Darn it. Tenley hated when someone came into the office bathroom when she was there. And this early in the morning? She’d left Brileen’s as soon as she could, so she could get to work on time. Weird that she wanted to get to City Hall. Never thought that would happen. But getting whisked away from home and waking up in an unfamiliar place—even though she’d agreed to go and all—now seemed a little less like a cool adventure and a little more like a dumb idea. She could always go home again, though, no biggie.
Since she’d brought her backpack to work, all her stuff, it was like she’d never been in that house. She’d seen the metal numbers on the wall beside the front door and the name on the street sign—798 Cadogan Street—before she headed to the bus stop, which she’d looked up, easy peasy, on her phone.
Her phone. Her mom still hadn’t called. That was kind of good news, since now, with any luck, she’d never know Tenley’d sneaked out. Later, Tenley would explain to Brileen. It wasn’t like she would never see her again, she’d say, they were pals, after all, she’d say, but she didn’t think the time was exactly right to—
Anyway now, though, someone else was in here, in an out-of-the-way bathroom nobody ever used this early. Hiding in the stall, Tenley pulled her feet up, crossed them yoga style, balancing herself on the toilet so her feet wouldn’t show under the door. Silly, and totally uncomfortable, but if she came out while someone was in the bathroom, she’d have to talk to them, and she didn’t feel like it. She didn’t even start work till nine, almost an hour from now, but she was allowed to use her City Hall ID to get in whatever the time. The guard guy downstairs at the lobby desk had been dozing at his post. She’d waved and walked right by him.
She heard someone turn on the water, full blast, in one of the metal sinks that lined the back wall. She tried to peer under the stall’s door to see if she could recognize feet, but, tilting, almost fell over. It didn’t matter who it was, anyway. She’d wait her out. No one could be in the bathroom forever.
That was weird, though, the person had now gone into the stall next to hers but left the water running, moron. The person coughed, like she was puking, which was incredibly gross, and if that person actually threw up, Tenley didn’t care what happened, she was so out of here.
Her rear was killing her now. All she needed, to be trapped in the john with a hangover-throwing-up person. Could life get any weirder?
The person didn’t throw up, thank God. Although sounded like she was trying hard enough. The toilet flushed, the stall door opened, the water turned off. Okay, final-fricking-ly. She was almost out of here.
She adjusted herself, trying to keep her balance, trying to imagine what the person was doing. A wisp of color went by the crack in the doorjamb of Tenley’s stall, but not enough to recognize anyone. Come on, Tenley thought. I want to leave.
Silence. But not quite silence. Now the woman was making a phone call. What was this, her office? Tenley tried to lean against the tiled stall wall, felt the metal flusher thing instead, and succeeded only in making a wet spot on the back of her T-shirt.
“Tenley?” the voice out in the bathroom said. She almost fell off her perch on the toilet. She knew that voice. Her mother. Her freaking mother. But how had Mom known she was in here? And her mother had been trying to throw up? Why?
All this raced through Tenley’s mind the second she heard her own name. She almost opened her mouth to answer, even though she was one hundred percent baffled. Impossible for her mother to have seen her in here, right? But then Mom kept talking, and Tenley realized she wasn’t talking to her. Not in person. On the phone. She was leaving her a message, on her cell! Which right now was under her desk in the surveillance room.
“Honey? I’m at the office,” her mother was saying, “and just checking on you, but you must be on your way in. I’ll find you as soon as I can.”
Tenley rolled her eyes. Her mother was about to come looking for her. What if she’d discovered Tenley’d sneaked out? And now was totally pissed? But Mom didn’t sound mad.
“And, um, Tenley? I’m sorry about last night.”
Okay. She was apologizing. And not mad. Whew. Her mother paused. Tenley strained to hear what would come next.
“I need to talk to you, honey,” her mother finally said. “It’s important.”
Tenley waited, heard her mother click off the phone. And then—was her mother crying?
She waited, not sure what to do. Part of her felt like hiding here, like, forever, pretending, trying to erase the whole thing from her memory. The other part of her felt like crying, too, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.
Silently placing one sneaker onto the aqua-tiled floor, then the other, Tenley stood. Smoothed down her skirt. Unrolled the waist to make the skirt a little longer.
Paused, listening to the quiet sobs.
* * *
“We’re checking on a story,” Jane said, crossing the city attorney off her mental victims list. This Kelli Riordan, in her patent-heeled power outfit, did not look like a person whose husband had been killed. No grieving wife would still have on that much mascara if she’d gotten such devastating news. Jane’s money was still on Catherine Siskel. Plus, Jake hadn’t gone to Kelli Riordan’s office. He’d come here.
“Nevertheless, my questions still stand,” Riordan said. “What are you doing here? What ‘story’? And where is Catherine Siskel? Detective? Ms. Ryland, isn’t it?”
“She’s in the bathroom, I think,” Jane said. “She wasn’t feeling well. I was about to go check on her.”
“Not feeling well? Why didn’t you tell me?” Siobhan Hult picked up a black desk phone, punched a few numbers with one demanding finger. “I’m calling her. Then I’ll go check on her.”
“Check on who?”
A man strode into Catherine’s office, looking at each of them in turn. Uh-oh. The checked shirt guy with the coffee. The one Jane bamboozled into letting her into the building.
“I’m here for the eight fifteen.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Hey. Aren’t you—”
“She’s a reporter,” Riordan said.
Jane could have sworn the woman was trying to send telepathic signals of some kind to this newcomer. An odd emphasis on “reporter.” Widening eyes. A barely perceptible flash of distress. But she could be wrong. Everyone at City Hall hated reporters. Riordan was probably the president of the Hate Reporters Society.
Jane smiled to prove she was a nice person, not there to cause trouble.
“Call the cops,” the man said. “This woman sneaked by me into City Hall when I walked in—how was I supposed to know—”
“He is the cops,” Kelli said, pointing.
“I am the police,” Jake said at the same moment.
Now there were five people in the same office. Pretty interesting. And possibly suspicious. Meantime, Catherine Siskel was probably still cleaning herself up in the bathroom and wondering why no one had gone in to make sure she hadn’t passed out on the floor.
At least they seemed to have forgotten Jane’s “sneaking” episode.
The EA hung up the desk phone. “No answer from Ms. Siskel,” she said. “I’ll try to see if she’s—”
“No,” Kelli Riordan interrupted. “I’ll go. Listen, Ward. Is her daughter here?”
“Not until nine,” Ward said. “Supposedly.”
Daughter here? Jane looked at Jake, trying her own telepathy. Did you know about a daughter here? I didn’t.
No. Jake used a fraction of an expression to convey his surprise. Me either.
* * *
Time to take back the morning, Jake thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he interrupted the three staffers. “We’re all busy, and I understand you’re concerned about your colleague. But I’m here to talk with Ms. Siskel privately. I’m sure any meeting she had arranged with you two can be postponed. Ms. Hult, will you go check on Ms. Siskel? Thank you.”
The EA opened her mouth, closed it, and flounced from the room.
Jake waited until the door closed behind her. “I need your names and contact information, please,” he went on. “And you mentioned a daughter. Does Ms. Siskel have a daughter who works at City Hall?”
Jane’s phone rang again. She made a face, like, sorry. And went out into the hall.
“I’m Kelli White Riordan, city attorney.” The woman flapped open a leather portfolio, presented him an embossed business card. “You’ll understand why I’m concerned with your tactics. Might I ask, once again, why you’re here? As the city attorney, I have every right—in fact, it’s my responsibility to know.”
“It’s a private matter, between me and Ms. Siskel. I’m sure she’ll contact you if she deems it necessary.” Jake put the card in his pocket and turned to the man—Ward? He’d tossed his Starbucks paper cup into an empty wastebasket and now seemed at a loss for what to do with his hands. He’d already yanked his shirt collar, scratched his nose, smoothed his hair.
“And you are…?” Jake asked.
Checked shirt and Riordan exchanged glances. Times like these Jake wished for telepathy. Clearly these two had some agenda.
“Ward—” He stopped, frowning. The office door had opened again.
Jane.
“Dahlstrom,” the man went on.
“Title?” Jake prompted. It was nothing Jane couldn’t hear.
Dahlstrom looked at Riordan as if needing some guidance from the lawyer. She waved a weary hand. Go ahead.
“Director of external communications.”
“I see.” Jake almost laughed. Politicians rivaled only cops for unmitigated jargon. “Communications?” Maybe public relations? Did it have to do with spinning the Curley Park murder? “And that means…?”
“Detective?” Riordan answered instead. “He handles our surveillance cameras.”