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It’s not too far away, in Anaheim. However, determining the exact location of the office where Gemma works is almost its own investigation. The security staff aren’t too keen on letting people into the offices to ‘talk to someone named Heather in finance’ when I don’t have her last name.
It’s Tuesday, a little past three in the afternoon.
Since I no longer have mental command powers, I do the next best thing. The security manager who ran out here trying to get me to leave experiences a sudden rapid loss of energy. I drain him to the point he promptly loses consciousness and collapses where he stands. In the ensuing chaos of the other security people checking on their boss, I exploit my superhuman speed to yoink a guest badge from behind the desk and casually head down the hall out of the lobby like I belong here.
Yeah, it’s a little rude of me. But no more rude than the jerk was being to me. I’m trying to find a missing woman here, people. This guy thinks I’m trying to steal some Mickey Mouse secrets or whatever. I couldn’t care less what the company is doing. Or the mouse.
Once I’m in the corridor beyond the lobby, I pin the guest badge to my shirt and start making my way around in search of the finance department. A few employees give me odd looks—likely because I am not being escorted—but they’re helpful enough after I tell them I’m an investigator working on the disappearance of someone who works here.
A helpful guy named Dmitri walks with me to the finance area. He’s IT, so he’s got the run of the place. His badge opens pretty much every door in here, it seems. The guy’s also sticking with me, either out of curiosity or just to make sure I’m here for the reasons I say I am. Since my intentions are exactly as spoken, I don’t mind.
I soon find myself standing in a nice little office with a bunch of desks. Lots of Disney decorations around the room for obvious reasons. Looks like a fun place to work. No bland grey cube walls here. Since all nine or so people in the department are in easy view, I decide to try the direct approach. I’m about to just call out ‘Heather?’ when I notice one desk is empty. The only picture frame on it has two cats snuggling together. Reasonable chance it’s Gemma’s. Her desk faces another, presently occupied by a brunette in her late twenties who seems somewhat distracted and tired, as if she hasn’t been sleeping well.
Bingo. Worry and guilt. That’s gotta be her friend.
I walk over to her. “Excuse me. Heather?”
The woman jumps, startled, then peers up at me. The ‘who the heck are you’ stare melts into an ‘I’m too fried for this crap now’ expression. She says nothing, but her reaction is enough to tell me she’s probably Heather.
“Hi.” I offer a hand. “My name’s Samantha Moon. I’m an investigator looking into what happened to Gemma.”
Heather blinks. She gives me a ‘wait, what’ double take, then her lip quivers. I expect her to burst into tears, but she holds herself together. After a moment of silent staring, she locks her computer and stands. “Can we go to a conference room?”
“Of course,” I say.
She gives Dmitri a sideways look, then walks past us. I follow, as does Dmitri.
Once we’re in a little room at the back end of the finance office, Heather flops in a chair, grabs her face in both hands and lets out a huge sigh. She sounds so much like Tammy being ‘done with it’ I’d have laughed if we weren’t talking about a missing and likely dead woman. “It’s my fault,” she says.
I sit opposite her. It’s important to stay on her level. Don’t want to come off as accusing by gazing down at her. I need as much information as she can give me. “What’s your fault?”
“She never would’ve gone to Norbert’s if I didn’t nag her about it all week.”
“Norbert’s? Is that the bar?”
Heather nods, lets her arms flop limp on the table, then gives me this pathetic stare like she thinks I’m a cop here to arrest her for killing the woman, like ‘go ahead and take me away now’.
“Please, relax as much as you can. The more information I have, the more likely it is I’ll be able to find her.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
I pull my notepad out. “Had Gemma been acting unusually at all in the past few weeks leading up to that Friday?”
“No, not really. I mean…” Heather looks down, fidgeting at her hand. “She was anxious about the party. Colleen wanted to take us all somewhere to celebrate exceeding our metrics goals for the quarter. No big deal, just dinner out. Gem’s not a social sort of person. She’d much rather stay home and watch TV than go out. She thought Norbert’s was like, you know, a ‘bar.’ I told her it was a restaurant that happens to have a bar, and to relax.”
“She’s that anxious about being out in public?” I raise both eyebrows.
“No, not really. Like I said, she thought it was a bar, and she ‘doesn’t do bars.’ She has this idea in her head that only sluts and thugs go to bars. Yeah, there’s some social anxiety in there as well, but she’s not like a mental case. She’s normal, just doesn’t want to associate with the wrong crowd.”
“And she thought Norbert’s was what, like a biker hangout?”
Heather barks an unexpected laugh. “Something like that I guess. She really doesn’t understand what a bar is since she’s never really been to one. Norbert’s is basically a more expensive TGI Friday’s. I’d never go there by myself. But the company was paying for it, so…”
“Right.” I draw the word out as I finish writing. “Can you walk me through that night?”
“Pretty normal, really. We went there right from the office. Got a table, just hanging out, you know, talking. Gem got an iced tea. She was the only one of us not to go for something with a little kick to it.”
I jot that down. “Gemma doesn’t drink?” I already know she doesn’t, thanks to Scott. One of the rules lawyers live by is ‘never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.’ It’s a bit more difficult for detectives and PIs to follow that when trying to find new information, but when Idohave the answer, it’s a good barometer of the responding person’s intention.
