Kozmik. I understand he moved to Philadelphia. I’ve been having a heck of a time finding him.” I paused to let it sink in. “I hope you can provide a lead.” I skipped over the part about Darrell being dead.

“Interesting.” Long pause. I wondered if Garland knew about Darrell. Had I said the wrong thing? Maybe he’d hung up. “What makes you think I would know where he is?”

Garland may not have been a fool, but he was no expert at this game. An answer like that was too guarded, too cagey. I had the distinct feeling that he knew more about Darrell than he was telling. Smelling blood, I shoved my crib notes aside.

“As the vice president responsible for this subsidiary, I assumed you might be aware of the fact that Cooper left Kozmik shortly after the, uh, situation there arose.” I avoided the term “embezzlement,” because it reeked of legalese. “When I heard he went to Philadelphia, I thought, perhaps, he might approach you about a new job or a reference.” I paused, sighing for dramatic effect. In my best forlorn voice, I said, “I don’t know. I was just taking a shot.”

Another silence. Please, please, I thought. Throw me a crumb.

“Cooper did call me recently, but not about a job or a reference. And I’m afraid I don’t know where he is.”

“What was it—?”