Read Online Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith - Free Book Online Page B

say, "Yeah. That lightsaber duel with Count Dooku was sweet ."
    And even that simple, if irritating, act of yes-man boot-licking seemed to be beyond Bigelow just now. As Crowley droned on and on about how many "reps" he'd managed in the gym that morning, Bigelow's mind wandered the hallways of the Now! office, stopping at the desks of his seven suspects. Five of them would be easy to deal with. They were designers and editors, mere bugs to be squashed beneath his managerial boot heel. But what if his Secret Santa was Peter Jarry, the comptroller? Maybe Jarry had noticed the charges for pay-per-view porn and room-service filet mignon that always piled up on Bigelow's bill when he went on company trips. Maybe he even knew those company trips were completely bogus, as Bigelow only insisted on doing personal press checks for Antiques Now! , which was printed at a plant 25 miles from Disney World.
    Or perhaps it was Sandberg. He couldn't be as innocent as he appeared. His image was squeaky clean—never gossiped, worked hard, took care of his staff, blah blah blah, exactly the kind of goody two-shoes b.s. that reminded Bigelow what a fraud he himself truly was.
    It had to be an act. Or maybe Sandberg had simply seen the writing on the wall, toughened up and launched a pre-emptive strike. He could be trying to throw Bigelow off, psych him out.
    Well, if that was his plan, he . . . .
    "Bro, are you even listening to me?"
    Bigelow blinked away the pleasing vision of Sandberg roasting over a barbecue pit.
    "Of course," he said. "And I couldn't agree more."
    What he'd agree with, he soon found out, was that Atlas Strong Shoulder Jars might indeed replace Ball Perfect Mason Jars as the most popular fruit jar collectibles in their class. Seemingly satisfied that Bigelow would back him up on this controversial assertion, Crowley plowed on. But Bigelow had the uncomfortable feeling that the publisher was watching him closely now, looking for signs that he wasn't paying attention. Bigelow overcompensated by laughing a little too uproariously at Crowley's strained pun on the phrase "Ball Perfect" and becoming a little too incensed when his boss described attempts to pass off irradiated selenium jars as amber.
    Mercifully, Crowley eventually drifted off jars and onto business. That gave Bigelow the opportunity to insert not one, not two, but three separate digs at Sandberg into the conversation before Crowley finally arose—nearly two hours after he sat down—and went off to his own office to look over dummy covers and sign checks.
    Bigelow felt drained by the meeting, but he had no choice. With Crowley hanging around the rest of the day, he actually had to stay in his office and at least keep up the appearance of diligence. He made half-hearted progress on his in-box (which was more progress than he usually made), all the while trying to figure out how to strip Santa of his secret.
    In the end, he could only come up with one solution. He'd always hated logic puzzles and guessing games. No one was going to tell him, and he didn't want to ask. He didn't have a spycam or a fingerprinting kit. He didn't know how to rig a grenade with a trip-wire and he wasn't sure where to get a grenade or a trip-wire even if he did.
    He would have to rely on simple snooping. And with nearly everyone working extra late to hit their deadlines, that wouldn't be an option today.
    So Bigelow somehow stuck it out to five o'clock, and then he went home. He took Bantha for her pre-bedtime walk at 8:30, when he was usually popping in his second DVD of the evening. He was under the covers by 9.
    But though he fell asleep quickly, that horrible Ho! Ho! Ho! haunted his dreams, as did a giant bottle of Scope that lumbered after him like Frankenstein's monster, chasing him through one Starbucks after another.
    When the alarm went off at 5 a.m., he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

    Thursday, December 18
    It was a new experience for Bigelow—being the first one at work. He