key behind,” Judith reasoned. “So how did the killer explain
having the key in his—or her—possession?”
“Maybe,” Renie said, “we should go downstairs and leave
the rest of this stuff until later.”
“You mean we should get to Nadia while she’s still alive?”
Judith thought for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea, but I’d
like to finish our search so we can return this stuff in case
somebody else comes looking for it.”
The briefcase was full of what looked like personnel folders
along with Andrea’s notes, many of which had been taken
at the previous day’s meetings. “See what you make of these,”
Judith said, handing the notes to Renie. “I don’t speak corporate lingo.”
Renie scanned the handwritten pages. “Most of the references are about planning for the future. Frank’s vision for
OTIOSE, comments from the others, suggestions, ideas, all
that sort of thing. It’s pretty bland, if you ask me.”
“I did,” Judith replied absently, flipping through a fat daily
planner. Since it started with January first, there weren’t
many entries, and most of them struck Judith as routine. She
did, however, find Patrice Killegrew’s name written in three
times.
“Isn’t this too much buttering up?” she asked of Renie.
“Here’s dinner with Patrice on Wednesday, January third,
lunch on Friday, the fifth, and again last Thursday.” Judith
sifted through the receipts again. “I can find only the one
from the Manhattan Grill. Patrice must have treated on the
other two occasions. They lunched both times at that bistro
in the public market.”
“It might have something to do with Frank’s retirement,”
Renie said, removing several folders from the briefcase. “You
know, planning a big bash to honor the occasion.”
“Wouldn’t Nadia be involved in that?” Judith inquired.
“Well—yes, but sometimes human resources people get
sucked in, too.” Renie opened one of the folders. It was the
same one she had found on the podium in the conference
room. “Andrea played the horses?”
“Why not? We do when we get the chance.” Judith put
the receipts back in Andrea’s wallet.
“I suppose she needed a vice besides Leon Mooney,” Renie
allowed. “He wouldn’t make me feel steeped in sin. Hey,
this is weird.” Renie had turned to the second page of material in the folder. “There’s another list, but it’s names and
titles and companies, along with a bunch of other really
strange stuff.”
Judith took the sheet of paper from Renie. The first listing
read, “Charles E. Fisher, vice president—customer services,
S.W. Com.; Oct. 8–10, Cascadia Hotel, Room 608, bouncy
blonde or redhead, no S&M.”
