The Temporary Detective

Chapter Three

Isobel rested her forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and watched the automatic sink wash down her response to what she had just seen. She was tempted to look again, to make sure she wasn't hallucinating, but the splayed feet just visible under the stall were enough to convince her.

Doreen Fink was sitting on the pot, with a pair of scissors sticking out of her meaty bosom and blood dripping down the sides of her mouth. Her eyes were glassy and unseeing, and although Isobel had never seen a dead body before, she was pretty sure Doreen had peed her last. With a jolt, Isobel remembered that she still had to go to the bathroom terribly. For a moment, she couldn't move; her hands seemed frozen to the sink. Then, feeling cold and hot at the same time, not to mention distinctly weak in the knees, she inched her way as fast as she could to the stall farthest from Doreen's, sat down, and tried to think.

She knew she should call for help, but she didn't want to be the person who found Doreen, with all the possible guilt that implied. She could simply leave and belatedly join the emergency drill, but no doubt Doreen's stall door would display two large handprints from where she had pushed it inward. Those handprints would be even harder to explain if she fled the scene of the crime, which she was well aware was a crime in itself. If only she had passed out, she wouldn't have to do a thing. She briefly considered faking it, but decided this was not the best time to be caught acting. No, going for help was the only sensible course of action.

She flushed, washed her hands, and splashed cold water on her face. The alarm bells had finally stopped, and it wouldn't be long before people would be returning to their desks. Somebody might come into the bathroom at any minute.

Somebody did.

It was Paula Toule-Withers, who glowered at Isobel and reached for the door of the first stall.

"Don't go in there!"

Isobel's shout startled her every bit as much as it did Paula, who shrieked and jumped back, hitting her head on the tile wall.

"Holy Christ!" yelped Paula. "What is wrong with you, you stupid twit?"

Isobel had half a mind to let Paula see for herself, but the words choked themselves out anyway.

"She's dead! We need to call for help."

Paula sucked in her breath and growled, "I'm telling Felice-no more actresses!"

And with that, she pushed in the door to Doreen's stall.

Isobel wasn't sure which she found more satisfying: the fact that Paula didn't even make it to the sink, or the fact that now her fingerprints were on the stall as well.

* * *

As Isobel waited in the small, airless conference room with the others, she found herself annoyed by how thoroughly Doreen Fink had ruined her day. If only Doreen hadn't tricked her into staying longer, Isobel wouldn't have been around to discover her body. Then again, obnoxious as Doreen had been, it seemed unjust to blame her for her own death. Even so, Isobel couldn't help feeling manipulated. She wondered if she could bill for the extra time.

Paula Toule-Withers returned from her police interview, retrieved her things, and left without a word. Isobel looked around the table at the others. The color still hadn't returned to Stan Henderson's pudgy face, which was greenish pale against his shock of brown hair. Senior Vice President Frank Lusardi, a dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit, was occupied with his BlackBerry and seemed to be trying to maintain his distance from the rest of the group, which was difficult, given the close quarters. Conchita Perez, a matronly Hispanic woman, was hunched over a rosary, wiping away her tears with a parade of never-ending tissues that emerged from her sweater sleeves like clowns from a Volkswagen. Isobel would have liked to compare notes with Nikki, but she had been the first person interviewed and released.