Murder in the Marketplace by Lora Roberts Page B

what it really meant. “That isn’t Jenifer’s desk. I’ll show you her cube, if you want. Everything’s just as she left it.”
    Jason’s mouth opened, and Drake said hastily, “I’ll talk to Jason first.” He looked around, saw Larry. “What’s your connection with Miss Paston?”
    Larry jumped up and backed swiftly away, his hands behind his back. “None,” he said, sounding a little less resonant. “I’ll just get back to work now.”
    “If there’s no room with a door to use, we can do the questioning downtown,” Drake said.
    “Use my office,” Ed said at once. “I’ll get a cup of coffee and go over some things with the marketing people.” He nodded at me. “Buzz me there if I’m wanted.”
    Suzanne hovered for a moment before going into her office and shutting the door softly behind her. Drake looked at it.
    “Wait for me in there,” he told Jason, gesturing to Ed’s office. Sullenly Jason walked into the other room. Drake came over to me.
    “Are you keeping your nose clean? Remember what I said this morning.”
    “Was it only this morning? I feel ten years older.” I glanced around the reception room. “There are land mines everywhere, Drake. If these people find out I was at the scene, I'm hosed. Nobody in an office ever forgives anyone who withholds juicy gossip.”
    “Very funny.” He drove his hands through his hair. “Maybe you should get the flu, too, and get out of here.”
    “I need the money.” I hesitated. “Look, it’s wasteful for me not to snoop around a little. I’m here, they’re talking—make use of it.”
    “No way,” he said at once, before I could tell him about the intriguing bit of conversation I’d already overheard. “You’re not a cop, Liz.”
    His voice had risen a bit on the last words. I shushed him. “This place is as private as the locker room at Rinconada Pool. You’re blowing my cover, Drake.”
    “You have no cover,” he said, biting off the words. “Answer the phone if you want, but don’t nose around. I mean it, Liz. For once stay out of trouble.”
    He went into Ed’s office, banging the door behind him. I felt sorry for Jason.
    The ringing telephone called me back to work. It was the local newspaper, for Ed. I buzzed marketing.
    “I’ll get back to them.” Ed didn’t sound eager for the free publicity.
    When I told the caller on line 1 that Ed was in a meeting, she gave me about six numbers where she could be reached when he was available—by phone, fax, or cellular phone. “Tell him it’s about the MicroMax rumors,” she added. “He would want to respond to that, I’m sure. What do you know about it?”
    Her sudden attack took me by surprise. “I’m the temp. I know nothing.”
    She laughed. “Well, if you find out any information, give me a call. I might be able to do something for a good tip.”
    It sunk in that she meant money. “You pay for stuff like that?”
    “Sometimes—if it’s good and juicy and we can’t get it any other way. Somebody at SoftWrite already knows that.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “How do you think MicroMax got wind of the trouble? One of your guys leaked it. And I’m betting that person’s bank account is fatter now.”
    The reporter hung up. I cradled the phone, staring at the twisty branches of the flower arrangement across the room. I had thought of SoftWrite as a simple little company like Emery’s, where everyone was so busy just trying to survive that there was no time for office politics. That was obviously untrue.
    Mindy came back with the files Suzanne had asked for and plopped them down on my desk. “I don’t know if I want to go in there.” She chewed uncertainly on her lower lip. "Things seem kinda tense today.”
    “I noticed.”
    Mindy looked up as someone else approached from the cubicles. “Clarice. How are you feeling, honey? Did you want to go home now?”
    “Home?” Clarice’s voice also had the wobbly quality associated with hysterics. She sank into the