= Lunch Break
  by Michael Penncavage

I quietly closed the office door until I heard it lock. Hopefully, no one had seen me. I turned the light off -- incorrectly telling people who passed outside that I was out of the office.

The open blinds provided more than enough sunlight to do work, or, more importantly, eat lunch. For me, this was the real perk about having an office. It definitely wasn't the privacy, as I could clearly hear my neighbors' phone conversations through the paper-thin walls.

I swung my chair and heaved my feet up onto the credenza. I gazed out the bay windows and took in the breathtaking view ... of the parking lot.

The joys of middle management.

I'd hoped to slip out for lunch, but there was no chance of me dining beneath blue skies. It had been raining in earnest during the morning commute, leaving large tub-sized puddles. The clouds still lingered, bringing with them a drizzle that looked just strong enough to warrant an umbrella.

Besides papier-mache walls, being a mid-level manager also meant getting the worst views. The Senior Vice Presidents had offices facing the west, where they could watch a lush forest, cute woodland creatures and, in the evenings, crimson sunsets. My window faced a stucco hotel that brought no sunsets. The only woodland creatures I ever saw were strays or, as right now, some birds bathing in a puddle in the Star Hotel's parking lot.

Built sometime during the sixties, the Star was a fairly large and very ugly eight-floor hotel. It was L-shaped, with one of the wings perpendicular to my office. Since my building was on a rise and my office on the fourth floor, I could see into the hotel's bottom two floors. I wasn't really a voyeur, though. Because of the way the sun reflected and the distance between the buildings, hotel guests would have to be standing right up against the glass for me to see them.

And then I saw the woman.

It happened so fast, for a moment I thought my mind was playing a trick.

The curtain had separated and a woman came into view, her palms flat against the glass as if she were being frisked. A pair of hands emerged from behind and encircled her throat. She was shoved forward, and her head struck the hotel window hard enough to make it shake. Then she disappeared, and the heavy curtains folded back together as if nothing had happened.

I sat staring for a moment, in shock, before grabbing the phone. I tipped over my soda in the process. It quickly spread across my desk and down onto the carpet, but I barely noticed.

I dialed Information, got the hotel's number, and dialed.

"Star Hotel, front desk," chimed a far-too-cheery female voice.

"Third floor -- the side that faces 465 Ravidson Avenue. I'm not sure what room exactly. I just saw a woman being attacked ... possibly murdered." I had to force the words out.

"Sir!" she exclaimed. "We do not take kindly to prank calls!"

"Excuse me?"

"Prank calls will force us to call the police!"

"Fine!" I hollered back. "Call the police! Call the goddam Fire Department if you want to! Just send someone to that room!"

The woman put her hand over the phone. Her muffled tone sounded like she was speaking to a manager, and in a moment another voice came on the line.

"This is Ted, the day manager. Sir, we do not take kindly to prank callers," he stated in a calm, reassuring way. I wondered if he was reading off the same cue card as the woman.

"Goddammit, Ted! I'm not pranking! Send someone to that room! She's being strangled!"

"You saw ... who is this?" the man asked. The polite tone was gone.

Movement from behind the hotel suddenly caught my attention. A man had emerged from one of the fire escape doors. He was clad in a gray suit and had a bushel of white hair. But before I could see a face, his umbrella unfurled and he disappeared under its maroon canopy.

The hotel manager was still questioning me as I hung up.

The man walked to a dumpster in the rear of the parking lot. Opening one of the lips, he tossed a small bundle into it. Then he began making his way through the lot.

I had expected him to get into one of the nearby cars, never guessing that he would instead walk through the lot, over the thin median that separated our properties, and towards my building. I watched in horror as the maroon umbrella bobbed its way to the building's front entrance. I leaned over the credenza and pressed my face against the window so that I could follow the man until the last possible moment, hoping he would lower his shade. Like a bee to a hive, he went straight through the revolving doors, his back to me as he collapsed the umbrella. All I could see was the goddamn hair.

He was inside the building.

I suddenly felt dirty, unclean. Working in the financial services industry brought its share of dubious individuals. I had gotten used to that. This, however, took it to a new extreme. I was working with a murderer.

I shook the thought from my head. First, I had no evidence a murder had been committed. The woman could still be alive. Second, I had no proof the man leaving the hotel was even involved.

I was contemplating walking over to the dumpster when someone began knocking. Flicking on the light, I opened my door.

Carlyle, a Compliance Manager, one of my office neighbors, was standing there with a frown."Everything okay, Jimbo? I hope that wasn't a client you were screaming at!"

"Oh. I, uh...." I turned around, gesturing at my desk. "I knocked over a soda and it went all over my papers."

Carlyle looked past me at the mess I had made. "It's only soda, Jimbo. Print up some fresh copies." He looked at me. "Man, you are sweating up a storm. You feel all right?"

I nodded.

Carlyle began walking away. "You might want to see the nurse. Get some free drugs."

I closed the door. Walking to my desk, I tossed the soda into the trash along with the ruined papers. My sandwich went in next. There was little chance of me eating.

The sirens came moments later. Leaning over the credenza, I watched three police cars and an ambulance pull up to the hotel. Leaping from their cruisers, the officers ran inside.

I looked back at the hotel room. The curtain was still drawn.

My phone began to ring. It was Rich down the hall. "We all ready for our 1:00?"

It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. I had completely forgotten about the meeting. My watch read 12:45. "I'm not going to be able to make it."

"Have you been checking your emails? Larry wants an update from everyone on the conversion."

"Tell Larry I'll call him later." I looked back out at the hotel. The room's curtains had been opened and a man in uniform was staring out. I knew he couldn't see through my building's smoky glass, but it was unsettling having him look directly at me.

"I'll talk to you later, Rich."

"Sure," he answered and I disconnected him.

The cop took his eyes off me and scanned the entire building as if he could see inside all of the offices.

Little did he know what was lurking inside.

I sat back down. I considered walking the floors looking for Gray Hair but quickly dismissed it, realizing there were over three thousand people in the building.

The phone rang again. CONFERENCE ROOM read on the display. Shit. I pressed the speaker button.

"Not planning on joining us?" boomed Larry. "Something about you being too busy."

I pressed the mute button, cursed, and pressed mute again. "I'll be right there."

* * *

Even with the staff meeting, the afternoon dragged -- mostly because I was ignoring all of my deliverables. It was going to make tomorrow a bear of a day, but I just couldn't bring myself to do any work. Instead, I watched the events unfold outside.

At 2:30, a black van with white stencils that read Police Department pulled up.

A body was wheeled out at 3:45.

By 5:00PM, I was getting frustrated. Since the police had arrived, I had occasionally seen someone pass by the room's window, but little else. What were they doing in there? Why hadn't they come over to my building? Why hadn't anyone checked the dumpster? Detectives on the cop shows were always ass-deep in garbage bins looking for evidence.

I grabbed the phone and dialed the front desk. I recognized the voice as the same woman I had spoken to earlier.

"Let me speak to the police. Who's in charge?" I asked in a deep voice. I didn't want to be recognized.

There was silence on the other end. I wondered if the call was being traced but dismissed it as irrational.

A man came on. "Lieutenant Blake speaking."

"Are you in charge?"

He paused for a moment. "Of this investigation, yes."

"Good. Send someone to examine the dumpster out back."

"Who is this?"

I disconnected him. I was doing a lot of that today.

Leaning back, I sighed heavily. My clock read 6:00 -- time to go home. I retrieved my eight voice mails and glanced over my thirty-six unread emails.

Outside, three cops were leaning over the dumpster, carefully sifting through its contents with gloves.

I left the office.

Carlyle walked by. His jacket was on too. "Calling it a day, Jimbo?"

"That I am."

We walked to the elevator bank and pressed the button. A moment later, a bell pinged and the doors parted. Two men were in the rear. One was a tall, skinny fellow with a receding hairline. The second was about my height and had a full head of gray hair. Luckily, the two men were deep in conversation, so neither noticed the horrific look on my face.

I stepped inside and quickly turned to face the front. I watched as the doors closed, locking us in. It took all of my strength not to break out into a panic.

"Do you know anything about what happened?" Gray Hair asked.

"I heard a woman was strangled. Though I also heard some say it was a suicide." Skinny shrugged his shoulders. "We'll know more in tomorrow's paper."

"Horrible," Gray Hair remarked. "Absolutely horrible."

An eternity later, the LED above the elevator door read G. The doors opened.

Exiting the elevator, I bent down as if tying my shoe. The two men walked past me and left the lobby.

"Come on, Jimbo," Carlyle called. "You take any longer with those laces and it'll be midnight before I get home!"

Outside, I saw Skinny and Gray Hair chatting alongside one of the cars in what was affectionately referred to as Executive Row.

"He looks like a Powder-Puff with that rug on his head, doesn't he?" Carlyle said in a low voice.

"What?"

Carlyle nodded. "One of our fearless leaders."

Looking over, I realized whose car they were standing in front of -- Clarence Filmont, the Senior Vice President of Marketing. "That's Filmont? I thought he was almost bald!"

"Hence the wig," replied Carlyle. "God knows why he is wearing that thing. I heard his wife was going to divorce him unless he got some hair back on his head."

I stopped walking and stared at Filmont. I must have seen someone else....

Overhead, a thunderhead rumbled angrily and the sky opened up. As if nature was answering my question, Filmont unfurled the umbrella he had been holding. The maroon canopy left me with no doubt.

He was the one.

The rain began to come down hard. "See you tomorrow, Jimbo!" Carlyle yelled as he sprinted off.

I ignored him. The rain began to soak my clothes and plaster my hair.

Filmont turned, following Carlyle's voice. Like star-crossed lovers, our eyes met.

His expression went from curious to shocked. My expression must have told him that I knew what he had done. But his shock lasted only a moment before transforming into a confident smirk. It told me whatever evidence the police found in the hotel room and dumpster would not link him to the crime. What I had seen would not hold up in court.

Filmont said goodbye to Skinny. Getting back into his Mercedes, he never bothered to look at me again.

The rain continued to beat down on me as he drove away.

MICHAEL PENNCAVAGE currently resides in New Jersey with his fiance and cat who thinks he's a dog. Additional stories of his can/will be found in Black Petals Magazine, Hadrosaur Tales, ETOU Ezine, The Fantastical Visions Anthology, Underworlds Magazine, Blue Murder Magazine, Galaxy Ezine, Demensions Magazine, The Murder Hole Ezine, Orchard Press Mysteries, and others.

Copyright (c) 2002 Michael Penncavage

--//--