Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

“You’re sweating, lady. Generally when a boss goes, so does his secretary, but you could be hoping that if you demonstrate loyalty above and beyond the call of duty, someone there will make a place for you. You’re conning yourself into the sack, honey, even though you know that when this quiets down, you’ll be yesterday’s romance.”

Gina paused.

“No,” she said softly. “This is one time you can’t be kicked out of bed with a thank-you-ma’am. It has to be more permanent. Good item for the news... ‘and today, in a bizarre coincidence, Miriam Abernathy, personal secretary to Cyrus Nelson, the executive at Meridian Technology who was found shot to death in a motel room, died in...’ you fill it in. Car accident, suicide, apartment burglary, mugging. A great many things can happen to a woman living alone. Neither of us can afford to forget that.”

The woman’s face was as white as the porcelain coffee cup.

Beckett knew he couldn’t have talked to her like that. Not in that tone, not in that mutual viewpoint of the everyday world, two sisters beneath the skin.

He rose. “Now that we know what to look for, Mrs. Abernathy, we really don’t need you. I suggest you retain an attorney.”

Gina smiled at her. “In case you don’t know what he means, I’ll explain. I’ll be back with a warrant charging you with every damned thing we can think of in connection with Nelson’s killing. I’ll enjoy that. He probably treated you well, and I can’t stand a woman who rolls over in the name of financial security.”

She followed Beckett, turning at the door.

“Just hope I get back to you before the guy who killed your boss.”

She slammed the door.

Beckett led her a few feet down the corridor. “Take it easy. You’re dealing with a frightened woman. Right now you’re young enough to stand up and spit in anyone’s eye, mine included, without giving it a second thought. Twenty years from now, you may still spit, but you’ll think about it first.”

She cocked her head at him. “As I said, you really didn’t need me along. You had it worked out before we got here.”

“Not entirely. If he was killed for what was in the briefcase, she had to know it, so I wondered who she was protecting. It never occurred to me it could be herself.”

“Hurray for me, but it looks as though I screwed the whole thing up.”

He shook his head. “You simply hit her with too much too fast.”

He led her back to the apartment door. “Let’s try again.”

She pressed the bell.

Miriam Abernathy opened the door. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet.

“I was about to call you,” she said.

They took her in so she could dictate her statement.

Nelson, she said, had waved a fistful of computer printouts at her and told her he’d come up with something that could send someone to jail. She had no idea what he was talking about and still didn’t. She thought he intended to bring it up at the meeting and was surprised when he walked out an hour later. When Spocker told her he’d been shot in the motel room, it never occurred to her he’d been killed for those printouts. After all, the computer could churn those out by the hundreds — until she realized that his set had to show notes he’d made. It finally dawned on her that to avoid an explosion at the meeting, he’d gone to the motel room to meet whoever he’d said could be going to jail to allow him to defend himself or resign in the true tradition of networking executives. But it was all theory. No proof. And since it implied someone at the company was a killer, in addition to somehow being dishonest — well, that was not only an insult to their exemplary executive staff but would surely bring in the FBI and Air Force investigators, and who knew what they’d come up with?

She’d be rocking the boat. Out. And jobs at her level at her age, particularly for boat rockers, were hard to find.

When she’d finished, Gina looked as though she’d swallowed something distasteful, but they couldn’t poke any holes in the story and Beckett asked who had been missing at ten o’clock from the plush, carpeted offices of the executive level.

Andrews, the president. And Gower, the vice-president in charge of production. Both had arrived shortly before eleven.

What she knew wasn’t that dangerous, but given the close relationship between a secretary and the man she worked for, the killer could assume otherwise. A uniformed man would remain outside her apartment all night.

Standing at his window, the office deserted except for Kern, who was catching phone calls, Beckett looked out at the virtually empty streets. The town was no longer the center of activity. That had moved to the malls, where parking was ample and free.

Due largely to Gina, they weren’t doing too badly. She and Spocker would pick it up again in the morning. If whoever killed Nelson was sleeping soundly, the chances were it would be the last time.