“Oo-lu-lah vishti banko.”
His mouth set in a thin line. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your question made just as little sense to me. I don’t know any microfiche, personally or by reputation, so you’d better start at the beginning—” I broke off. “Don’t tell me your microfiche for the Sommers file is damaged?”
“Very nice, Vic: surprised innocence. I’m almost convinced.”
At that my calm disappeared. I pushed past him to the elevator and hit the call button.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.” I bit off my words. “I wanted to ask you why Connie Ingram was the last person to see Howard Fepple alive, and why she made him think she’d be a hot date, and why after that really hot date, Fepple was dead and the agency copy of Sommers’s file had vanished. But I don’t need the garbage you’re flinging at me. I can take my questions directly to the cops. Believe me, they’ll talk to little Miss Company Loyalty in a way that will get her to respond.”
The elevator dinged to a stop behind me. Before I could get on, Ralph grabbed my arm.
“Since you’re already here, give me two more minutes. I want you to talk to someone in my office.”
“If I lose my chance to tail a guy who’s in your demonstration, I am going to be one very cross detective, Ralph, so make it succinct for me, okay? Which raises another question in my mind: why are you focusing on your wretched microfiche when the building is under siege?”
He ignored my question, moving fast along the rosy carpets to his office. His secretary, Denise, was still at her post. Connie Ingram and a strange black woman were sitting stiffly on the tubular chairs. They looked nervously at Ralph when we came in.
Ralph introduced the strange woman—Karen Bigelow, who was Connie’s supervisor in claims. “Just tell Vic here what you told me, Karen.”
She nodded, turning to face me. “I know about the whole Sommers situation. I was on vacation last week, but Connie explained how she’d had to leave the file up here with Mr. Rossy. And how this private detective might try to get her to reveal confidential company information. So when she—when you—came around asking to see the fiche, Connie came straight to me. Neither of us was too surprised. As you know, of course, Connie here stood her ground, but she got kind of worried and went to check the microfiche. The card that included the Sommers file has gone missing. Not checked out or anything. Disappeared. And I understand you were alone on the floor for some time, miss.”
I smiled pleasantly. “I see. I have to confess I don’t know where the fiche are stored, or you might have legitimate grounds for suspicion. To you, who knows that rabbit warren on thirty-nine, it’s all familiar, but to a stranger it’s impenetrable. But there’s one easy thing to do: check for fingerprints. Mine are on file with the secretary of state, because I’m a licensed investigator as well as an officer of the court. Get the cops in, treat it like a real theft.”
The room was silent for a minute, then Ralph said, “If you were in that cabinet, Vic, you’d have wiped it clean.”
“All the more reason to dust it. If it’s covered with prints—besides Connie’s, which belong there since she just checked the drawer—or claims she did—you’ll know I wasn’t in there.”
“What do you mean, claims she did, Miss Detective?” Karen Bigelow gave me a hard look.
“It’s like this, Ms. Supervisor: I don’t know what kind of game Ajax is playing with the Sommers family claim, but it’s a game whose stakes are mighty high, now that a man’s been killed. Fepple’s mother gave me a key to the agency office. I went down there today to see if I could find any trace of his appointment calendar.”
I paused to stare hard at Connie Ingram, but her round face didn’t show any special anxiety. “Now, whoever killed Howard Fepple swiped the Sommers file. They swiped his handheld electronic diary. But they didn’t think to wipe out the appointment from his computer. Or—they were even more squeamish than I was about getting near the machine since it had his brains and blood all over it.”
Both Bigelow and Connie flinched at that, which only proved they didn’t like the idea of brains and blood and computers all mixed together. “Well, guess who had an appointment with Howard Fepple last Friday night? Young Connie Ingram here.”
Her mouth widened in a giant O of protest. “I never. I never made an appointment to see him. If he put that in his diary, he’s lying!”