Free For Every Evil by Ellen Hart

then tossed it on the desk. “Standard stuff. I’ll just have to talk to Hale about a couple of the particulars. But it’s no problem.”
     
    Rhea wasn’t so certain.
     
    “This is a pretty great office, huh?” He rose and moved over to examine the stereo system, running a finger over the CD collection. “Typical. No Clint Black. No Jerry Jeff Walker. Micklenberg probably hates country-western music. Not up to his artistic standards.” He turned around, his eyes falling to the computer. “And will you look at that? Top of the line.” He stepped to the desk and settled himself behind it. “This is a honey.”
     
    “I don’t think you should touch that,” said Rhea nervously. “Mr. Squire could be back any minute.”
     
    Ben gave her another smile as he flipped through the disk file. “Chuckie doesn’t scare me. Here we go: taxes for 1994. Should be interesting.”
     
    “Ben!”
     
    “All right! Just calm down.” He put it back. As he rolled the chair to the side, his right foot hit something heavy. “What’s this?” He turned to look. “Rhea, it’s a safe. And it’s open.”
     
    Rhea could feel her body begin to quake. “Ben, I don’t like this. Let’s go.”
     
    He held up another disk. “Why isn’t this in the file with the rest of them?”
     
    “I don’t know. Just put it back.”
     
    He scratched his chin. Checking through the top drawers, he drew out a small package. “These disks are empty. I think I’ll make a copy.”
     
    Rhea could feel her blood pressure rising. “Put it away!”
     
    Ignoring her, Ben slipped the blank disk into one slot, the disk from the safe into a second. He punched a few keys and sat back. “Shouldn’t take long.”
     
    “You know, you’re crazy. You’re going to get us in big trouble!” She moved cautiously to the stairs. “I can hear them talking.”
     
    “Great. Tell me when they stop. Say, while I’m at it, I might just as well make a copy of those 1994 tax returns. You never know when you’re going to be struck by a bout of insomnia and need some late night reading.
     
    “Ben!” She could hear the door downstairs being opened.
     
    He removed the first disk and replaced it with the second.
     
    “Squire is letting them out. He’ll be back up here in less than a minute.”
     
    “Plenty of time.”
     
    She glared at him. “Put it all back the way you found it!”
     
    “I will.”
     
    “Now!”
     
    “My, my. Haven’t we become bossy in our old age.”
     
    Rhea listened at the door. “He’s coming!”
     
    Ben leaned over and put the first disk back in the safe. Then, sitting up straight, his hand poised above the keyboard, he waited.
     
    “Hurry!” Rhea was frantic. What if they were caught? How could they explain what they were doing?
     
    In an instant it was done. Ben dropped the 1994 tax disk back in the file and slipped the copy he’d just made into the pocket of his jacket. As Charles Squire reentered the room, Ben was sitting calmly in his original chair.
     
    Rhea felt like a dishrag. She fell heavily against the doorframe.
     
    Charles gave her a quizzical look.
     
    “Well,” said Ben, standing up, “the contract looks fine. I’ll stop back when Hale is here and we can sign it.”
     
    “All right. I’ll give him the message.” Charles sat down behind the desk, crossing his legs and rearranging the silk handkerchief in his vest pocket.
     
    “Great.” Ben took Rhea by the arm. “See you around.”
     
    “I suppose that is inevitable.” Charles made a bridge of his fingers as he sat back, his eyes rising wearily to the ceiling.
     

11
    Hale paused in front of the gallery window, taking a look inside. Kate Chappeldine appeared to be nowhere in sight. Instead, that son of Sophie Greenway’s — what was his name? — was sitting behind the reception desk in the back. The kid looked like one of Santa’s elves. Come to think of it, so did Sophie. Well, thought Hale sourly, this might just turn