Armed & Fabulous
Lexi Graves Mysteries #1
Camilla Chafer
Armed & Fabulous
Copyright: Camilla Chafer
Published: May 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9569086-6-7
Publisher: Audacious
The right of Camilla Chafer to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
Visit the author online at www.camillachafer.com to sign up to her newsletter and for more information on other titles.
Other books:
Lexi Graves Mysteries:
Armed & Fabulous
Who Glares Wins
Command Indecision
Shock & Awesome
Weapons of Mass Distraction
Laugh or Death
Kissing in Action
Trigger Snappy
Stella Mayweather Series (Urban Fantasy)
Illicit Magic
Unruly Magic
Devious Magic
Magic Rising
Arcane Magic
Endless Magic
Armed & Fabulous
All Lexi wants to do is get through the day at her boring temp job with Green Hand Insurance. That’s until she discovers the vice president, Martin Dean, in a pool of blood and herself at the center of an investigation into insurance fraud.
Millions of dollars are missing, the chief suspect is dead and her mysterious, sexy, new boss is not what he seems.
Recruited by the joint task force working on the case, all Lexi has to do is work out who killed Dean and where the missing millions are. That’s easier said than done when her sister insists upon the baby shower to end all baby showers, her wise-ass cop family just wants to keep her safe, someone keeps leaving her creepy gifts, and all the clues point to a seedy sex club on the wrong side of town.
As the bodies start to pile up, Lexi is on a race against time to find the killer and the money, before she’s the next one in the murderer’s sights.
Chapter One
Finding dead bodies wasn't in my job description.
Of course, sneaking out of work wasn't in my job description either, but that never stopped me from doing it. There are a lot of things wrong with being a temp, the doormat of the office totem pole, but fortunately, I've learned how to take advantage of just about any weak boss, and outsmart the smartest ones. For starters, I'm super bright, but everyone thinks I'm utterly dim, possibly on account of my super long and very gorgeous blonde hair, (if I don't say so myself, so long as we gloss over its expensive bi-monthly bleach and upkeep), along with a pair of upright and out there assets. No, not my boobs: they're courtesy of Wonderbra. I mean my inquisitive and determined nature. At least my school careers counselor told me they were assets; mostly, however, they seem to get me into trouble. Given my current position as office dogsbody at Green Hand Insurance, they certainly hadn't landed me a decent job.
I was startled and jumped as my annoying boss, Adam Shepherd, loomed over my desk, appearing as if from nowhere. "Lexi, what is it that you’re doing?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting together suspiciously.
Shepherd was annoying for two reasons. One: he never seemed to do anything in the way of work, and I had no idea how he actually got a job as my manager! After six months, I was still relegated to being a temp, without even a whiff of a permanent job upgrade at the firm. Two: he is so crazy good-looking, it’s unfair to the rest of the male species. It’s something between his dark, unruly, hair (that looks like it rarely sees a comb and has no clue which direction to grow), and his smoky blue eyes. It also could have a whole lot to do with his super sexy body, today hidden beneath dark pants, plain white shirt and striped tie. Not that I was even looking. Much.
"Um," I said, sneaking a finger sideways on my keyboard to change screens so he couldn't see the Victoria’s Secret webpage I was browsing. I was supposed to be writing a report. Of course, the report was already written, but any good temp knows that you never admit to how fast you can complete a task; otherwise, you could end up unemployed, seeking a new assignment since you’d already accomplished your first. And I could only take so much of my temp manager at the agency before I started getting visions that involved her, me, a boxing ring and a wet kipper, with me winning, of course. So, naturally both my bi-monthly check and I didn't want to get hassled by her for another couple of months.
"Yes?" Shepherd raised his eyebrows, waiting.
"Just finished your report, Adam," I said brightly, moving the mouse so I could click “print.” "I sent it to your printer just this minute." See? Super smart! I can online window shop secretly, pretend to just finish a report I actually finished hours ago, and send it to the boss' printer all at the same time! Could you?
"Right, thanks, Lexi," said Adam and I flashed another brilliant smile at him, which I wiped off my face as soon as he turned to walk away. The printer was no more than ten feet away, near his large corner desk. In my peripheral vision, I saw him pick up a piece of paper.
One single sheet of paper.
There should have been ten sheets.
Maybe someone forgot to fill the paper tray with frickin’ paper again? But Adam wasn't looking at the paper tray, or hitting it; he was looking at me, then down at the single sheet of paper… and at me again... smiling like a smug puppy that had just eaten a slipper, but knew it was too cute to be punished.
I rolled my castered office chair slightly to the left until I was concealed behind the big, beige monitor that dominated my desk. Except... I couldn't help peeking again.
Adam's chest rose and fell in sharp rapid movements, his mouth a tight line as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. Then he looked up.
I ducked behind my monitor again as he crossed the floor—towards me.
God. What had I done this time? I checked the screen. My mouse pointer hovered over the “print” button. Only it wasn't the report screen. Somehow, I had managed to slightly minimize the screen with my report, and instead, my pointer hovered over the “print'” option on the screen below.
I nudged it, clicked on the screen and paled.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My heart plummeted and my stomach did an Olympic-sized backflip as I realized what I had done. Why wasn't there an “unprint” button? Why? Why? Why! “Urrrgh,” I squeaked as I hit keys at random, thinking someone should invent one and make all unwanted printouts combust before anyone else got their filthy hands on them.
"Lexi?" Adam was standing next to me, the piece of paper in his hand.
I plastered on my “I'm-so-happy-to-serve-you, you-patron-saint-of-temps!” bullshit smile that I was so proud of, (after a painful amateur drama workshop my best friend, Lily Shuler, forced me to attend), and went for the best defense I could think of. That's right. None.
"Sir?" I grinned like an empty-headed bimbo.
"What's this?" asked Shepherd. Then the bastard laughed.
"Sir?" I chirped again, flicking my mane of blonde hair. There's absolutely no point people thinking you're stupid if you don't act like it occasionally. Of course, it’s purely so I can get away with loads of stuff, you see? Like “not understanding” how the photocopier works, or “Oh! These files are so heavy, I couldn't possibly carry them,” or “What does that do?” and hitting something irreversible on a spreadshe
et. But people think I'm sweet for trying and never bother me by asking for my help again. Yes, yes, I know, it's gaming the stupid system; to which I say, this is why I would have made a fabulous spy. I could game the best of them.
"This isn't the report I requested."
"It isn't?"
"No. Do you know what it is?"
"Someone else's report?" I asked, keeping my face blank, while twirling a lock.
He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. He was close enough to kiss. "Does that ever work?"
"All the time." I gulped, recoiling in horror as the words slipped out. Damn. Busted. Knocked senseless by his cologne and coffee scent, not to mention the way his eyes sparkled.
"I think this is yours." Adam held out the sheet, print side up. My body edged away, and my eyes took a good look. Yep, I'd printed out a page of Victoria's Secret lingerie. When I didn't take it, he thrust the page a bit closer to me, leaning in again, his eyes glazing over momentarily as he got a good view down my top. At least, he was distracted enough for me to smooth over my goof. I thanked the Wonderbra deity and got on with it.
"Not mine," I lied deftly.
Adam’s forehead knitted into a frown. He flipped the page over, scanned the contents, then looked at me, or more precisely, at my boobs, and then back to the sheet.
"Looks like your size," he said softly and my mouth dropped open. Was he sizing up my lady lumps? In the office? How rude. He continued, in the same low voice, too low for any of my neighboring idiots, um, colleagues, to hear. "Personally, I like the lemon set better. Sexy, but not too revealing. Leaves a bit of mystery." Then he dumped the page on my desk and marched off, adding over his shoulder. "Send that report to the printer again, would you?"
I gaped at him. But this time, I was really, really careful what I sent to the printer. Five minutes later, I put the lemon silk bra with the lace edging into my virtual shopping basket, along with the matching thong, and purchased them. Well, if Adam said they were sexy, who was I to argue? He was built like a Greek god, but with worse hair. I suspected his middle name was “Yum.” I also suspected he knew a lot about women’s lingerie and not in a secret, blinds-drawn, don’t tell, sort of way.
But… was he flirting?
Hmm.
Not sure what I thought about that. A nice office flirt did make the day go faster, but Adam was my boss, not to mention an annoying one, and I was nothing, if not professional.
Snort. Yeah. That made me laugh too.
The downside of Adam having my report in his hot manly hands was that he now knew I had finished it, which meant I'd have to begin a new report. Something which I could preferably complete in three hours flat, spend at least a couple of hours “researching” in the basement library (read: go to Starbucks, call Lily, and do my nails), but could spin into at least four days of “concentrated work.”
It took Adam fifteen minutes to send me an email—despite being within talking, not hollering, distance—to request a report on the latest public survey regarding insurance claims. Why he didn't just get up and ask, I don't know. Of course, I'd emailed Bob, who sat merely four desks away, for two months without realizing who he was, so who was I to talk?
My job as an admin/researcher/dogsbody for Green Hand Insurance was full of various and wonderful things. Not. Do people even say “not” anymore? Largely, it meant I wrote reports whenever some kind of new legislation, survey, policy, or some other documentation came out that no one truly cared about. As long as it affected insurance, the powers that be at Green Hand could adjust their insurance lending, while feeding the sales department with their latest information. Along with my endless and dull reports, I also filed, typed and took notes. I have no doubt in my mind that somewhere far, far away, someone thought my job was an important and useful one. I can't say I shared that thought; but at least, it meant my mother could say the youngest of her brood did something respectable. I didn’t follow my three older brothers into law enforcement, or my older sister into an actual career, after all. Besides, someone had to keep the wheels oiled, the sales agents’ information stocked, as well as ensure that the real, live office workers didn't have to bust a gut doing the grunt work that temps like me were drafted for.
And heaven forbid Adam, here just a month, brought in from some other dull department, had to do any of the research himself. He caught my eye and raised his eyebrows while I ducked behind the monitor, called up my email and started to type.
Adam,
This looks like a tough one. I'll need to go to the library and research some of the points. Is it okay if I go now while it's quiet?
Lexi
I hit “send” and looked around. Of course, it was quiet. No one appeared to be doing anything. Well, Bob was doing a crossword, his eyes pinched and studious. I could see the corner of the newspaper peeking out from the large black binder he was pretending to peruse. Across from him, Anne's hands flew across the keyboard, but I would bet twenty bucks that she was emailing one of her cronies. A few desks over, Vincent, our accountant, was bobbing his head and I figured he had his headphones on. Still, kudos to them all for pretending.
An instant message window popped up on the bottom bar of my screen.
Adam: Are you really going to the library?
I sighed. So distrustful.
Me: Yes.
Lie. I was going to Starbucks to get an iced caramel macchiato and a muffin.
Adam: How long will you be?
Me: A couple hours? I need to make sure I have up-to-date information on the survey.
Hah. Can't complain about that, can you? I added the question mark to the time frame in case I couldn't be bothered to come back before my day officially ended. Then I could technically claim that I was guesstimating the time and had his approval.
Adam: Fine. Put a copy of the report on Martin Dean's desk before you go. He'll need to read it before tomorrow's morning briefing.
Me: Okay.
I rifled around in my drawer for a new notepad and a pen, then rummaged in my purse for my emergency coffee money. I found a filthy ten-dollar bill tucked into a pocket of my wallet, and I folded it and taped it into my notepad. If I took my purse, Adam would totally know I was sneaking out; and I was way smarter than that. The IM box showed that Adam was typing something else, so I waited, my fingers tapping the desk softly until his message popped up.
Adam: When you go to Starbucks, get me a tall Americano.
My mouth dropped open. Out-bloody-rageous. Not even the question of an “if'”! What was he typing now?
Adam: And one of those cake things you like. With the marshmallows.
I think a made a cross little noise. When I peeked out from my monitor, Adam was focusing on his screen, face completely blank. He caught my eye and... I think he winked at me! It's entirely possible my heart skipped a beat.
Me: I am NOT going to the library. I am going to Starbucks. I typed crossly, then realized what I had typed and went to hit the “delete” button. Instead, I got “enter.” Shit. Why did the gods of keyboards decide that putting the “enter” and “delete” keys so close together was such a good idea? Morons.
Me: I meant that the other way round, obviously.
Adam: Obviously.
Then...
Adam: Regular is fine. I'll give you the money when you come back.
That was it. I was going to sacrifice my yummy macchiato on principle today. I signed off the IM, locked my screen, picked up my notepad and pen, and swanned out of the office. Swiping my identity card through the scanner, I passed into the corridor to the bank of elevators and hit the “down” button.
The basement library was made up of a series of stacks that spanned the length of one wall, while a few computer stations and a cluster of reading cubicles occupied two other walls, leaving the last free for the elevator and the exit to the stairs. Without natural light, or a heating system that could sustain human life for longer than a couple of hours, it wasn't a very popular space. The whole room
had a deathly air of quiet about it. Just for kicks, I loudly faux sneezed. Three people jumped.
Finding a free terminal, I dropped onto the plastic seat and typed in my search keywords, waiting for a list to come up that would show me every yawn-inducing pamphlet, journal, book or article that had been tagged with those words in the system. It was a blessedly short list, so I printed it out and went to round up my afternoon reading, along with the current year's survey file, before settling into one of the desks. Sometimes, it reminded me of being at college with the windowless room and fluorescent lights over a broad bank of desks where people quietly read and scribbled notes. The piles of books that surrounded us were the kind not a single person would choose to read unless said person was as dull as dishwater. But seeing as this was the insurance industry, they probably were, but that was beside the point.
Actually, as I got into reading and making notes, it wasn't quite as dull as I first estimated and the survey would definitely change the information and statistics the brokers who worked with Green Hand would give to clients, as well as alter their premiums.
Insurance depended on many factors and it was hard to keep the various policies straight in my mind, causing me to drift and play my favorite game of pretending to be a spy. I can attest, hand on heart, that I have seen every single James Bond film ever made and I have the theme song CD too. Once again, I cursed the government that wouldn't let me be a glamorous operative, or even a senator, even though that might be pushing it a bit, given that I have neither the drive nor the patience to get that far. So I made a career of being a temp and actually doing the work of a glorified gofer instead. Life was so unfair.
When I had accumulated ten pages of notes on how the statistics had changed, along with various highlighted sections to paste into my report, I glanced at my watch. Crap. It was seven p.m. How had I spent three hours in here? I smiled. Adam hadn't gotten his coffee. That showed him dedication, alright.
I returned my reading to the stacks and headed back to the single elevator that served the basement. Just as my finger hovered over “Reception,” I remembered my purse still tucked under my desk. That, and I hadn't given Green Hand Insurance’s vice president the report, so I hit the sixth floor and trundled up. I felt slightly buoyed by the thought that I could claim almost two extra hours of overtime, which would more than pay for cocktails on Saturday night with Lily.
Someone had propped the door open with a wedge so I slipped through, assuming the custodians were doing their thing. The room was still and silent. Everyone else had gone home. I walked over to my desk, jabbed a button on the keyboard and my monitor whirred back to life. Logging in, I called up the report Adam had requested and sent it to the printer, dashing over to make sure I hadn't printed any lingerie pictures again. I hadn't. Thank goodness for that. It was bad enough Adam had seen my bra choices; he was healthy. Green Hand's vice president, Martin Dean, hadn't seen a day of exercise inside of a decade and would probably have had a heart attack. Then I'd never get a decent reference out of him to get a proper job doing something cool. I know. I know. I'm selfish like that. Actually, come to think of it, maybe sending him thong shots would get me a reference faster.
Inside my head, I vomited at the thought.
Back at my desk, I raced through the motions of closing the computer screen, logging off and shutting down. Leaving a computer on in this building was akin to looking at porn. You might think about it occasionally, but you didn't want to get caught. So I'm told.
Picking up my purse and swinging it over my shoulder, I shoved my notepad into my drawer and locked it, then stapled the report together and headed across the room to Dean's office.
Martin Dean, being the resident big shot, had an office far away from the plebian workers and behind a set of double doors, outside of which his executive assistant, Dominic, sat. Dominic's monitor was off so he had gone home already, which meant I would have to take the report in and leave it on the desk myself.
I raised my hand to knock on Martin Dean's door and hesitated, hearing voices inside.
My heart sank.
Dean was still in and probably cross he would have to read my report this evening, instead of doing whatever he usually did in his downtime. Even worse, the voices sounded heated and angry.
At least, I hadn't barged in before remembering that he always liked an extra photocopy so Dominic could read it too. Dominic was in his early thirties and smart. I thought, privately, he was the one really running the show.
Turning on my heel, I sloped back the way I came, veering off into the corridor on the left that led to the nearest photocopy room, and shutting the door behind me. Inside, I wasted precious minutes as the machine crawled back to life. Finally, I photocopied the pages, in sequence, and rooted around on the overhanging shelf for another stapler so I could attach the pages together.
Gathering both sets of papers, I returned to Dean's office, pressing my ear to the door. All was quiet inside. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked again.
Maybe I'd struck lucky and Dean had gone home? I could ditch the papers and pretend I’d left them earlier. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, the door falling shut behind me with a light click.
The office was empty. I quickly checked the handle, in case I'd done something stupid, like locking myself in. Thankfully, I hadn't. I wouldn't have to phone the security guards twice in a week. Yay me!
With a bounce in my step, I strode up to the desk, leaning over to put the reports square and center on top… and that's when I saw him.
Sprawled on the floor, not moving.
"Sir?" I said hesitantly, in case Martin Dean was doing some really weird form of meditating. Face down.
No reply. I moved around the desk, and slipped on something, sending my legs in different directions. I landed heavily on my palms, cursing. One hand hit the carpet and stung as I steadied myself; my other hand hit something wet.
I raised my hand to my face and my stomach flipped. "Shit!" It wasn't just wet; it was blood and it was seeping from under Dean's body. "Double shit!" I squeaked.
I sat on my haunches for a moment, too freaked out to move; then I shuffled round and saw exactly what had caused Martin Dean to be lying in a pool of his own blood.
His head lay on the right side. He'd been shot between the eyes, a powder burn marring the ragged wound, and there was a second wound in his back. Point blank range. Well, I assumed it was point blank. I'd never seen anyone shot between the eyes before.
He'd been alive just a few minutes ago. I'd heard him through the door, his voice raised. God, someone had just shot him while I was in the photocopy room! They might still be in the building.
Despite my heart racing and the blood rushing in my ears, I heard footsteps.
I clutched the sheaf of photocopies in my hand until my knuckles went white while I panicked.
If I went out the door, whoever had just put a bullet between Martin Dean’s eyes would see me. And I'd see them. Then they'd probably shoot me too and my mom would cry the hardest at my funeral because the only thing I would be remembered for was the moment of madness when I ran away to join the Army. Oh God, I did not want to die! I had nowhere near enough good stuff to put in my eulogy, which would probably be performed by my sniveling sister, after strong-arming the rest of my family out of the way. You could just bet she'd manage to work her Harvard degree into the speech too, insulting my lack of aptitude even in death.
What if no one turned up? It's not like I'd made a big effort to stay in touch with school friends or was making a ton of pals at work. My funeral would be social death. Literally.
The footsteps got closer.
I looked down at the puddle of blood underneath Martin Dean as it bloomed towards me. Shit! I'd left a handprint in it. I'd left fingerprints. Evidence! My TV husband, Horatio Caine, would be all over that and do his little side-on serious look thing as he peered over his sunglasses at me and told me my rights. It totally did no
t go that way in my dreams. Plus, all the hot women on CSI: Miami had their giraffe-like legs clad in white pants and wore ridiculous heels, considering they were always getting messed up by corpses on murder scenes. I didn't even have any white pants. I was wearing my favorite blue dress with its super-cute flared skirt. And now I'd gotten blood on it, because like an idiot, I put my bloody palm on my lap. My mug shots would look terrible! They’d think I had killed him.
I’d probably go to prison.
Even more pressing, there was at least one murderer on his? —her? —way back to the office and they would see my handprint. Reality hit me with a thump.
My heart pounding, I took his warm—oh God, dead! —hand between my thumb and forefinger and gingerly moved it on top of my handprint; then I pressed down and rubbed the palm and fingerprints out with his own, all the time trying not to squeal like the big scaredy cat I was. I moved his leg to cover my footprint and smooshed it in, trying hard not to squeak as I slipped off my heels.
I had officially tampered with my first crime scene. And last, I hoped. Not that it really mattered. It wasn't like I popped him anyway. Surely someone would believe me. A second set of footsteps sounded as the murderers made their way to the office.
Standing up, I looked around for somewhere to hide and finally, finally, clapped eyes on the big wall unit where Dean stored his spare suits and other things when he needed to change in a hurry after a long day. I knew it was mostly empty because Dominic had roped me into cleaning it out on Monday, when Dean was away at a conference in Boston, and I took the bags to the dry cleaners.
Trotting towards the closet, I used a tissue from my purse to pull one slim door open. I backed in, tugging the door shut. Sinking to the floor, I made myself as small as possible, hunkering down, my heart beating twice as fast as normal, just as I saw the handle to the office door turn down through the crack in the closet doors.
Which was almost the exact same second a hand clamped over my mouth and my eyes nearly popped out of my head in fear. So not a good look… even in a dark closet!