With that, he left the coffee room.
I heard a noise in the hall – a familiar yet oddly chilling sound. The rhythmic beep of the mail cart making its rounds.
I confess I was a little anxious when I stepped out into the hall to see the mail cart. It wasn't the same mail cart Ted had been killed on, of course; the police had that. I'd called the company that supplied and serviced the mail cart, explained the situation, and asked them to bring over another one, ASAP. And while their initial definition of ASAP wasn't at all what I had in mind, they quickly revised it, after I remarked that I hadn't yet had any reason to tell the media what brand of mail cart had been used in the murder. So I'd been expecting to see a mail cart.
Still, it was more than a little odd to hear it for the first time, and to see it chugging down the hall again. I was strangely relieved to see nothing on it but mail. No still form – and for that matter, no attempts at decoration. Thank heaven for small favors.
As I watched it chug by, I noticed that several other people had stepped out of their cubes or offices to do the same thing. It was almost as if we'd declared a minute of silence to coincide with the start of the cart's first run of the day. We all watched until it rounded the corner into the next corridor, and then we looked at each other, sheepishly.
“Ironic, isn't it?“ Rico said, plucking at the hem of yet another RISD T-shirt. “Him getting killed on that thing.“
“I think it's more ironic that he was killed with a mouse cord,“ another graphic artist said. “Just think, maybe if we'd spent the money for wireless mice, Ted might be alive today.“
“No, but look at the irony of it being the mail cart,“ Rico insisted. “It was like he was obsessed with it. Always playing with it.“
“And everyone else around here wasn't?“ I asked.
They shrugged their shoulders, sheepishly. If they'd tried to argue, I would have pointed out how much time the art department had spent over the past week decorating the mail cart.
“Yeah, we all played with it,“ a programmer said. “But Ted was obsessed, definitely. He was the only one trying to re-program it.“
“Reprogram it?“ I echoed.
“Yeah. You know how the thing works, right?“
“It follows a line of ultraviolet dye on the carpet.“
“More like a series of dots, really. It reads the dots, like Morse code. There's patterns that mean turn left, turn right, stop. Ted got a black light, so he could see the dots, and he spent hours trying to make a dye that the machine could read and then something to wash out the dye. Didn't work, of course.“
“Then how did he manage to reroute the machine?“ I asked. “I don't think we had a day last week when the damned thing didn't turn up someplace where it wasn't supposed to be. I was trapped in the women's room for half an hour, remember, when he managed to get the thing stalled outside the door.“
“Just be glad he wasn't successful at opening the door,“ one of them said while the others snickered. “He had a couple of Web cams hooked up to the cart that day, you know.“
“No, I didn't know,“ I said. “And it's a good thing I didn't, or he wouldn't have lived as long as he did. So if he didn't figure out how to make and erase dots, how did he manage to reroute the mail cart?“
“He was moving carpet tiles around,“ Rico said. “You walk around this place and half the carpet tiles are loose. See!“
He walked a few steps, scuffing each tile as he went. The fifth tile he touched moved a few inches out of position when he kicked it.
“He was gluing them back down,“ a programmer said. “I saw him.“
“Yeah, but whatever he was using didn't do the job like the commercial adhesive the carpet installers use,“ Rico said. “Another week and you wouldn't have been able to walk around here for loose tiles.“
Was this useful? I didn't see offhand how Ted's high jinks with the mail cart got me any closer to finding his killer. Still, you never knew.
Now that the cart had disappeared, everyone began drifting back to their cubes and offices. All except Roger the Stalker, who, as usual, had been lurking silently at the edge of the group. I forced a smile. He might be a creep, but who knows, I thought. Even Roger could have some useful information.
“What's new, Roger?“ I said.
He bunked and glanced back, as if he thought there might be some other Roger in the hallway.
“We're having pizza,“ he said finally. “Luigi's. Seven-thirty.“
“That's nice,“ I said.
He nodded and drifted back into Cubeville.
Apparently the guys were planning a little outing and had forgotten to tell me. Or maybe hadn't intended to invite me – perhaps they thought I'd force-feed them more vegetables. In any case, this could be useful. Gathering information would be much easier when no one expected them to hurry back to work. And when they were full of pizza and beer.
See, I told myself. Even creepy Roger can serve a useful purpose, now and then.
Two useful purposes, in fact; seeing him reminded me that I still needed to feed George.
I was heading back to the lunchroom when I ran into Liz.
“You look a little tired,“ I said. Actually, she looked as if she'd gotten even less sleep than I had. I decided it would not be a kindness to tell her about the giant run in her pantyhose. “How's it going?“
She shook her head. “Slow,“ she said. “As if I needed yesterday's interruptions. Or all the media stuff.“
“You do a good job with that,“ I said.
She shrugged. “I suppose,“ she said. “I just try to do whatever needs to be done to take care of the problem.“
“You're doing great.“
“They don't like me a lot,“ she said. “I don't give them much.“
“They probably like you a lot more today,“ I said. “I've been biting their heads off all morning.“
“Good show,“ she said. “But we shouldn't have to be doing this, either of us. Why couldn't Ted have managed to get himself killed somewhere where it wouldn't be my problem? Our problem, really.“
“What is it that's keeping you so busy, anyway?“ I asked.
“Preparing a brief,“ she said. “And I'm not likely to get an extension just because we've had a murder here. If what your dad says is true, and you're trying to find Ted's murderer, maybe you should look at the guy who's suing us. If you ask me, he's got a great motive.“
“Someone's suing Mutant Wizards?“
“Someone's
“Or pretends to think it,“ I suggested.
“Precisely,“ she said. “Not surprising, I suppose, given how successful the game has been. Still, it's enough to destroy your faith in human nature, if you have any left.“
“So you don't think this guy will win?“
“I don't think any of them will win, ultimately; but that doesn't mean they can't keep us tied up in court for years, wasting my time and the firm's money. We really ought to hire outside counsel, sooner rather than later. A firm that specializes in intellectual property disputes. I may ask you to help me talk Rob into it.“
“It's bad enough that we need outside help?“
“I can barely handle the volume of paperwork as it is,“ she said. “When they start releasing some of the brand extensions – Doctors from Hell, Cops from Hell, things like that – there are a lot more games on those
