Character Witness Page 12

  Forty minutes later, chilled from the air conditioning, plans she wasn't sure she could carry out still pinging around in her head, Kathleen Cotter pulled into the parking lot of the sprawling Tysco complex. The compound was as big as a city. To the left long low buildings sprawled over acres of land. Hangers yawned on the south end and beyond that scrub brush and finally barb wire topped fences so far away they were just another blur on the horizon. Helicopters stood at the ready, jeep-like vehicles spotted the tarmacs. A private jet sat idle, painted white with the Tysco logo on the tail. A tall, chain link fence surrounded that portion of the complex and the few people that could be seen seemed to hurry, as if their very presence demanded stealth.

  Kathleen's eyes slid right and then left again. Finally her gaze settled right at a seventy degree angle where the south end of the place transitioned to the north, where the tunnel-like building connected the one story buildings to the many windowed high-rise. A grass strip ran the length of the windowless tunnel, merging with a flower bed that snaked S-like out from the last third of the low building. In front of the high-rise the landscape became a full blown celebration of ornamental ecstasy. Nestled in this floral jubilation was a sculpture of the world gone awry. It was gold and brass and silver in tone, huge bars of metal converged in an oddly shaped sphere. The artist had left mammoth gaps through which black metallic arrows were thrust. The design was so deftly done that a visitor with less interest in the place would have subliminally blocked out the dreary south end and focused only on the aesthetically pleasing north structure.

  Kathleen crossed her arms over the steering wheel and lay against it, focusing on the high rise where Lionel Booker had come every day of his working life. Sarah had said it was a long drive from his home in the canyon. Kathleen couldn't fathom why he made it. Certainly there was no glamour in being one of a hundred auditors who labored anonymously in a place like this. Then she thought of Banning, Dorty & Breyer and her case load. She had a reason for being there; Lionel could have had a thousand reasons for toiling like an ant in a hill, not the least of which was safety. No one ever asked you to prove how worthy you were in a huge place like Tysco or a schlock office like Dorty. You simply had to be and do. At least here Lionel's salary had been good, and the benefits solid. There was job security and that was a good thing. There was predictability. That could be a good thing.

  ''Good things, Lionel,'' Kathleen said to whatever part of his spirit had been left here. ''You don't leave good things. You leave bad things, a world where people don't care. But Sarah cared. Your brother cared.''

  Lionel left Louise because she wasn't a good thing. Lionel stayed with Sarah because she was. Lionel saved for a farm. That was a good thing. Lionel worked and died at Tysco. Tysco seemed a good thing, but then again this might be where the good things had changed. God she hoped not.

  Reaching for her purse, Kathleen refreshed her memory. Lionel was found in the bathroom on the second floor South wing just where the tunnel intersected with the high-rise. There would be nothing to see in the bathroom. It would have been scoured clean the moment the investigating cops gave the word. But there would be a lot to see on the sixth floor where he worked. There would be people to talk to. That's where she would go.

  She signed in at desk and, sporting the plastic encased badge that identified her as 'visitor', went to the elevators. She stood posture-perfect as always. She waited patiently - as always. But when the elevator doors open, Kathleen's mouth fell open and she ducked right to avoid the stamped that charged out each of six elevators.

  Men and women, short and tall, well dressed or not spilled, out at her. They chattered, they pushed through the crowds silently, cursed under their breath or talked frantically as they headed for the front door and freedom. One-by-one the doors closed and the elevators zipped up their shafts to collect those desperate and left behind. Kathleen managed to slip behind door number three. It wouldn't have waited for God and she breathed a sigh of relief when she made it. On the sixth floor twenty people hovered, their faces a collective show of disappointment that they would have to wait one second longer to allow Kathleen out before they smashed inside.

  Apologizing, she crab-stepped through the crowd, mouthing 'I'm sorry' as she went. The other elevators called and the twenty people disappeared, leaving Kathleen alone to ponder her own circumstance. Perhaps O'Doul & Associates was not the most glamorous place on the face of the earth, but working at Tysco was akin to being buried alive judging by the way people fled at the end of the day. Perhaps Lionel simply snapped, unable to face another day with hundreds and thousands of people who arrived, worked and ran.

  ''Oh, I hope you didn't Lionel,'' Kathleen muttered even as she thanked her lucky stars that she'd never ended up in a place like this. Dorty, at least, was always surprising. She moved on.

  Like the lobby, the office floors were well appointed, though uninspired. The carpet was new, short and easy to care for, wheat colored like a boy's summer head buzzed to a nub. A small wooden plaque on the wall pointed the way to auditing. Kathleen followed the directions. It was one of her specialties.

  She went left and followed the next arrow right until she reached the end of the hall and her destination. While the doors on either side of her opened to single offices of no particular distinction, the double glass doors ahead of her led to a huge room filled with gray desks. Kathleen had the almost uncontrollable urge to press her nose against the glass. Instead she stood quietly and looked.

  Kathleen prided herself on her ability to sense the state of things. Her mother's house had been filled with disappointment. Even after her death, after the cleaning crew had taken everything away and just before the house was sold, Kathleen could tell no matter who bought it, the house would always be filled with disappointment. Her home had been filled with loneliness. Gerry's offices were filled with hope. Though the first impression was one of failure, she had come to realize it was only hope that had collected dust. And here, standing where Lionel Booker had tread Kathleen didn't sense discouragement. No black fingers of discontent reached out to give her a chill, no Oliver Twist cowered in corner asking for more. This was just a place to work.

  There was a bank of average size windows and strips of fluorescent lighting running the length of the cavernous room. There were framed prints on the wall that, from her vantage, seemed to be corporate in attitude. Perhaps renderings of the things that were manufactured somewhere else in the sprawling complex. There was one tall plant in the corner, but no padded walls divided up the great expanse. There was a water fountain with a bulletin board over it. Kathleen wondered where the coffee pot was. She imagined there was a grindstone about that these people kept their noses too, yet Kathleen didn't think it was terribly unpleasant. She pushed through the glass doors. If possible the quiet behind the doors was even more profound than the silence of the recently deserted halls. She pulled her purse closer.

  ''Can I help you?''

  Kathleen jumped. A woman materialized from a small room cut out of the beige wall. Kathleen glimpsed a Xerox machine, noted the sheaf of papers in the woman's hand, the impatient expression on her face and the purse slung over her shoulder. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was trying to catch up with the rest of the pack.

  ''I'm looking for the supervisor.''

  The woman jerked her head toward the back of the big room. ''He usually doesn't leave until six. But there's always the exception. I saw him go out in the hall about fifteen minutes ago. He didn't look like he was leaving for the day, but you never know.''

  ''Thanks.''

  Kathleen nodded. The woman went around her.

  ''No problem.''

  She put the papers on the desk nearest the door, pulled open the bottom drawer, retrieved something that fit in the palm of her hand and went on her way without a backwards glance. Kathleen went the opposite way.

  Up close the situation was no better. The desks were laid out five to a row, ten rows. It was a l
ong room and the boss had an actual office in the back, though office might have been a generous description. Actually, all the poor guy got was an extra glass wall that cut him off from the unwashed masses. Kathleen wondered how long he had to work for the privilege. The office was empty and, since anyone who came in could see that she was not stealing anything, Kathleen was bold. She went in.

  Far from there being anything to steal, there wasn't even anything to look at. The desk was neatly stacked with ledger sheets and memos. A hand calculator pulsed green with a number in the six figures in front of the decimal and three after. It had been left precisely in the middle of the desk. There was a lamp and a standard issue pen along with three perfectly sharpened pencils. There were no pictures, no children's drawings, no sport paraphernalia, and no joke gifts given to the beloved boss last Christmas. The office gave Kathleen the creeps. She imagined a robot person coolly eyeing those he supervised from his silent, lonely, glass enclosed office.

  Kathleen's senses were on overload. The quiet made her uncomfortable; the starkness of the office seemed ominous. Deciding another time, a more active time, might be more conducive to a conversation with the person who inhabited this place, Kathleen turned on her heel. She clutched her purse tighter. She'd make an appointment. She'd send a letter. She was about to reach for the door when she saw him.

  It was like a Kodak moment. Music should have swelled. Her heart should have stopped instead of stuttered. The man standing in the huge room, half way between the big glass double doors that led to the hall and the single glass door behind which Kathleen waited, looked neither surprised nor curious. He looked gorgeous.

  Tall, his hair was dark, straight and thick enough that Kathleen hardly noticed it receded slightly at his brow. His face was narrow, his features refined. But there was an edge to all of them: thick dark lashes rimmed deceptively serene eyes, the authoritative set to lips kept them from being thought of as full, his nose was a bit too hewn to be considered aristocratic.

  There was no pocket protector, no wing-tip shoes, no short sleeved, easy wash, and no wrinkle-free dress shirt tucked into Sans-a-Belt polyester pants. His body wasn't languid, but held at the casual ready. Lean, it was also defined. His long sleeved shirt was rolled up past the wrist, open at the neck, tucked into jeans that skimmed a pair of Dockers. He was a billboard come to life.

  Kathleen, speechless and immobile, could only watch while he walked slowly, but surely, toward her. He paused then opened the door without a smile of welcome or a grimace of displeasure. He walked past to the desk and said:

  ''Are you looking for me?''

  ''Are you the supervisor?'' Her voice squeaked. He looked at her. She could swear the very tips of his lips moved up. Almost a smile.

  ''Am I sitting here?'' She was wrong about the smile.

  ''Are you always rude?'' She tried to set herself apart. Perhaps if she felt superior, she might be able to make it through the next few minutes without sounding like a love struck school girl. She had never been so excited by her own audacity. He didn't quite soften, but he did her the favor of sitting back in his chair and giving her his full attention.

  ''No, actually I'm rather nice. And I don't think either of us meant to be rude. I just have a lot to do, and I'm assuming if you made it this far you knew who you were coming to see.'' He crossed his legs, laced his hands behind his head. ''What division are you from? Who's complaining?''

  ''No one that I know of. I was hoping you could tell me.''

  Kathleen looked around, as much to identify a chair as to cool her heels. A man like this knew exactly what effect he had on women like her, and Kathleen didn't fool herself that he couldn't read her like book. Confidence oozed out of him while Kathleen's was running for the door.

  She breathed deeply through her nose, dug in her purse, managed to come up with a business card and a half a stick of gum. She handed him the card, noticed the gum, took the card back and extricated her fingers from the offending mess. Red-faced, she handed him back the card.

  He hadn't cracked a smile.

  Thank God she didn't work for him.

  ''My name's Kathleen Cotter from the firm of O'Doul & Associates.'' He read faster than she could talk and put the card aside before she finished. She sat down without an invitation, knees together, her thoughts on those eyes of his and ways to fill the expectant silence. Uncomfortable, Kathleen realized Michael Crawford was still looking her in the eye as he had since the moment he'd seen her. As if he read her mind, taking pity on the poor girl he had to know wasn't as sophisticated as she looked, Michael Crawford glanced at the card briefly. Before she could breathe he was looking her in the eye again.

  ''Michael Crawford. What can I do for you?''

  ''I'd like to ask you some questions about one of your employees.'' Kathleen cleared her throat. She sounded better. Not great, just better.

  ''Should I have a representative from our legal department here?'' he asked. She was just another part of his day. She resisted the urge to tug at her skirt.

  ''I don't think you need to, but you're welcome to call someone if it will make you feel more comfortable. I don't mind waiting.'' Kathleen mentally whacked herself. She sounded as if she was asking if he wanted a pillow for his feet. She cleared her throat and added an addendum. ''But it really isn't necessary, I assure you. From a legal standpoint, that is. But if you start feeling uncomfortable -''

  ''Okay.'' He picked up a pen and ran it through his fingers. Long fingers with a streak of red across the knuckles. That was the kind of injury he couldn't have gotten pushing papers. ''Shoot.''

  ''Yes. Fine. Sorry.'' She laughed once. She smiled. So did he, thank goodness. ''Okay, I appreciate you giving me some time. I won't take up too much of it. I represent a woman named Louise Booker. Her ex-husband Lionel worked here and we are in litigation with the insurance company regarding Mr. Booker's policy. I'd like to ask you a few questions and determine if, perhaps, a deposition might be in order or if, perhaps, an affidavit might provide me with the information I need.''

  Kathleen paused for breath. That really wasn't bad. Off the cuff, just enough legalese. He didn't say a word and, eventually, there was nothing more for her to say. She wrapped it up.

  ''We don't believe that Mr. Booker intended to take his own life,'' she explained. Nothing. ''I'd like to get some comments from you regarding his state of mind at work. I won't subpoena you unless it is absolutely necessary.'' He lowered his arms, no longer cradling his head, and tossed the pen on the desk. His scrutiny made her uneasy. ''Even then it's likely you won't have to appear in court. I'd make this as painless as possible for you.''

  ''That's very kind of you.''

  Now he smiled for real, a lovely quirky little half smile. The kind of smile you give a kid on your doorstep that memorized the sales pitch for Girl Scout cookies and says it all in one breath. But Kathleen was no girl scout and that was exactly what kept Mr. Crawford speechless. He'd been working at Tysco too long.

  ''Not at all.'' Kathleen said quietly. He shifted in his seat, leaning over the desk his shoulder hunched slightly. Everything he did seemed comfortable and casual and made her feel uptight and prim. She bet his mind worked the same way, casual and sure. She would kill for a mind like that.

  ''Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be giving you anything, or going anywhere, much less to court. I haven't got a whole lot to tell you that a judge would be interested in.''

  ''Mr. Crawford, I promise you the information you share with me will be used verbatim. I don't want to do anything to hurt Mr. Booker's memory, but I also don't want to go into court with a losing proposition and waste my client's time and money. I just want to understand his state of mind so I can make a decision regarding this suit.''

  Michael laughed, ''I don't care who you tell about our conversation. I'm one of those people who actually have nothing to hide. You can believe me when I tell you I doubt I know anything that's going to help you, really.''

  ''He did work here, did
n't he?'' Verbally she tapped her toe. He wasn't fazed.

  ''He did.''

  ''You are the supervisor of this department aren't you?''

  ''I am. The problem is I've only been in this department about two months. Lionel Booker died a few weeks after I came on board.'' Now his smile was big. His teeth were white and straight, and smaller than she would have imagined. The overall affect was charming and there was no doubt he was having fun.

  ''Oh,'' Kathleen slumped. ''Darn.'' She crossed her legs. It was the first time he took his eyes off her face. She didn't notice. She looked stage left with her chin planted on her upturned fist for a moment. Then she looked back at him, forgetting he was absolutely the most wonderfully put together man she'd ever seen. ''You know, I thought I was being so smart. I came all this way without calling because I wanted to kind of experience where Mr. Booker worked. I wanted to see if I could get a feeling for him.''

  ''Would you like some coffee?'' Michael didn't move. A man of few wasted gestures he waited for her answer.

  ''No, thanks.'' Kathleen shook her head.

  ''Just as well. It's not bad in the morning, but by this time I wouldn't vouch for it.'' Michael picked up a pen then discarded it once again. ''I don't know if I can give you a feel for the guy. The best I can do is tell you that the man seemed to march to the beat of a different drummer. He was right out of the sixties: hair, dress, kind of a spiritual quality about him. I'd bet my bottom dollar he didn't do drugs, though. He knew his job. He did it well. He went home on time.'' He shrugged. The smile disappeared replaced with an expression of charming hope. ''Does that help?''