In the end, a report that should have taken forty-five minutes took nearly two hours. Addison was never quite so glad to leave a place in her entire life. A quick stop at Jim Bernstein's office to pick up the remainder of the records, and on to Talbot Investigations to pay the advance. Then she could go back to the Coffee Cup and figure out which equipment she would need to replace before reopening the shop. Hopefully, the insurance adjuster had left good news with Gretchen.
She was thinking about Agnes Beckett when she parked her Mustang in front of Jim's office. Her search had, indeed, come to an end. At least she could quit with the knowledge that she'd done her best. That her birth mother wouldn't be forgotten. Hopefully, with Randall's help, Sheriff McEvoy would find the killer, and Addison would have the closure she needed to move on.
Shivering with cold, she stepped into the elevator and rode alone up to Jim's office on the fifth floor. She was hungry and had decided to ask him to have a sandwich with her at the lobby deli if he wasn't too busy. He worked long hours and, like most workaholics, never took the time for a decent meal.
Her mind was already jumping ahead to corned beef on rye as she pushed open the door to his office. To her surprise, his paralegal was nowhere in sight. The telephone beeped incessantly. Resisting the urge to pick it up and take a message for him, Addison left the reception area and made her way down the hall. She peered into the small, doorless storage room as she passed and found it empty.
"Jim?" Her voice came sharply in the dense silence. Inexplicably, the hairs at the back of her neck tingled. She moved down the hall, silently cursing when the first thin ribbon of unease skittered through her.
"Get a grip," she mumbled, telling herself he'd probably taken his overworked paralegal out for a late lunch.
But it was odd that he hadn't left anyone in the office to cover the phones. Even in this day of voice mail and e-mail, no lawyer would leave his telephones unmanned. Not even Jim Bernstein, with his relaxed atmosphere and anything goes dress code.
She reached his office a moment later and found it empty as well. Puzzled, trying in vain to ignore a growing sense of alarm, she stood in the doorway, taking in the heaps of paper and files and briefs stacked on his desk. Deciding to leave him a note, Addison walked to the desk and picked up his Mont Blanc.
She was looking for a piece of scratch paper when she realized the pen was sticky. Puzzled, she looked closely at the bright red stain on her palm. At first glance she thought it was ink, then her heart began to pound.
Blood.
Revulsion vibrated through her. The pen fell to the desk, leaving a grotesque red stain on the blotter. Addison stared, horrified, and heard herself whisper his name.
She wanted to run. Out of the room. Out of the building. But the part of her that knew and cared for Jim Bernstein wouldn't let her walk away, no matter how scared she was. Heart hammering, she leaned forward and peered over the desk.
Behind the chair, Jim lay on his back, legs apart, arms sprawled. His head was turned severely to one side. His eyes were open and staring. His mouth was stretched taut, as if frozen in a scream. Red-black blood coagulated on his lips.
Horror and disbelief ripped through her. She stood motionless for an instant, unable to tear her eyes away from the red 'stain that stood out starkly on his white shirt. It spread from collar to belt, encompassing the tie and spilling onto the carpet in a perfect arc.
Adrenaline burned like fire in her gut. She backed from the room, her heart pummeling her breast. The smell of death hovered. Blood clung to her hand. Gasping, she wiped it against her coat, horrified by the smear it left.
Her back hit the wall. The impact jarred her back to reality. A mass of jumbled thoughts raced through her mind. She staggered to the reception area.
Jim was dead.
Disbelief tumbled through her. She looked down at her hands, shocked once again by the sight of blood. Fresh terror streaked up her spine.
"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Staving off a crushing wave of panic, she ran to the receptionist's desk and snatched up the phone.
Chapter 8
"Looks like you should have taken me up on that offer for lunch." Detective Adam Van-Dyne crossed to the window, hooked his finger under a mini-blind slat, and peered outside.
Addison barely heard him as she watched two men from the medical examiner's office bring a gurney through the front door. A wave of disbelief rolled over her as she realized they would be taking Jim's body to the morgue.
Unsure of her balance or the strength in her legs, she lowered herself into the receptionist's chair and watched the men maneuver the gurney down the hall toward Jim's office.
Van-Dyne dropped the slat, crossed the room to her, and perched his hip on the desk in front of her. "What were you doing here today, Miss Fox?"
The small office teemed with police officers, paramedics, and firefighters. In the hall, Channel 7 had arrived with their cameras and lights, swarming like sharks in the throes of a feeding frenzy. In the midst of it all, Addison huddled in the receptionist's chair, arms wrapped tightly around her, vaguely aware that Van-Dyne was speaking to her as if she'd been a mischievous child.