Denard was admirably patient. 'No, I didn't, but then, I left early. It was Roxanne who locked up.'
'Roxanne,' Catherine said, 'who's currently on vacation.'
'Yes.'
Gesturing toward the reception desk, Nick asked, 'Can we get a photocopy of the Saturday sign-in page, from the binder, please?'
'Certainly. I'll be right back.'
Catherine said, 'We might as well go with you. We'll want to speak to Ben and have a look at his work station.'
'Whatever you need,' Denard said, but a weariness had crept into the woman's voice.
They followed her down the long corridor, falling in line behind her, single file; then they were in the work area, where she escorted the safari around a wall of cubicles and down a path to another hive of partitions. Denard stopped at the third cubicle down.
'Ben's work station,' Denard announced.
'But no Ben,' Nick said.
Denard checked her watch, shrugged with her eyebrows. 'He might be in the break room or in the washroom. Might even have stepped out for a moment.'
'Stepped out?' Catherine asked, with a little frown.
'Advertising is a high-stress business,' Denard explained. 'You'd be amazed how many of our employees smoke. Since there's no smoking in the building, they have to go out back. We have a small area out there to accommodate them.'
O'Riley wanted to take a look at that, and Denard gave him instructions; then the burr-headed detective lumbered off.
As Catherine set down her crime scene case and prepared to go to work, Nick took a quick look at the cubicle, which seemed at first just another of these anonymous interchangeable compartments. Then he looked closer and noted the touches Ben Jackson had added to make the place his own.
Thumb-tacked to one of the cloth walls was a pennant from Iowa State University-CYCLONES! A five-by- seven frame on his desk displayed a photo of a beaming blue-eyed blonde woman in her early twenties-Jackson's girlfriend or wife, presumably. Ten mini-bobble heads stood in a line atop Jackson's computer monitor: baseball players, a few of which were caricatured well enough for Nick to recognize.
Catherine held up the framed photo in a latex-gloved hand. 'Who's this?'
Denard, who'd been hovering nervously in the nearby hallway, glanced around surreptitiously, then said, sotto voce, 'Ben's wife, Laura. They've only been married a few months. That's part of why I can't believe it was him.'
'Ms. Denard,' Catherine said, 'we do not assume it's Ben. Please-no jumping to conclusions.'
When Nunez and crew, with the help of uniformed officers, removed the computer towers, the monitors and keyboards had been left behind. But Nunez had prepared a list of serial numbers with the names of the Newcombe-Gold employees at a given work station. Right now Catherine was checking the keyboard's serial number, making sure this was indeed Jackson's keyboard-which could have been switched, after all.
'This is Jackson's keyboard,' she said, bumping into Nick for the third time.
'There's not room for two of us in here,' Nick said. 'While you do this, why don't I go with Ms. Denard, to copy the sign-in book page?'
'Why don't you?' Catherine said. She was poised at the computer keyboard like a starving person about to sit down to a big, fine meal.
Field kit in hand, Nick followed Denard back to her office, where she photocopied the document and handed it toward Nick, who asked, 'Would you mind if you kept the copy, and I took the original?'
'Well…I suppose. But why do you need the original?'
'We might have to have a handwriting expert look at it, and it'll be easier to work with the original.'
Her expression was astounded. 'A
He shrugged, and gave her a little smile. 'Just covering the bases.'
She returned the smile, almost shyly, and handed over the original. He gave it a quick scan, then tucked it into an evidence envelope and slipped it inside his kit.
'Thanks,' Nick said. 'Now, shall we try to find Ben Jackson?'
'All right,' Janice said. 'Better start back at his work station.'
But when they got there, Jackson still wasn't there. Catherine was just finishing up, packing her silver case.
'Anything?' Nick asked.
'Got some prints,' she said, pulling off her latex gloves. 'From the keyboard, desk, and even the edge of the cubicle itself; not much more. Tomas may be able to tell us something after he goes through the computer. You didn't happen to run into the elusive Mr. Jackson, on your journey, did ya?'
'Nope. But I have the original from the sign-in book. Ms. Denard kept the copy. We were kind of hoping he'd be back in his roost by now.'
Catherine shook her head, red-blonde arcs of hair cutting the air. 'Haven't seen him or anyone else.'
Nick turned to Denard. 'When we do locate Ben, is there somewhere we can talk to him alone?'
Denard made a vague gesture. 'Break room is right around the corner, when you leave my office.'
Nick nodded. 'I know we've been imposing, but would you mind tracking Ben down for us? Asking him to meet us there?'
She nodded curtly, professionally; Denard was clearly happier when given a task. 'I'll take care of it.'
'And if you run into our wandering boy, Sergeant O'Riley, would you guide him to the break room, as well?'
'No problem.'
When the office manager was gone, Catherine and Nick-field kits in hand-went the opposite direction through the covey of cubicles. Shortly, he was pushing open a door holding it open for Catherine as she stepped into the break room. Which was was larger than Nick would have expected for this facility, with round, dark-wood-topped tables and conference-room-style padded chairs positioned around the twenty-by-twenty-five-foot room. Against one wall was a big-screen TV, and along another a long counter with microwave, an espresso machine, a stainless steel sink and an assortment of condiments. At the far end of the counter a full-size refrigerator and a Coke machine stood guard. A smoked-glass window ran the length of the far wall and let in just enough sun and a nice view of a back-parking-lot basketball court.
'So this is what it's like to have perks,' Nick said, setting his case on one of the tables.
'No kidding,' Catherine said, doing the same with her kit. 'If our break room was set up like this, I'd pitch a tent and move in.'
Janice Denard didn't keep them waiting long. Barely five minutes after she had left them, she entered and held the door open for the young man they'd waited for.
The individual Nick took to be Ben Jackson stood well over six feet tall, carried over two hundred seventy pounds on a wide frame, yet moved with a grace a man half his size might envy. The artist's brown crewcut above an ample forehead gave him a collegiate look; his brown eyes were bright, alert.
'Detectives Willows and Stokes,' Denard said, 'this is Ben Jackson…. No sign of your sergeant.'
'Thanks,' Nick said to Denard, not bothering to correct the 'detective' designation. But to Jackson, Nick said, 'I'm Stokes, she's Willows. From the crime lab.'
Jackson nodded at Catherine and seemed to want to shake hands, but thought better of it.
'Thank you again, Ms. Denard,' Catherine said.
Denard took the hint and backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as she went.
'Have a seat,' Catherine said to Jackson in a pleasant but not particularly friendly fashion. The man headed to a table, walking with the slightest hint of a limp.
Nick and Catherine sat on either side of the young man at one of the round tables. Still pleasant, Catherine said, 'You're pretty casual.' She gestured around the room. 'I would've taken this for a shirt-and-tie kind of place.'
Jackson shook his head. 'Only if a client's coming in.'
'Don't have to be a detective,' Nick said, affably, 'to figure you played some football.'
