J. Kerley - The Death File - A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist

A perplexed receptionist staring at her back, Novarro went left, passing the bathroom and finding the hall opened into a dozen cubicles with tech types perched over keyboards. The décor was stark and soulless: gray walls, white floor, macro photos of color-enhanced computer chips on the wall, artsy in a way that could only appeal to computer geeks.

She saw several young men and women pow-wowing at a long table in a glass-walled meeting room. Standing at the end of the table was a tall and slender man wearing khakis and a pink shirt with wide red suspenders, his sockless feet tucked into what appeared to be suede loafers with running-shoe soles. He appeared in his late thirties, which made him the elder of the tribe. His head was shaved above with a short neat beard below, a contemporary look Novarro thought made men look like their hair had slipped. She pushed open the glass door and leaned into the room.

Mr Shiny-head frowned at her. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice a mix of question and irritation, “but who the hell are you?”

Novarro fully entered the room, beamed, and held up the shield. “I need to talk to someone somewhere about an account with whoever.”

The man blew out a breath, like Novarro had made him forget something important he was about to say.

“Talk to our-our office manager. Turn right and head down to—”

“You’re important, right,” Novarro interrupted.

A raised eyebrow. He still had those. “I’m Kenneth Larkin. The CEO.” He said each letter like it was an individual word.

Novarro kept the smile but did a come-hither with her index finger. “Then you’re just the guy to walk me back and introduce me around.”

Larkin turned to the assembled intelligentsia with rolled eyes and exasperation in his voice. “Excuse me, folks. Back in a minute.”

He led Novarro to an office around the corner, the nameplate reading Candace Klebbin – Director, Administrative Services . A woman at a desk looked up, in her early forties or thereabouts, solid but not overweight, her face handsome in a raw and Western way, with piercing violet eyes, square jaw, high and angular cheekbones. She wore a businesslike dark blue pantsuit, almost masculine in cut.

“Candace can get you started,” Larkin said, spinning back toward the meeting room where Novarro figured there was currently a self-importance deficit.

“I need to look at files belonging to a late client of yours,” Novarro said.

“You have an instrument?” Klebbin asked.

It was one of the few times Novarro had heard a non-legal type refer to a court order as “instrument,” meaning an instrument of the law. She pulled the writ from the inside pocket of her gray jacket. “It’s right here.”

Klebbin gave it a cursory glance. “The legal folks need to take a look. It’s mandat—”

“Pardon my abruptness,” Novarro interrupted. “I know this is an important office, and everyone’s busy boxing up data or whatever, but I’m kind of in a rush and already got chilled in the lobby for a half hour.”

Klebbin absorbed the information and shook her head. “Sometimes they’re so busy being busy nothing gets done. Let me see if I can’t speed things up.” She picked up her desk phone and dialed, cupping her hand over the phone as it rang. “Arthur Lazelle.” She winked. “A law degree from Loyola and I don’t think he’s ever set foot in a courtroo— Hello, Art? It’s Candace. There’s a Phoenix detective in my office with a CO allowing her to access— I know it’s your workout time, Art, but …” She listened and rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, Arthur, the detective seems a personal friend of Kenneth’s and he said to – OK, see you in a few.”

“Thanks,” Novarro said. “I hope that doesn’t get you in trouble.”

“No problem,” Klebbin smiled. “I don’t expect to be here much longer.”

Three minutes later a wet-haired man in his early thirties bounded into the room. He wore a blue workout suit and a toothy smile. “Sorry, detective,” he said, “we have a corporate gym and I like to get in some CrossFit and take a steam.” The eyes scanned Novarro. “You look like you work out. Got a routine?”

“I like to run the trails at South Mountain Park. I bike some. A little tennis.” Not a trendy or branded workout.

“Sounds, uh, fun,” Lazelle said, suddenly disinterested. “What can I do for you?”

She handed him the writ. “We need to access the records of Dr Leslie Meridien, recently deceased via murder.”

The lawyer read for several seconds. “The writ only covers—”

Novarro nodded. “Names of patients, dates of appointments. No interviews or session files can be viewed. I just need a copy of the aforementioned.”

“No prob,” he said. “Let’s go see Chaz. He’ll pull up everything you need.”

Novarro’s hallway pilgrimage continued around another corner, the nameplate this time saying Charles V. Hinton, Director, Tech Services .

“Knock, knock, buddy,” the lawyer called through the door.

“Busy here,” said the body hunched over the computer, a major-league monitor before him. “Come back later.”

“Got a Phoenix detective with me, bud,” Lazelle said.

“I don’t care if you—”

“She’s a friend of Art’s.”

Chaz Hinton spun to Novarro, the lawyer, and Klebbin, who had followed. The head atop his body seemed too large for the narrow shoulders, the round pink face looking about thirteen, though Novarro thought he might have gone twenty-five. His skin was the color of lard, like he’d been in the sun once in his life and found it distressing. He was wearing an Armani suit with purple sandals.

The lawyer handed Hinton the writ.

“Mostly I need Dr Meridien’s appointment lists,” Novarro said. “Calendars, dates, times, addresses, that kind of thing.”

“I can read,” Hinton said.

He spun in his chair and began ticking on the keyboard. Novarro, Klebbin, and the attorney stepped back. The lawyer turned to Novarro for a bite of schmooze pie. “So you’re a friend of Kenneth’s?” The attorney flashed teeth so pearly white they had to be caps.

“Come on, dammit,” Hinton said, keyboarding away in the background.

Novarro smiled slyly at the attorney. “Ken and I go back a ways.” About ten minutes.

“Come on,” Hinton repeated, more stridently. As if pressure helped, he pounded harder on the keyboard. Novarro wondered if the guy was always this stressy.

“Come on,” Hinton almost screamed. “WORK!”

“Chaz?” the lawyer said, walking to Hinton’s side. “Is something wrong?”

Hinton balled his fists and stared at the screen. ‘IT CAN’T BE,” he said, a fist slamming the desk. “IT CAN’T FUCKING BE!”

The door opened and the CEO strode inside. “What the hell’s going on, Chaz … I’m trying to have a meeting down the—”

“Someone got inside,” Hinton whispered.

Novarro had never seen a human being turn that white that fast.

“No way,” Larkin said, looking like he might tip over.

“Dr Leslie Meridien, client A-4329-09. We’ve stored her data for forty-seven months.” He pulled close a printed page. “The client printout from last week documents 2.5 megs of data in storage. But there’s nothing there.”

“The backups, Chaz,” Candace Klebbin suggested. “It’ll be safe there, right?”

“I JUST CHECKED THE FUCKING BACKUPS, YOU IDIOT!” Hinton railed at Klebbin. “DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID?”

“Chaz …” Larkin rasped. “Talk to me.”

Hinton swallowed like it hurt and turned to his boss. “A-4329-09 is gone, Kenneth … every last byte.”

Larkin put his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned close to the screen, incredulous. “You’ve done the restore protocols?” His voice was trembling.