Armed and Fabulous (Lexi Graves Mysteries) Read online

  Someone had propped the door open with a wedge so I slipped through, assuming the custodians were doing their thing. The room was still and silent. Everyone else had gone home. I walked over to my desk, jabbed a button on the keyboard and my monitor whirred back to life. Logging in, I called up the report Adam had requested and sent it to the printer, dashing over to make sure I hadn't printed any lingerie pictures again. I hadn't. Thank goodness for that. It was bad enough Adam had seen my bra choices; he was healthy. Green Hand's vice president, Martin Dean, hadn't seen a day of exercise inside of a decade and would probably have had a heart attack. Then I'd never get a decent reference out of him to get a proper job doing something cool. I know. I know. I'm selfish like that. Actually, come to think of it, maybe sending him thong shots would get me a reference faster.

  Inside my head, I vomited at the thought.

  Back at my desk, I raced through the motions of closing the computer screen, logging off and shutting down. Leaving a computer on in this building was akin to looking at porn. You might think about it occasionally, but you didn't want to get caught. So I'm told.

  Picking up my purse and swinging it over my shoulder, I shoved my notepad into my drawer and locked it, then stapled the report together and headed across the room to Dean's office.

  Martin Dean, being the resident big shot, had an office far away from the plebian workers and behind a set of double doors, outside of which his executive assistant, Dominic, sat. Dominic's monitor was off so he had gone home already, which meant I would have to take the report in and leave it on the desk myself.

  I raised my hand to knock on Martin Dean's door and hesitated, hearing voices inside.

  My heart sank.

  Dean was still in and probably cross he would have to read my report this evening, instead of doing whatever he usually did in his downtime. Even worse, the voices sounded heated and angry.

  At least, I hadn't barged in before remembering that he always liked an extra photocopy so Dominic could read it too. Dominic was in his early thirties and smart. I thought, privately, he was the one really running the show.

  Turning on my heel, I sloped back the way I came, veering off into the corridor on the left that led to the nearest photocopy room, and shutting the door behind me. Inside, I wasted precious minutes as the machine crawled back to life. Finally, I photocopied the pages, in sequence, and rooted around on the overhanging shelf for another stapler so I could attach the pages together.

  Gathering both sets of papers, I returned to Dean's office, pressing my ear to the door. All was quiet inside. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked again.

  Maybe I'd struck lucky and Dean had gone home? I could ditch the papers and pretend I’d left them earlier. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, the door falling shut behind me with a light click.

  The office was empty. I quickly checked the handle, in case I'd done something stupid, like locking myself in. Thankfully, I hadn't. I wouldn't have to phone the security guards twice in a week. Yay me!

  With a bounce in my step, I strode up to the desk, leaning over to put the reports square and center on top… and that's when I saw him.

  Sprawled on the floor, not moving.

  "Sir?" I said hesitantly, in case Martin Dean was doing some really weird form of meditating. Face down.

  No reply. I moved around the desk, and slipped on something, sending my legs in different directions. I landed heavily on my palms, cursing. One hand hit the carpet and stung as I steadied myself; my other hand hit something wet.

  I raised my hand to my face and my stomach flipped. "Shit!" It wasn't just wet; it was blood and it was seeping from under Dean's body. "Double shit!" I squeaked.

  I sat on my haunches for a moment, too freaked out to move; then I shuffled round and saw exactly what had caused Martin Dean to be lying in a pool of his own blood.

  His head lay on the right side. He'd been shot between the eyes, a powder burn marring the ragged wound, and there was a second wound in his back. Point blank range. Well, I assumed it was point blank. I'd never seen anyone shot between the eyes before.

  He'd been alive just a few minutes ago. I'd heard him through the door, his voice raised. God, someone had just shot him while I was in the photocopy room! They might still be in the building.

  Despite my heart racing and the blood rushing in my ears, I heard footsteps.

  I clutched the sheaf of photocopies in my hand until my knuckles went white while I panicked.

  If I went out the door, whoever had just put a bullet between Martin Dean’s eyes would see me. And I'd see them. Then they'd probably shoot me too and my mom would cry the hardest at my funeral because the only thing I would be remembered for was the moment of madness when I ran away to join the Army. Oh God, I did not want to die! I had nowhere near enough good stuff to put in my eulogy, which would probably be performed by my sniveling sister, after strong-arming the rest of my family out of the way. You could just bet she'd manage to work her Harvard degree into the speech too, insulting my lack of aptitude even in death.

  What if no one turned up? It's not like I'd made a big effort to stay in touch with school friends or was making a ton of pals at work. My funeral would be social death. Literally.

  The footsteps got closer.

  I looked down at the puddle of blood underneath Martin Dean as it bloomed towards me. Shit! I'd left a handprint in it. I'd left fingerprints. Evidence! My TV husband, Horatio Caine, would be all over that and do his little side-on serious look thing as he peered over his sunglasses at me and told me my rights. It totally did not go that way in my dreams. Plus, all the hot women on CSI: Miami had their giraffe-like legs clad in white pants and wore ridiculous heels, considering they were always getting messed up by corpses on murder scenes. I didn't even have any white pants. I was wearing my favorite blue dress with its super-cute flared skirt. And now I'd gotten blood on it, because like an idiot, I put my bloody palm on my lap. My mug shots would look terrible! They’d think I had killed him.

  I’d probably go to prison.

  Even more pressing, there was at least one murderer on his? —her? —way back to the office and they would see my handprint. Reality hit me with a thump.

  My heart pounding, I took his warm—oh God, dead! —hand between my thumb and forefinger and gingerly moved it on top of my handprint; then I pressed down and rubbed the palm and fingerprints out with his own, all the time trying not to squeal like the big scaredy cat I was. I moved his leg to cover my footprint and smooshed it in, trying hard not to squeak as I slipped off my heels.

  I had officially tampered with my first crime scene. And last, I hoped. Not that it really mattered. It wasn't like I popped him anyway. Surely someone would believe me. A second set of footsteps sounded as the murderers made their way to the office.

  Standing up, I looked around for somewhere to hide and finally, finally, clapped eyes on the big wall unit where Dean stored his spare suits and other things when he needed to change in a hurry after a long day. I knew it was mostly empty because Dominic had roped me into cleaning it out on Monday, when Dean was away at a conference in Boston, and I took the bags to the dry cleaners.

  Trotting towards the closet, I used a tissue from my purse to pull one slim door open. I backed in, tugging the door shut. Sinking to the floor, I made myself as small as possible, hunkering down, my heart beating twice as fast as normal, just as I saw the handle to the office door turn down through the crack in the closet doors.

  Which was almost the exact same second a hand clamped over my mouth and my eyes nearly popped out of my head in fear. So not a good look… even in a dark closet!

  Chapter Two

  "Stop wriggling," hissed a man's voice. His breath brushed my ear and my heartbeat ramped up to marathon speed. "If they find us, we're dead."

  Okay. So here's the good news. I was probably not wedged inside Martin Dean's closet with his murderer. That, at least, had the potential for some reassurance. Power
ful arms remained clamped around me, even though I stopped trying to wriggle my way free, and the hand stayed over my mouth, despite my attempts to stifle my whimper. For a brief moment, I contemplated licking the hand because that always made my brothers and sister let go when we were kids, but that was too gross to do to a stranger. In a closet. With a corpse a few feet away.

  "If you scream, they'll shoot us in the head and you're far too pretty to die," came the man’s urgent whisper. Well, I had to agree with that. I really was too pretty to die. Also compliments totally worked on me. "I'm going to uncover your mouth. Don't scream. Nod if you understand."

  I nodded and the hand slid away, while the other stayed firmly clamped around my upper body as we looked through the slim crack in the doors. Two men came into the room and walked over to Dean's body. I remained huddled against the mystery man, shivering with fear as the men stared down at my boss’ corpse. The blood had spread a bit and the carpet was screwed. I knew that because I once cut my hand in my parents’ kitchen and ran into the dining room for help. I tripped and promptly stained their new wool carpet with my bloody handprint. In my opinion, there had been too much whining about the ruined carpet, too much giggling about what forensics would make of it, and not enough sympathy for my potentially early demise. Well, not that I would have actually died, but I was seven and a bit dramatic at the time. Blood did that to me as a kid. Even so, the stain leaking from Dean was decidedly larger than my splotchy handprint and they would never get it out.

  More pressing was Dean's warm corpse on top of it.

  "We'll have to get rid of it," said one of the men to the other. They were both tall and broad with shaven heads, flat faces and flatter noses. They wore black suits that hugged brawny shoulders. Their ties matched. Slightly less business-like were the rubber gloves they both wore. Despite their effort at business disguise, “thug” could have been printed on their foreheads. I was certain I'd never seen them before.

  "Can't get it past security," said the second man, giving Dean’s leg a poke with a shiny shoe. "There's a twenty-four hour desk."

  "Can't leave it here." The second man shrugged.

  They looked down at Dean's body. A bit too hopefully, I thought. It wasn't like he was going to oblige them by getting up and trotting away.

  "Shoulda shot him outside," said the first man. "Coulda made it look like a mugging. I didn't think of that." He was slightly bigger than his friend and clearly the rougher of the two. He looked like he'd led a hard life. Despite his smart suit and polished shoes, just one wrong look, and you'd be in the river, wearing a not-so-stylish pair of concrete stilettos. I shivered. The arm tightened about me for a moment before relaxing.

  "Let's see if there's anything we can move him with," said number two, making for the door. Heh-heh. Number two. I know. Immature. But I’d take a laugh anywhere I could get it right now.

  Number one grunted and followed him out the room, closing the door behind him.

  Just as soon as the door shut, the man holding me whispered, "What are you doing here, Lexi?"

  I twisted my neck and blinked in the gloom. Now that I thought about it, that voice sounded awfully familiar. "Adam?" I whispered.

  "Yeah."

  I thought about all the things I should ask next. "What are you doing in Dean's closet?"

  "I asked first."

  "I was dropping off the report." I still had it clutched in my, literally, bloody hand.

  "I thought you'd gone home."

  "No. I was working in the library."

  "Really?" Adam was incredulous.

  Honestly, we were stuck in a closet, no more than ten feet away from a man who had just been murdered minutes before, his murderers now freely trotting about the floor and my boss was giving me grief about my work ethic. Typical.

  "Yes, really," I replied with as much indignation as I could muster, given the circumstances.

  "I thought you went to Starbucks, then home."

  I gaped into the darkness. "I. Was. Working."

  "Really?"

  "Oh for God's sake." We were quiet for a moment, then, "Adam, what are you doing here?"

  "Trying not to get shot."

  "Oh. Well… well done."

  "Hmm?"

  "You've not been shot yet."

  "Yet, being the important bit." That was quite a sobering thought.

  "Why are you in the closet?" I persisted.

  "I don't want to say."

  "Why not? Did you have something to do with…" I flapped my hand and caught my knuckles on the door. We both froze.

  "Okay, fine. I came to talk to Martin. He got a call and told me to get in here."

  "How... odd." No one had ever told me to get into the closet when a friend came to visit. Well, except that time at college when I was about to get it on with some guy, and his girlfriend, (don't judge. I didn't know and he wasn't exactly forthcoming), knocked on his door. I resolved that by climbing out the first floor window, rather than hide and see God knows—his idea, ugh! The perv—and walking home. I try not to think about it.

  "I'm glad he did." Adam exhaled softly.

  "Yes, I suppose you are."

  "We need to get out of here, Lexi."

  "Any bright ideas?"

  "I'm thinking. Shh! I hear something. They're coming back." We fell silent again while the two goons trundled a mail delivery cart into the room, with a large box balanced on top. Behind me, Adam shifted and then put both arms around me, and, oh, that was quite nice, actually. So long as I didn't think too much about our impending deaths anyway.

  I relaxed slightly, partly because I was scared of getting a cramp and partly because being cuddled up to Adam had featured prominently in today’s daydream of choice. Minus the corpse.

  The goons set the box on the floor, then number one picked up Martin Dean's hands and number two got his feet. Together, they dragged him over to the box, a thick smear of blood trailing in their wake. His chest oozed more blood. Ick. I never knew a human body held so much.

  They dropped him. Dean's head rolled to face us, his eyes open and glassy. I squeezed my eyes shut and Adam hugged me a bit tighter again. I turned to press my head into his big, hard, manly chest, while trying not to make a sound. Wow. Adam was quite muscular. That was a surprise. He smelled really nice too, sort of minty. He tightened his arms around me, one hand stroked my hair and... okay, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I snuggled. And I stayed there right through the quiet argument the goons had with each other, even while picking Dean up and folding him into the box before carrying it, and right up until the cart was wheeled out of the room. Adam leaned forward slightly to angle his head to peek through the sliver of space between the doors.

  "They're gone. We need to get out of here before they come back."

  "Why would they come back?"

  "Because they want one of the files on the desk and they didn’t take it."

  "Which one? What's in it?" I might have been scared, but I couldn't help asking. It was the nosy gene. My whole family had it, which probably explains why most of them became cops.

  "Some report."

  "A report?"

  "They were talking about a report and Martin wouldn't tell them where it was," Adam explained.

  "We could take them?" I suggested.

  "Then they would know we were here and they have guns."

  I thought about the bullet wound in Dean’s head. "Oh, right. Bad idea."

  "Do you know what reports were on Dean's desk?"

  "Not right now. Dominic guards this office."

  "Remind me why you’re here again?"

  "Because I forgot to put this report on his desk and he wanted it today." I flapped the sheets of paper at Adam.

  "Does Martin keep copies anywhere?"

  "Sometimes Dominic has a copy on his desk. See? I have two here. One for Dean, one for Dominic."

  "We'll have to check and see which reports are on the desk."

  "Okay." Neither of us moved.

&n
bsp; "Today," said Adam, giving me a little push.

  "I'm not going out there! What if they see me?"

  "Fine. Wait here." Adam edged around me and slid out of the closet, skirting Dean's blood as he crossed to the desk. A small stack of reports sat squarely in the center and Adam rifled through them, quickly checking the cover sheet of each one before knocking them back into a precise pile again.

  "Do you keep copies of your reports?" he asked, pulling the door open and beckoning me out. He pressed the door shut again.

  "Yes. On the hard drive."

  "Shit. They'll probably delete it."

  I swallowed. "Um... Why?"

  "Your reports are the only ones on the desk."

  My breath caught in my throat. "They killed Dean over one of my reports?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "I might have another copy," I mumbled, my thoughts whirring.

  Adam glanced back at me as he moved towards the door. "What?"

  "I might have another copy. On a memory stick." I wasn't quite sure how he was going to take that. I added, in a mumbled whisper, barely audible, "Of all my reports." It’s not my fault, okay? I had to. I had a habit of accidentally deleting stuff, so now I was super organized and backed up everything. It was a practice that allowed me to save my own bacon a whole bunch of times.

  "Lexi, you do know that's highly unethical? Didn't you sign loads of secrecy waivers and stuff?"

  "Oh, tons." God, it had taken ages.

  Adam sighed. "Where's the memory stick?"

  "At my apartment."

  "At your apartment! You've been sneaking files out of the building! Fucking hell, Lexi!" I could feel him fuming.

  "So you don't want them?" Hah. Got him.

  "Yeah, I do," he conceded, "but we need to get out now. Do you know another way out that doesn't involve using the elevator or getting spotted by security or cameras?"

  "Um... yes, actually I do." See? This is another reason why I should have been a spy. Not only could I sneak documents in and out of the building for months without ever being noticed, but I also knew how to physically get out without being caught.