Arabella, she’d armed herself with a doughnut and a ridiculously large Starbucks latte and was shoulder-deep in Halle’s online social life.
I looked up from my phone. The receptionist sipped something from a white mug with golden letters spelling out “Baby, it’s cold outside.” If she locked the front door, I would be trapped. The elevators were inoperable without a keycard. Same for the door leading to the stairs. There were no windows at this level except for the front door glass panels, and I had caught a glimpse of a metal grate that could be lowered, blocking the exit.
It was all rather dungeonlike.
The left elevator doors opened with a whisper. None of the numbers above it had lit up. Nothing indicated from which floor it had descended or that it was even on the way. Curiouser and curiouser. Unlike Alice, I couldn’t grow to giant size in case of trouble. That was okay, I had other tricks up my sleeve.
A white woman in her late forties or early fifties stepped out of the elevator. Short and petite, she wore a pale pink Chanel suit with black piping, beige stockings, and black kitten heels. She’d chosen a chunky rose-gold necklace and a matching bracelet as her accessories. Her glasses matched her jewelry. Her dark hair, pulled back into a conservative bun, completed the look. She hurried toward me, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor.
I got up.
“Celia Scott.” She offered me her small hand with rose-gold acrylic nails.
“Catalina Baylor.”
She squeezed my hand, trying to reassure. “I’m so sorry about Sigourney. What a horrible tragedy. Let’s talk in my office.”
I followed her to the elevator. She pulled a slim plastic card out of her jacket pocket, waved it in front of the dark window above the call button, and the elevator doors opened. We stepped inside, and she waved the card again, this time above the floor numbers, and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor.
“How is Runa?”
“Shaken up.”
“Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.”
The doors opened, revealing a surprisingly modern hallway with a tasteful modern rug with splashes of red and turquoise, and eggshell white walls. Wow, fast elevator.
Celia took off down the hallway to the left, and I had to speed up to keep pace.
“What a beautiful building,” I said.
“Isn’t it? So much history here. If only these walls could talk.”
Celia waved her keycard in front of a door on our right. The electronic lock clicked, and she swung the door open. I walked inside into a comfortable but decidedly modern office with an ergonomic desk and black leather designer chairs.
“Sit, sit.” Celia waved at the chairs.
I sat. Three pictures in rose-gold frames sat on a corner of her desk; one showing Celia holding a baby, one with her and a middle-aged man in ski outfits, standing on a snowy slope, and one of a ridiculously groomed white poodle about the size of a cat. I was kind of surprised the poodle didn’t sport a rose-gold collar.
Celia sat in her chair and smiled at me. Her mouth stretched, but no emotion reached her eyes. “So what can I do for you?”
I opened my folder and unleashed my bona fides. It took her about three minutes to get through it.
“A private investigator. How exciting. How did you get into that? You don’t look the type.”
“What is the type?”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh, burly, older, male?”
“We’re not those kinds of detectives.” I smiled back at her. “Strictly white-collar investigations here. We deal with insurance companies rather than distraught dames.”
Celia laughed. “A pity.”
“I’m here in a friend-of-the-family capacity. Runa is too upset to sort through her mother’s affairs and we’re trying to prep everything for her takeover.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Ms. Etterson kept meticulous records and they show a withdrawal of two-point-two million dollars from her Diatheke account. Can you confirm that a withdrawal took place, the status of the account, and the account to which the funds were deposited?”
Celia frowned. “I’m so sorry, but it is our policy to process such requests in writing. If you submit a written request, I should be able to get back to you in a couple of weeks. By Friday after next, at the latest.”
Two weeks.
We didn’t have two weeks. More importantly, she was lying.
Online resources and crime dramas stressed the importance of microexpressions or signs of nervousness when trying to judge when someone was telling the truth. Shifting eyes, looking up in the direction opposite of your dominant hand, sweating, pursed mouth, and so on. Accomplished liars