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I turned on Brad’s computer. It beeped, and the monitor sprang to life with a soft click and a hiss. A message on a blue screen asked me to enter my user name and password. I put in the information Brad had given me and got an error message. Damn! Someone had changed it. Of course. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t double check his email messages for evidence to support what he’d told us.
“Can I help you?” The lanky fellow peered at me.
I got up and extended my hand. “I’m Sam McRae. I’m a lawyer, representing Brad Higgins.”
“Jon Fielding.” He gave my hand a half-hearted squeeze. His gaze drifted to a spot over my shoulder, then returned to me. “Technically,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about Brad.”
“Then I won’t ask about him. Can you tell me if this office has security cameras in it?”
Fielding shook his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”
“Just curious.” It was possible there were cameras the employees didn’t know about and possible they’d recorded something the company hadn’t told us about. Possibilities I’d have to explore with Hirschbeck.
Fielding looked over my shoulder again. “I don’t think you should be on his computer, either.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low to match his. “I can’t get in anyway.”
I stole a glance back at the monitor and noticed the screen saver had already kicked in. A multicolored, amorphous shape undulated against a black background. Looking at that for ten minutes would have driven me mad.
“I just wanted to check for anything that would support his story,” I told Fielding. “Nothing cloak-and-dagger.”
“Well, if you need a character witness for him, I’ll be one.” He glanced around.
“You don’t believe he did it?”
“I don’t believe it, no.” He paused and looked down. “I . . . can’t really say more.”
“That’s all right. I don’t want you to get into trouble over this.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A female voice piped up behind Fielding. It belonged to a short woman, her dark eyes fixing me with a stare both curious and hostile. She had a round face, olive complexion and short dark-brown hair, shellacked into a spiky punk do. A faux ruby nose ring gleamed under the fluorescents.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I introduced myself again and explained why I was there.
“You shouldn’t be here.” She flashed a look at Fielding. I didn’t catch his reaction, but her full lips pursed in a way that told me she didn’t like it. “We’ve been instructed by our general counsel not to talk about this with anyone. You should take any questions to him. His name is Leonard Hirschbeck.”
“I know who he is. And you are?”
“Ana Lopez. I’ve taken Brad’s position.”
“You’re filling in for Brad,” Fielding said. “Temporarily.”
“Yeah? We’ll see how temporary it is.” She crossed her arms and stared me down once more. “I think you should leave now.”
“Ana, lighten up,” Fielding said.
“Don’t tell me to lighten up! I’m doing what I’ve been told. And you’d do the same, in my place. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
Heads poked up over the cubicle tops and disappeared quickly. It reminded me of Whack-A-Mole.
“You seem pretty convinced of his guilt,” I said.
“Well, look at the facts. The account was set up a month after Brad started. Only he had control over its creation and maintenance. Then they found all that money in his file cabinet. Coincidence?”
“If they thought Brad was guilty, why didn’t they fire him?” I asked.
Ana re-pursed her lips and said, “You need to speak to Mr. Hirschbeck.” Her look told me that any further inquiry would be at my own risk.
