on the right, and Savich to the last office on the left.
Sherlock paused at a big door emblazoned in gold lettering: C. Alvarez, Production Manager .
An assistant sat at her work station in front of that impressive door. She was a young woman who sported blond hair in a brush cut maybe a half-inch long all over her head, and bright red lipstick. She looked, Sherlock thought, both clever and hip, like she could toss down a few straight vodkas and remain standing.
"I'm Special Agent Sherlock, FBI, Ms. Riker," she said pleasantly. "I would like to see Ms. Alvarez."
Lori Riker jumped to her feet. "Oh dear, I mean, Ms. Alvarez is in a meeting with Mr. Drexel, ah, that's Mr. Turley Drexel, he's the accounting manager, and it's their monthly meeting to go over-"
"It's all very important, I know," said Sherlock, "but given the murder last night of one of Schiffer Hartwin's German employees right in your backyard and the break-in into the CEO's office, I think I trump just about everything, don't you?"
"The dead man is German? I didn't know that. But who was he? I mean-oh goodness."
Sherlock stepped toward the big shiny door. She heard the angry voices before she even had the knob in her hand.
"No, wait, Agent Sherlock, I mean, really, let me tell them, inform them that-"
Sherlock flashed Lori Riker a sweet smile and opened the door to see a seated man and woman, their faces just inches from one another. The air was thick with acrimony, and sudden silence.
The woman straightened like a shot and moved quickly away from the man, going to stand behind her very modern glass-and-chrome desk. Every inch of it was covered-by stacks of papers, a sleek computer, printer, and two phones. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, with an athlete's body, hair dark as sin and nearly as short as her secretary's. She was wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse with a mannish blue tie, and plain dark blue pumps. Her eyes, also very dark blue, and as cold as ice, were narrowed on Sherlock's face. She should have looked severe and masculine in her getup, but, oddly, she didn't. She looked forbidding and angry. But just for an instant, Sherlock saw fear leap into her dark eyes.
Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. "I believe you're Carla Alvarez, production manager, and you are Turley Drexel, accounting manager. Have I got that right?"
"Yes," Carla said, voice clipped. But Sherlock saw another flash of fear in her narrowed eyes before she wiped her expression clean. Her chin went up and the power player was back, full force. She asked, her voice steady as a rock, "You are a police officer? Here to question us about the murdered man in Van Wie Park?"
"I'm FBI-Agent Sherlock." She handed Carla her creds, then she handed them over to Mr. Drexel, who was looking at Carla Alvarez, eyes flat and hard. He didn't even bother to glance at Sherlock's ID. Finally, he nodded to her, and remained seated, looking hard again at Alvarez, mouth tight.
Alvarez asked, "Why is the FBI here and not the local police?"
"The body was discovered in Van Wie Park, and that's federal land, which makes it our case."
It was obvious neither Alvarez nor Turley had known that. Hadn't they watched the news? The murderer hadn't known it would draw in the feds either, Sherlock would wager. Sherlock decided she was going to rock and roll with this woman who was struggling to look so formidable.
Sherlock gave them both impartial smiles. "What were you fighting about?"
Turley Drexel was fifty-two years old, and cursed with a round baby face he'd hated for as long as he could remember. He answered her in the tone of a prim, tightly wound bureaucrat used to juggling numbers. "See here, Agent, we were simply having a business discussion, of no concern to you, I assure you, nothing at all to do with that dead man found out back. We don't even know who he is. No one's bothered to tell us. Was he a transient?"
Sherlock said easily, "No, not a transient, Mr.
Sherlock paused at a big door emblazoned in gold lettering: C. Alvarez, Production Manager .
An assistant sat at her work station in front of that impressive door. She was a young woman who sported blond hair in a brush cut maybe a half-inch long all over her head, and bright red lipstick. She looked, Sherlock thought, both clever and hip, like she could toss down a few straight vodkas and remain standing.
"I'm Special Agent Sherlock, FBI, Ms. Riker," she said pleasantly. "I would like to see Ms. Alvarez."
Lori Riker jumped to her feet. "Oh dear, I mean, Ms. Alvarez is in a meeting with Mr. Drexel, ah, that's Mr. Turley Drexel, he's the accounting manager, and it's their monthly meeting to go over-"
"It's all very important, I know," said Sherlock, "but given the murder last night of one of Schiffer Hartwin's German employees right in your backyard and the break-in into the CEO's office, I think I trump just about everything, don't you?"
"The dead man is German? I didn't know that. But who was he? I mean-oh goodness."
Sherlock stepped toward the big shiny door. She heard the angry voices before she even had the knob in her hand.
"No, wait, Agent Sherlock, I mean, really, let me tell them, inform them that-"
Sherlock flashed Lori Riker a sweet smile and opened the door to see a seated man and woman, their faces just inches from one another. The air was thick with acrimony, and sudden silence.
The woman straightened like a shot and moved quickly away from the man, going to stand behind her very modern glass-and-chrome desk. Every inch of it was covered-by stacks of papers, a sleek computer, printer, and two phones. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, with an athlete's body, hair dark as sin and nearly as short as her secretary's. She was wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse with a mannish blue tie, and plain dark blue pumps. Her eyes, also very dark blue, and as cold as ice, were narrowed on Sherlock's face. She should have looked severe and masculine in her getup, but, oddly, she didn't. She looked forbidding and angry. But just for an instant, Sherlock saw fear leap into her dark eyes.
Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. "I believe you're Carla Alvarez, production manager, and you are Turley Drexel, accounting manager. Have I got that right?"
"Yes," Carla said, voice clipped. But Sherlock saw another flash of fear in her narrowed eyes before she wiped her expression clean. Her chin went up and the power player was back, full force. She asked, her voice steady as a rock, "You are a police officer? Here to question us about the murdered man in Van Wie Park?"
"I'm FBI-Agent Sherlock." She handed Carla her creds, then she handed them over to Mr. Drexel, who was looking at Carla Alvarez, eyes flat and hard. He didn't even bother to glance at Sherlock's ID. Finally, he nodded to her, and remained seated, looking hard again at Alvarez, mouth tight.
Alvarez asked, "Why is the FBI here and not the local police?"
"The body was discovered in Van Wie Park, and that's federal land, which makes it our case."
It was obvious neither Alvarez nor Turley had known that. Hadn't they watched the news? The murderer hadn't known it would draw in the feds either, Sherlock would wager. Sherlock decided she was going to rock and roll with this woman who was struggling to look so formidable.
Sherlock gave them both impartial smiles. "What were you fighting about?"
Turley Drexel was fifty-two years old, and cursed with a round baby face he'd hated for as long as he could remember. He answered her in the tone of a prim, tightly wound bureaucrat used to juggling numbers. "See here, Agent, we were simply having a business discussion, of no concern to you, I assure you, nothing at all to do with that dead man found out back. We don't even know who he is. No one's bothered to tell us. Was he a transient?"
Sherlock said easily, "No, not a transient, Mr.
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