Free Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith

didn't like it. The office was quiet and dark, not the bright, bustling place where people other than himself were always hustling to and fro accomplishing things. The stillness was something he couldn't quite accept, and he moved through the hallways half-expecting someone to pop out of the shadows and shout, "Bigelow! What the hell are you doing here?"
    But he managed a smile when he stepped into his office. There was no gift on his desk. He was the one Ho! Ho! Ho!-ing now. Whoever his Secret Santa was, he'd beat him in that morning. And now Santa was about to see who had the real claws.
    Jarry's office was the closest, so Bigelow started there. It took him 10 minutes to go through every desk drawer and filing cabinet. He found nothing more incriminating than a shot glass and a bottle of Jim Beam. They wouldn't help him solve his mystery, but they were illuminating discoveries nonetheless. Bigelow began to wonder why he'd never done this before.
    Chris McCoy, the editor of DVD Now! , was next. His cubicle posed more of a challenge, as it was overflowing with proofs and plastic sleeves stuffed with slides. Bigelow was careful not to get anything out of order, for though McCoy's work area looked like utter chaos, his magazine never missed a deadline, and Bigelow had to assume there was some kind of system involved even if it escaped his powers of detection.
    He found a stash of snacks in one drawer, and he reached in and pulled out a variety pack of Quaker Oats granola bars. He'd been so anxious to get to the office, he hadn't stopped off for coffee and doughnuts that morning, and all this sneaking around was making him hungry. He sorted through the granola bars until he found what he was looking for—a S'mores bar. He took one and then, after a moment's reflection, a Chocolate Chip and a Cookies'n'Cream for later. Then he started to put the box back.
    He stopped, suddenly gripping the box so hard one corner caved in. In the drawer was a small, folded slip of white paper that had been buried underneath the granola bars. It looked just like the one he'd pulled out of Marcy's Santa hat the week before. Bigelow picked it up and unfolded it. Written on it were two words.
    "JOYCE STARR."
    Bigelow grinned. He was down to six suspects now. And he knew exactly which one he wanted to focus on next. He put the slip of paper and the granola bars back in place, then he headed to the office of Alex Sandberg.
    Which was locked. It was such a shock to Bigelow he stood there jiggling the door handle for half a minute before he finally accepted the infuriating fact of it. He stood there a while longer, staring through the glass at Sandberg's desk like a Victorian waif pressing his soot-covered nose against a pastry shop window.
    What kind of paranoid jerk locks his office door? What did Sandberg have to be worried about? What did he have to hide?
    Bigelow gave the door a kick before moving on to the cubicle of DVD Now! 's art director, Tom or Tim Somebody. Bigelow barely knew the guy, usually thinking of him only as "the designer with the pierced nose" . . . when he thought of him at all. He couldn't imagine Tom or Tim hating him as much as his Secret Santa obviously did, and he stopped his snooping mid-drawer to return to Sandberg's office and squander a few more seconds struggling with the door-handle. When he went back to Tom/Tim's desk, he resumed his searching without enthusiasm, certain now that the answers he sought were on the other side of that locked door.
    Pierced Nose Guy's cube yielded nothing of use, though Bigelow had been reminded of his name, having seen it on a credit card bill he'd come across: Todd Hubble. He also discovered that Todd owed MasterCard $539.32, and that $142 of it was going to "The Hottie Hook-Up Hotline." That discovery should've brought Bigelow some kind of twisted chuckle, but it didn't. He couldn't stop thinking about what he might find in Sandberg's desk, and everything else now seemed like a waste of