Killer Smile

Premenstrual Tom. Could it be him? How had he gotten upstairs in the first place? She flashed on the scene downstairs at the security desk. Bobby hadn’t been on duty tonight, and a new guard had signed them in. When Mary had asked him his name, he’d said he hadn’t gotten his name tag yet. What was going on? What other damage had been done? She ran down the corridor to the offices.

“No! Mary! Wait!” Paul called, hurrying after her. “Mary! Stop!”

Mary reached Judy’s office, the first one off the hall, marked by the sliding nameplate JUDITH CARRIER. Her heart in her throat, she peeked inside, then got good news. No damage! She looked around with relief. Judy’s desk, chairs, books, and papers were the same clutter as usual. Maybe the reception area and conference room had been the only places vandalized.

“Mary!” Paul shouted behind her, but Mary darted to the next office off the hall.

ANNE MURPHY read the nameplate, and the office was pristine! Maybe whoever had destroyed the reception area hadn’t come back this far. Even A

Amazing! Nothing had been disturbed. Be

It was a nightmare. Everything had been swept off her desk: phone, legal pads, Dictaphone, pencils, papers, and a Swing-line stapler lay all over the floor. Her desk drawers had been yanked open, turned upside down on the carpet, their contents dumped. Pencils, rows of staples, an old Great Lash mascara tube, scissors, and loose change lay everywhere. Her bookshelves had been wrenched from their metal brackets, and her law books, case reporters, and family photos covered the carpet. The accordion files she kept in alphabetical order on the credenza had been pulled off and emptied onto the floor. Confidential papers, trial exhibits, charts, depositions, and correspondence lay in a huge heap of messy paper.

“Yes, I’m still with you, dispatch,” Paul was saying into his cell phone, catching up with Mary on the threshold.

Amadeo’s file. She squatted on the rug like a madwoman and tore through the heap of files, folders, and papers on the floor. She had put the circle drawings, the wallet, and the FBI memo in the file, and stacked it with the other active cases on-the credenza. Where was the file? She checked the empty accordions for each case. Bre

“Hello? Hello, security?” Paul barked into his cell, then he closed the phone. “That gives me no confidence. No answer at the security desk.”

Mary wasn’t completely surprised. She bent over the debris of her files and wanted to cry. Could Amadeo’s file really be gone? She could never get that wallet back. She hadn’t made a copy of the FBI memo. The hair might still be in its Baggie in her desk, but who needed hair? Which other files were missing? She tried to remember her other active cases but she was too upset. Amadeo’s photos were gone, too. She hadn’t even sca

Mary looked around frantically for her laptop. It was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had been buried somewhere. She turned around and rummaged through the papers and files on the floor near her desk. Her laptop wasn’t among them. No! That laptop contained all of her work for the past three years, including tons of notes she had taken at the National Archives. Mary felt sick, deflating on the floor. Her thoughts returned to Amadeo’s file. The circle drawings. She couldn’t show them to anybody else now, much less Paul. She looked miserably at him as he slid his cell phone back into his tweedy pocket, extended a hand, and helped her up.

“Think of it this way, Mary,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “At least you weren’t here when they broke in.”

“I wish I had been, I could have done something.” Mary rose on weak knees. “The drawings I wanted to show you are gone now.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Paul said softly. Then he raised his arms and gentled her into an embrace that gave her surprisingly little comfort.

Mary, Paul, and now Judy stood in the firm’s trashed reception area with a tall African-American cop, Officer DeLawrence Rafter. Officer Rafter was slim-hipped and muscular, with a demeanor so professional it calmed Mary down just to be around him. Almost. He slid an Incident Report pad from his back pocket and a bitten-off Bic from his breast pocket.

“Now, Ms. DiNunzio, you wa

“I don’t know who did this, or why, but I have a few ideas.” She was thinking out loud, trying to sort out what had happened. “It seems to me that I’m sort of the target of this break-in, since mine was the only office ransacked, and apparently my case file and laptop were the only things they took. I was the only one using the conference room, too, and it was my sign that was on the door.”

“Correction.” Officer Rafter raised his pen. “The receptionist’s desk was ransacked, too, and petty cash was stolen.”

“Okay, right.” Mary reminded herself not to jump to conclusions, but it was so hard and she was Italian. “At first I thought the guy who did it might be Premenstrual Tom, who’s been calling the office.”

“Who?” Officer Rafter stopped her with a half-smile, and Paul arched a professorial eyebrow, leaning against the side wall with his arms folded. Mary didn’t think she’d be seeing him again. First dates were not improved by major felonies. If she wanted to see Paul again, she’d have to serve a subpoena.

“The man’s name is Tom Cott. He’s a psychotic who threatened to kill me the other night.”

“Threatened to kill you?” Officer Rafter repeated in disbelief, and Mary noticed Paul’s eyes widen behind his glasses. Okay, they are blue. Incredulous blue.

“We’re in the process of getting a TRO against him,” Judy interjected, her usually carefree face showing signs of strain. She had rushed to the office as soon as Mary had called, wearing an Old Navy sweatshirt and threadbare jeans. They had called Be

“I agree, it’s not likely that it’s him,” Mary told the cop.

“Plus, lots of premenstrual men hate us,” Judy added.

“I see.” Rafter made a note on his pad, and Mary was dying to know what it said. THESE BROADS ARE NUTS.

“Lately,” Mary continued, “I’ve noticed that a black Escalade has been around me, sort of following me. First it was on my parents’ street when I went over for di

“Are you serious?” Officer Rafter frowned under the shiny patent bill of his cap. “Did you get a look at the driver, either time?”

“The first time, I did. He was a burly guy with zits.”

“What race, how old, wearing what?”

“He was white, wearing a black shirt, about thirty years old, maybe thirty-five. He was big and thick, like a linebacker. I don’t remember much else.”