Temporary Insanity

By Joan Baker-Young

As "The Temp from Hell," it's Amber Kegan-Fallon's job to shape up executives who can't keep a secretary for more than a few months. But Amber also has a night job that has made her the focus of a criminal investigation. Can she lead hot investigator Brian McNulty to the bad guys before she literally becomes toast?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543914412

Book preview

even…

2

Dream on… or not. The phone woke me up.

Hello, I managed to mumble.

Hey! It’s Loretta.

I peered at the clock. It’s six forty-five, Loretta.

Yeah, I know. I just got an assignment that may be temp to perm and I figured as long as you’re no longer working nights—

Just Tuesday nights. And I’ve got tonight off, too.

There was a long silence.

Loretta?

You. Don’t. Know.

Know? What should I know?

I woke you.

Yeeeeeessss, I drew it out to indicate my displeasure. Loretta owns the employment agency where I snag temporary office work. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend in New York City—or anywhere, for that matter, if you discount Marty and I do—and she knows about my night gig waiting tables. She should know better than to call me at the crack of doom, as I refer to anything before coffee, or in my case, green tea.

"Marty’s burned down," she said.

No it didn’t. I was just there.

After hours, Amber. I was panicked about you when I heard—it’s all over the newscasts—then they said it was after closing and there were no casualties.

Turns out the crack of doom might be the perfect description for today.

"My Marty’s?"

Lower Manhattan, right? Popular off-the-beaten track hangout?

I decided not to point out that popular and off-the-beaten-track was a great oxymoron.

Amber? Are you there?

Yeah. Stunned, I guess. I was wide awake now. I heaved a huge sigh. After my little snit-fit at the club, I had felt lucky to get out of there with my job intact. Not only that, but I got everything I wanted.

Looks like Marty can keep his promise of my never working another Tuesday.

Amber?

Thanks for telling me, Loretta. Anything else?

The job? Just got a call from the girl we had at this patent attorney’s down in the financial district. One-man office in one of those older buildings. Nothing glamorous. She called in and said she just couldn’t face the guy another day. Could I replace her? And I immediately thought of you.

Because?

Well, you’ve worked for lawyers, know the lingo, know WordPerfect, which hardly anybody uses anymore, and you seem to handle bastards well. You’re my Temp from Hell.

Thanks a lot. My tone was less than cordial.

I mean you really seem to shape them up, these guys who can’t hang on to secretaries. Human Resource guys love you. I mean they have a valuable exec who can’t hold onto an assistant… until you come along. How do you do it?

I guess I just let them know what is not acceptable behavior. The base word of secretary is ‘secret’ and if you want one to keep your secrets, you better treat her with the respect the keeper of all that important info deserves. But I’m not too sure I’m up to that today. I was sort of looking forward to a couple of days of down time. I was back to being a little less than cordial.

Did I mention that it pays really well.

How well?

She told me.

I suddenly felt very cordial. Where do I have to be at what time?

She gave me the info, then added, I told you it’s temp-to-perm, right?

You know I won’t go permanent.

Well, I thought since you’re not working nights…

"Speaking of which, do you have any night jobs? Seven to midnight would be good. If not, the lobster shift. Wouldn’t get as much sleep, but really top dollar."

What is it with you and two jobs?

I have expenses.

You live in a residence with no utilities except a phone bill and you get two meals a day!

I’ve got to get out of here before I go nuts, except I can’t handle a roommate and you know what a Manhattan rental costs—

So live in Brooklyn. Or Jersey. I live in Jersey.

I came to New York City to live in New York City.

Brooklyn’s New York City.

I’ll take Manhattan, I rasped, then heard her other line ring.

Gotta go, she said. We’ll talk later.

Yeah.

I really wanted to talk to Loretta. But right now I had to get my buns down to the new assignment, hopefully with enough wiggle room before I reported so I could stop by the scene of the fire which was a few blocks from my temp job.

I hopped into my corporate duds, snarfed down breakfast and made it down to the financial district in enough time to get off the train a stop early and check out the club. When I got to what was left of Marty’s, there was a lone fire truck hosing down the smoldering rubble. The upper stories had pancaked down and the walls had collapsed inward. The iron dormer and the Marty’s sign were charred skeletons guarding what used to be the front door.

Marty was standing across the street, talking to a fireman—a really cute fireman—helmet and boots, the whole enchilada. And sunglasses. Oakleys at that. They saw me standing on the corner looking at the charred carnage and Marty waved me over.

God, Marty, what happened?

Probably a hot ashtray was dumped into the VIP trash or… When I find out who did it… He was halfway between tears and apoplexy.

If I’d worked the VIP room last night, that never would have happened. Oh, Marty, I’m so―

You allow smoking in the club? the fireman asked.

So why don’t you investigate us? wise-ass me had to say. My bad. Except the man had interrupted my apology.

That’s what I’m here to do. Investigate, he said. Brian McNulty, Arson Investigator, Office of the Fire Marshall, he bent down, pulled a card from his boot and handed it to me.

So here was a fireman in full regalia and sunglasses with business cards in his boots. And he totally lived up to the FDNY rep for truly hot personnel—about five-ten, t-shirt stretched across a muscular chest noticeable because his insulated slicker was open. Flat belly, strong jaw. Nice voice. As he handed me the card I noticed his left hand bore no rings.

Thank you, I said, and our hands lingered for just a moment. I mean, how weird would this be? After hoping I’d meet Mr. Right through the club, I meet someone through the club’s demise.

Stop it! I silently ordered myself, This is serious business here. I turned to Marty.

What are you going to do?

Killing the bastard responsible for this would be too easy, he said.

No, Marty, I mean, rebuild? Find another venue? What?

"There’s a hotel development corporation that’s bought out most of the block. I was holding out. I owned Marty’s building, so I guess I’ll collect the insurance and sell and do a new club somewhere else."

Fireman McHottie and I were both frowning. He spoke first.

You turned down the offer of that hotel conglomerate?

Yeah. They kept upping it and I kept saying no. Wanted to see how high I could stretch ‘em.

McHottie pulled a small spiral notebook and pencil out of his waistband and began writing. How many others were holding out?

You’d have to check with them. Most of these buildings are old, infrastructures need a lot of help, mom-and-pop stores, apartments on the upper floors. Neighbors hated the club. Noisy, you know? We had guys who worked the front and tried to keep it down, but we were open late and you know how it is when people drink. He did a palms-up what-can-you-do shrug.

More likely suspects, I said.

The fireman sort of glared at me and said, Who the hell are you?

Amber Kegan-Fallon, I said and explained that I worked—or had worked, anyway—as a waitress at the club as the FDNY guy kept scribbling away.

Our best one, Marty said.

I stood on tippy-toes—I was in sneaks—and kissed him on the cheek

And I want you back when we open the new place.

Thanks, Marty. I have a day job now and… I started edging away. I’m a little late.

The fire guy cut in. You got a day job so fast?

I temp days. I was doing that all along. Working two jobs because I was saving for an apartment of my own.

Whadya gonna do now? Marty asked.

Look for another night job, I guess. Law firms and investment houses use a lot of night-shift word processors and proofreaders.

At least you got a job, doll. Most of my folks are left out in the cold.

Right. I gave a chagrinned little nod. At least I got to give Nardo and Charlie their splits before I left last night. That rocker had sent a really nice apology tip, Marty.

Amber was our star, Marty said and gave my ass a friendly pat.

I rolled my eyes, then shot him a warning look. That’s the last time you do that.

McHottie cut our little game short. Were you on duty last night Ms. Fallon?

It’s Kegan-Fallon. I’m hyphenated, so just plain Amber is a lot simpler.

He nodded and wrote some more. So were you on duty last night… Amber? He seemed to lower his voice just a tad as he said my name.

Get a grip, I reminded myself and answered his question. Briefly. I went home early because I wasn’t feeling well.

What time was that? He kept scribbling.

Eight-fifteen? I looked at Marty for confirmation.

About right. If you need an exact time, I can check with my driver, he said. Is it important?

Everything’s important, sir, Fireman McHottie said, never looking up from his notebook, especially if there was smoking in your club. Major violation which would negate your insurance.

All on the up-and-up, Marty said. You guys checked it out and cleared us. The VIP Room’s a private club. The host pays for and receives membership cards for the evening. The room has separate ventilation and a sprinkler system, all of it put in at great expense when the no smoking ordinance went up. You can ask Amber here.

McNulty stopped scribbling and turned to me. True?

I don’t know about the great expense part. That was before my time. But there are sprinklers and the ventilation is pretty good. I mean the room never seems to be particularly smokey and those celebs smoke everything—

Everything.

I caught his drift. Cigarettes and cigars. Lots of cigars. Lots. I decided to leave it at that.

I’ll check that out with the department, McHottie said. Did you work that room often?

Too often, I snorted. I was supposed to work it last night, but Marty and I came to an agreement. I would work no more Tuesdays and only do the VIP room twice a week.

Because?

I was tired of being the zookeeper.

He frowned for a moment, finally nodded and wrote a few things down, then got back to me. Did you notice anything unusual before you left last night?

Yes, as a matter of fact. There was a guy back in the employees’ area. He was drunk and looking for the mens’ room.

That never happens?

Oh, yeah it happens. But to be that drunk that early in the evening? That’s fairly unusual. We were just opening. I chewed my lip and thought for a moment. Come to think of it, he was probably a trader. They come in a lot. Sometimes they go out for drinks and eats when they get off the trading floor, and if they’ve had a particularly good day, they get a little too happy and wind up here.

Marty frowned. Or a banker! They get off early, too. Entertain clients. Probably a banker.

Yeah, I said, with not a hell of a lot of conviction, what with banks staying open later and later. Did you ever find him last night, Marty?

Problem, Ms. Fal—Amber?

Well, I’ve just never seen anyone that drunk that early, is all. A little tipsy, maybe, but this guy was flat-out wasted. And Marty went to look for him when I left. I mean he shouldn’t have been—

Description?

Um… I stepped closer to Brian McNulty and stood on tiptoe. A little taller than you.

He looked down at my sneakered feet.

I was wearing heels last night. I’m barely five feet, but in platform heels I’m five four and―

Well, my helmet adds a couple of inches, he said and removed it, letting loose a mop of black curls. How much taller, would you say?

Put the helmet back on. He complied. About as tall as you in your helmet. And he had a slighter build. Sort of average, I guess.

Coloring?

Average again. His hair was lighter, dirty blond, I think, longish, sort of curly and stringy like wet or greasy… I don’t know. It was hanging in his face, like maybe it was supposed to be gelled back, but his mousse had died… or something, I ended lamely, no one getting my sad little joke.

"Eyes?’

Light… I shrugged. I’m sorry… what with his hair in his eyes, I didn’t really notice. The hallway isn’t well lit, and I was… I wanted to say that I was well and truly pissed, but settled for, I just wasn’t feeling very well.

But you’re fairly sure of his build.

"Only because he bumped into me and spilled his drink all over me. For a moment he was right up against me, sort of in my face, but I couldn’t tell you much about his face because I was steamed about all that red wine on my jacket. It’s really tough to get out."

So you can’t tell me about his eyes.

I just know they weren’t dark. Which was more than I knew about the eyes of the hottie standing before me. I wished he’d take off those damn shades.

Well, he said, you have my number if you think of anything else.

I nodded.

And may I have yours? he said.

Oh happy day! But I knew it was just business so I rattled off the number at the residence. I don’t have a machine, so you can leave a message at the switchboard.

This is your work number?

No. Home.

Work?

I’m a temp. Hardly ever at the same place twice, but… I reached in my bag and dug out a card from my temp agency and handed it to him. Ask for Loretta and she’ll give you my current number, but only if you have to talk to me right then. I don’t like getting calls at work.

Cell?

I was tempted, but I tried to use my cell for incoming work assignments and outgoing emergencies only. I didn’t have any friends to chat with. Well, Loretta sort of, but she had my cell for work assignments. If I thought his request was anything except business…

Don’t have one, I lied, and saw Marty scowl.

Everyone has a cell phone, Ms. Kegan-Fallon.

Afraid not, Mr. McNulty. I left it in my locker at work last night. Doubt if it survived, I said looking at the charred ruins across the street. I turned to Marty and hugged him. I’m so sorry, I said, and he looked strangely… well, a little relieved. You were a great boss, Marty, and it was such a great place. Are you going to rebuild? Please?

Maybe I’ll sell to those hotel developers, although I’m sure the price has gone down.

Why? Because of the fire? I shook my head. They should pay you more because now they don’t have to pay anyone to tear the place down.

Marty gave a wry little chuckle. I decided I might have dredged up another poor choice of words. Time to leave. If there’s nothing else, I’ve really got to get to my job. I turned to Marty and gave him a big hug and a smooch on the cheek. Again, I’m really sorry, but maybe everything will work out for the best.

Thanks, doll, he said and gave me another friendly pat on the butt.

I punched him in the arm before taking one last look at the charred shell that had been a sweet little club and left the two men to dissect the remains.

And I wondered why I hadn’t added that the creep in the hallway, had his hand on the door to the basement… which was unlocked.

Maybe because I wanted an excuse to call Brian McNulty?

Or not.

Whatever.

If I sprinted, I might make it to my new position almost on time.

3

I skidded in the door of T.S. Blankenship, Patent Attorney, just as an ancient grandfather clock chimed the half hour.

There was no one there. I mean, I couldn’t see anyone, but could hear a voice on the other side of the door across the dingy reception area. Some reception area. It was lined with floor-to-near-ceiling lateral files. There were two office-issue metal-and-pleather arm chairs flanking a small round table in front of the files in the far corner. A stepladder stood nearby. Directly facing the door to the hall was a metal desk and your run-of-the-mill adjustable office chair. Metal utility shelves were behind the chair, nearly buckling under their load of haphazardly stacked bulging file folders, supplies of paper and envelopes, a printer/fax/copier combo, some books—the usual flotsam and jetsam of a poorly organized office. The room was windowless and the light attached to an ancient ceiling fan did little to brighten things. And this was a high paying job because the boss was impossible? How ‘bout the depressing environment?! I was beginning to think there wasn’t enough money in the world to keep me at this disaster.

I crossed to the closed door and rapped softly.

I’m on the phone, came a raspy voice from the other side. And you are late.

He said nothing further, so I hung my coat on the scarred and peeling bentwood rack behind the door, sat down at the desk and fired up the computer. It was password protected. I decided to check out the desk drawers and was thumbing through the files in the bottom drawer when the door to the inner office opened and a little man peered out.

Who the hell are you? The rasp seemed to be his natural voice.

Your new temp, Mr. Blankenship. I rose and crossed to him. We were eye-to-eye. When I said he was a little man, I didn’t mean as in little person or midget. I meant simply that he was severely vertically challenged. He couldn’t be over five-four because by now I had on my office heels, which made me all of five-three. As I said, we were eye-to-eye. My name is Amber Kegan-Fallon. I extended my hand, which just stuck out there in space, unused, unwanted. I could either do a few paces of the Robot or smile and gracefully move my hand to my side. I did the latter.

Where’s Miss Russell?

I had no idea of my predecessor’s name so I simply said, The agency called me saying the girl they had assigned was indisposed, and could I please step in.

When will she be back?

Um, it seemed serious, sir. Probably… never?

Good. She was a mess. And why were you late?

Is that clock accurate, sir? I pointed to the grandfather by the door.

It’s totally accurate, why?

Well, I was told my hours were eight-thirty to five and I came in just as the clock chimed the half hour.

Your hours are whatever I say they are and you will be here in enough time to be in that chair and on the job when that clock chimes, as you so prettily put it, eight-thirty.

Fine. Now if you could give me the password for the computer—

Pending.

You can’t give it to me now?

I just did. Pending.

Ohhhh. As in ‘patent pending.’ Clever. I nodded and offered a tight smile.

Exactly. Easy to remember.

And really easy to crack, I thought.

Just get to work on the inbox, he said and disappeared into his office.

Now the one thing I hadn’t pawed through was the inbox, more accurately known as The Leaning Tower of Papers. I assumed that was it because the box next to it was empty.

As I gingerly approached the probable inbox I found it was a tottering pile of not only papers, but interoffice envelopes stuffed with more papers and dictaphone tapes. After carefully removing the top papers and the envelope clipped to them, I was loading the first tape into the dictaphone playback deck when Blankenship emerged from his office, threw another fat interoffice envelope on my desk, plunked down a ceramic coffee mug and headed out the door and turned right.

Mr. Blankenship—

Men’s room, he shouted. Hold my calls.

While I tried to make some sense out of the stuff strewn around, over, and even under my desk, I fielded three phone calls. Keeping the callers on the line was impossible, but at least when my boss returned twenty minutes later—that’s right, twenty—I had the names and numbers of the calls to be returned.

Mr. Blankenship! I leapt from my chair and made it to the middle of the door to his inner office—which I must admit, I had taken a peek at in his absence and found to be dark as a dungeon with rats’ nests of papers spread around on every available surface, floor included.

He tried to edge past me.

Mr. Blankenship! I was applying my police-whistle voice. That stopped him.

I reverted to the little girl with just enough oomph for an edge. Enfant terrible was what I was aiming for today. Let’s get things straight right now, or you will have yet another temp who disappears forever.

He gave a disgruntled little shrug and tried once again to edge past me explaining,I have to take my calls. I told you to hold them.

I give great phone, sir, I use Marilyn Monroe on the phone, but no one is going to stay on the line for twenty minutes while you are away from your desk.

And where’s my coffee? We were still doing the little sidestepping game of him trying to get into his office and me trying to—successfully, I might add—hold my ground. I envied Ms. Russell for being well out of this assignment, but looked at it as a challenge. Loretta had, after all, asked me to see if I could shape him up, so…

SIT! I shrilled, pointing to one of the chairs in the corner by the little table in the sad little reception area. He was so startled, he actually headed for the chairs. I grabbed a pen and legal pad from my desk and pursued him as he scuttled across the room. Yes, scuttled. That’s the only way to describe it. And I was quickly figuring this guy out. I even knew he was going to make an end run when he neared the chairs so I spread my arms as he turned and he was literally cornered.

Please sit, I said in my soft little Marilyn voice. That switch in tactics startled him enough so he did. I pulled the other chair around so we were face to face and knee to knee. The man had no hope of escape.