Free Money To Burn by Katy Munger Page A

bribe.
    I ignored it. “I think you better tell me or you’re gonna find yourself without this cushy little franchise of yours. Or your extra state disability payments.”
    That last little remark hit home. He nodded toward the elevators. “He went to the tenth floor, same as always.”
    “Thanks, Dudley.” I turned to go and nearly plowed down a k”>owed doplump matron swathed in pink and purple chiffon, no doubt on her way in for the latest copy of Southern Living. “Better count your change carefully,” I muttered to her. “You’d think the guy was blind or something.”
    She was tut-tutting her disapproval of my rudeness as I left. She’d learn soon enough.
    The tenth floor of T&T Tobacco turned out to be the Marketing Department, which was a bit of a surprise. I had Thomas Nash pegged as a laboratory rat.
    The reception area was pure Architectural Digest and reeked of contemporary good taste. I don’t know why they didn’t just go ahead and paper the walls with hundred- dollar bills for the same effect. The receptionist was way too young for the job and far too pink for the shaggy blue-black mop that topped her head. Traces of heavy eyeliner told me she was one of the Triangle’s music groupies plugging away at her day job. Poor thing. Ten to one, she was supporting a drummer.
    I didn’t bother with formal introductions. My goal was to intimidate, not ingratiate.
    “How long have you worked here?” I demanded.
    She eyed my iridescent purple sharkskin dress. Jealously, no doubt. “About a year. Why?” she stammered.
    “You knew this man?” I flashed her a photo of Nash.
    “Sure,” she said quickly, her face shutting down with a mixture of suspicion and fear. “He worked for Mr. Teasdale in New Product Development. Why are you looking for him? He’s dead.”
    “I know,” I barked at her. “Where’s Mr. Teasdale?”
    Her eyes slid involuntarily toward a set of wide mahogany doors firmly shut behind her. “He’s in a meeting right now. He’s not to be disturbed.”
    “Disturb him,” I said sternly, sliding my card across her desk.
    She was too young to know that it was her job to argue with assholes like me. She plucked my card from the desk with talons that had been painted black, then scurried into the conference room. Her round bubble butt was packed in a black leather mini-skirt and red fishnet stockings. If she’d been the receptionist at a crypt, the outfit might have been appropriate. The fact that T&T tolerated such attire was proof that the local job market was insane. Thanks to a booming economy, if you could breathe, you could work. Which also explained why they had vegetarians trying to argue you out of buying meat down at Wellspring’s butcher counter.
    El>
    “No need for that,” I informed her. I sidestepped her desk and marched straight toward the double doors of the conference room.
    No, I’m not incredibly rude. Well, maybe I am. But that wasn’t my motivation in this instance. After years of investigating assorted white collar crimes, I’m wise to the ways of corporate America—specifically the wiles of good old boys who jealously guard their office fiefdoms with petty power plays. Like making visitors wait, sometimes for days. The only reason why women have trouble breaking the glass ceiling is that they’re too busy trying to wipe the bullshit off it.
    My tolerance for bullshit is especially low. I decided to blast Mr. Teasdale’s hopes for a pissing match right out of the water in Round One.
    The double doors burst open with a dramatic bang as I marched into the conference room. I was pinned in the sudden gaze of a half-dozen corporate minions. Three of them were men with long brown hair pulled back into ponytails. The women were blondish and fond of blunt cuts. Everyone was dressed in a tailored dark suit with funky advertising-like touches like boxy shoulders. What fearless risk-takers, I thought. I was willing to bet that even their underwear all looked