Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series) Read Free Page B

THING that Lee noticed about Sarah Armstrong when he returned to the News newsroom from an extended coffee break was the way she primped her hair, running her hand through the short brown hair styled to slant along her forehead and graze her left eye. She had high cheekbones, almost a model’s face. He guessed that she had a smile that could light up a room. But, Lee could tell he’d have to wait to see it – if he ever did - because her lips were compressed in a manner that suggested impatience, annoyance or both. Her eyes were gray, luminous yet direct. Lee guessed she could be hell on department store clerks and uncooperative reporters.
    The other thing that Lee noticed was that she was sitting in his chair. Seeing a stranger sitting at his desk amid the clutter of notepads, phone messages, press releases, and with the partially written story about the pierced-body parts record holder on the computer screen, made him nervous.
    “You’re in my chair,” he said
    “Are you Enzo Lee?” She spoke briskly and in an irritated tone.
    “No. I’m Duffy. Who are you?”
    “I’m Sarah Armstrong.” She looked puzzled and miffed. “I wanted to talk to Enzo Lee and they told me to wait here.”
    “Okay. I was just kidding. You’ve got the right man. But, I don’t have much time. I’m on deadline. And…do you mind if I sit there?”
    “By all means.”
    As she stood up, Lee took stock quickly. Medium height. Slender but full breasted. She was wearing a moss green sweater that reached her mid-thigh, black pants tapered at the ankle and slipper-like black shoes. She moved quickly, efficiently. He guessed she was 30. Lack of confidence didn’t seem to be her problem.
    While Armstrong walked through the space on one side of the desk, he went around the other side and sat down. Lee clicked his half-written story off the computer screen. She took the chair opposite his desk and folded her arms across her chest, her posture ramrod straight.
    “Okay,” said Lee. “Let me guess. You want to talk about Judge Miriam Gilbert.”
    “How did you know?”
    “Join the crowd.” Lee nodded at pink message slips strewn about his desk. In the story that had hit the newsracks the previous afternoon, Lee had complied with Ray Pilmann’s instructions and mentioned the half-empty bottle of Darvon prominently in the story. His article said pointedly that the police had not eliminated suicide as the cause of death.
    The messages were from friends and acquaintances of Miriam Gilbert, irate about any speculation that the judge had taken her own life. His phone had been ringing off the hook when he arrived early in the morning. This was the price he was paying for letting himself be sucked into this story. Pilmann had said to tell them all to fuck off. Lee had finally instructed the receptionist to refer all his calls to the city editor. He considered all this Pilmann’s fault anyway.
    “Look. Every word in that story is true,” said Lee. He started gathering up the messages, forming a small mound in the center of his desk.
    “I know,” said Armstrong.
    “You do?”
    “I know she had a bottle of Darvon with her. She always did. She had migraines and her doctor prescribed it.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Lee made a show of sweeping the messages into his wastebasket.
    “And, she didn’t have much of a life outside of her work.”
    “Well, that’s what I wrote,” said Lee. He began to fiddle with his computer. He looked up at the newsroom clock.
    “What you didn’t say was that she was an incredibly happy woman who valued her work,” said Armstrong, showing no response to his impatience. “She felt very fulfilled. She was finding ways to speed up the courts. That’s what she had been working on so hard. She was looking to the future.”
    “Okay, I give up,” said Lee. “What are you? Her psychic? Her personal trainer?”
    “I’m her niece. I guess…I just wish you had found out more about her. You read this, and it’s just so