The Temporary Detective

Chapter Two

Isobel stepped through the doors of the tall, silver office building that housed Temp Zone and paused to inhale a noseful of diesel fumes. The scent was as pleasing to her as a whiff of Chanel. Everything about New York was exciting, even the polluted air. She was finally living the dream she had nurtured throughout her Milwaukee childhood and four years at the University of Wisconsin. She would work her way up through the ranks like generations of actors before her, starting with shoestring showcases in moldy church basements. Then she'd move on to summer stock in barns, regional productions in actual theaters, and national tours in refurbished vaudeville houses, before making her assault on Broadway from the Off side (okay, Off Off, if necessary). Now, by the grace of James Cooke, she was on her way to subsidizing this neatly plotted trajectory with her first paycheck.

James Cooke. There was a story there, she felt sure of it. But this wasn't the time to speculate about him; she had more pressing matters to contemplate. As Isobel elbowed her way down Madison Avenue, she reviewed her performance.

Use of smile: effective.

Persistence: the right amount of pluck tempered with sweetness.

But she'd made that stupid comment about going to the principal's office. And she'd told him about the lobsters.

Isobel liked to think that others found her candor charming, but she knew from experience that this was not always the case. She tried to impose a one-second delay between her brain and her mouth, but sometimes she just couldn't stop herself from blathering, especially when she was nervous. Her mother, her acting teacher, and especially her precocious younger brother, Percival, were forever telling her that she didn't need to work so hard to make a good impression, but it was not a lesson easily absorbed. Her interview with James was a good reminder that a deep breath was never a bad thing, and as she paid for her venti latte at Starbucks on Twenty-fourth Street, she resolved for the umpteenth time to restrain her rebellious tongue.

She left the coffee shop and turned the corner. Bright rays of October sunshine glinted off the art deco spires of One Madison Avenue like neon lights above a theater marquee. Isobel glanced at her watch. Almost ten o'clock. Right on time.

Here goes, she thought, and made her entrance through the revolving door.

She showed her driver's license to the guard at the front desk, signed the visitors' log, and waited patiently for an elevator, scrutinizing her reflection in the polished brass. She always dressed to emphasize her compact figure. Today she had chosen a tasteful rose-colored button-down shirt and black pants.

It never hurts to look the part, she reminded herself.

Isobel trailed a sea of suits and skirts into the elevator and allowed herself to be squashed into the corner. By the time it reached the seventeenth floor, there was only one woman left. Isobel followed her out.

"Is this InterBank Switzerland?" Isobel asked.

The woman sniffed sideways as if a bad smell had just wafted by, and pointed to a frosted pane of glass next to the heavy wooden door. If Isobel looked sideways and squinted, she could just make out the company name etched into it.

"Thanks," Isobel said, but she was addressing a flowered rear end. The woman swayed down the hall, nodding indulgent hellos on either side as if she were a duchess passing among her tenant farmers. The office, which seemed to stretch on for miles in every direction, was buzzing. There were cubicles upon cubicles in the center of the giant space, with conference rooms veering off into obscured corner areas. There didn't appear to be a receptionist, so Isobel inched her way over to the first desk on the left. A stout, bearded man was on the phone, arguing. Isobel cleared her throat softly.