Free Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith Page B

the men's room, every step sending searing spasms across his groin.
    When he got back to his desk, there was a package sitting on it.
    "HO! HO! HO!" it said.
    Bigelow rushed up the hallway and around the corner. The door to Sandberg's office was open, and the light inside was on.
    Bigelow cursed, and a few heads popped up over cubicle walls to goggle at him. He turned, hurried back to his office and slammed the door shut behind him.
    In seconds, the wrapping paper was shredded and the box ripped open to reveal a bottle of Oxy 10, a tube of Clearasil and a booklet touting the benefits of membership in the Hair Club for Men. Bigelow howled and sent the box and its contents flying across the room to crash into the glass wall.
    He should've toughed it out. Or at least locked the door behind him so Santa couldn't get in and . . . .
    Wait. Yes. His door had a lock. Just like Sandberg's.
    A new plan took shape in Bigelow's mind. He headed out to Marcy's cube.
    "You know what?" he said. "There is something I need. I lost the key to my office the other day and I have to go make a copy. Could you loan me the masters?"
    "Sure," Marcy said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a key ring with five keys on it. "Here you go. I'm not sure which one's for your door."
    "Don't worry," Bigelow said, smiling. "I'll figure it out."
    He was so eager to set his plan into motion, he didn't even bother going back to his office to grab his hat and coat before dashing for the elevator. An hour later he was back from the locksmith's shop, feeling chilled but brilliant. When he gave the keys back to Marcy, he had copies of all five tucked away in his pocket.
    Waiting to try them out proved to be almost as painful as resisting the urge to pee had earlier. His patience frayed further with each passing hour, and he found it more and more difficult to keep up the pretense that he was working. Crowley was around again, so he had to try. But Bigelow spent most of his day just sitting at his desk watching the clock tick off a countdown to revenge. When Crowley stopped in to blather about steroids and the Federation of Historical Jar Collectors, Bigelow couldn't even work up the energy to look interested, and the excuses he found to throw jabs at Sandberg lacked their usual slick subtlety.
    He watched the time crawl by with agonizing slowness until 5 o'clock. Then he went home and watched it crawl even slower until 9. Then he went back.
    He looked for lights or signs of movement before going into the building. The third floor—Now!'s floor—was dark. Both DVD Now! and Antiques Now! had been close to wrapping up a day early. It looked like they'd made it. If they hadn't, a few designers and editors would still be up there racing toward the finish line.
    Well, hooray for you, McCoy , Bigelow thought. Hooray for you, Starr. Hooray for you, Sandberg .
    You bastard .
    It didn't take him long to find it once he got up to the office. Sandberg, thinking his treachery safe behind a locked door, hadn't even bothered to hide it.
    Sitting under Sandberg's desk was a cardboard box. In it were scissors, Scotch tape and a roll of HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper.
    And a bar of Irish Spring soap.
    And a stick of extra-strength Right Guard deodorant.
    And a catalog of Russian mail-order brides.
    A shudder of rage passed over Bigelow, but it faded quickly. Justice was at hand. Vengeance was his.
    He'd brought a box with him from home. It wasn't large, having originally contained a small bust of Jean-Luc Picard that was now hanging from Bigelow's Christmas tree. But it was heavy.
    He wrapped it with the HO!-covered paper and left it on Sandberg's chair with a note taped to the top.
    "For Alex," the note read, "from your Secret Santa."
    Bigelow locked Sandberg's office again on his way out. Then he went home and got the first decent night's sleep he'd had in days.

    Friday, December 19
    There was no gift waiting on Bigelow's desk when he moseyed in at 9:30 the next morning. At