Death by the Riverside by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

I tried H, because it was close. Pure as the driven snow, the cold kind.
    There were a couple of unlabeled file drawers under Z. I decided to try those. The first one contained coffee, tea, cups, spoons, etc. The second one had a few paper clips and a couple of blank pieces of yellowing notebook paper. I had to kneel to get to the third one. I pulled on the handle. It didn’t budge. Bingo. An unlabeled locked file drawer in a locked room.
    Then I noticed a glow in the room that hadn’t been there before. The door was open. I was not alone. A flashlight beam hit my eyes, blinding me. Shit creek and no paddle flashed through my head.
    “What are you doing here?” It was Barbara Selby. I was never so glad to hear a woman’s voice as I was now. My chances of modeling cement overshoes for the Mississippi catfish had just decreased markedly. Hopefully the worst that she would do would be to have me arrested. Which would not be that bad considering that I was working for the police.
    “I don’t suppose you’d believe that I was just looking at the scenery?”
    “No, I wouldn’t,” she replied. Another in the long list of people not really thrilled to see me.
    “Could you get that light out of my eyes?” I asked. There was the possibility that she was part of the drug ring. If, for example, she were pointing a gun at me; my inquiring mind wanted to know.
    She lowered the flashlight. No gun. I shifted my weight, releasing tension.
    “Don’t move,” she said. Then I realized that she was nervous, too. From her side of the file room I seemed very threatening to her. “Now, tell me, what are you doing here?”
    “Do you know what this company does?” I countered.
    “Import and export, of course,” she answered. “I’m going to call Mr. Milo and let him deal with you,” she said, starting to back toward the door and the phones.
    “Don’t do that,” I said. I took a step toward her. I was perfectly willing to tackle Barbara Selby to keep her away from the phones. Better her a few bruises than me a bullet in my head.
    She saw me move and aimed the flashlight at my eyes again. I used the light as a target, took two running steps, and hit her about mid-waist. She wasn’t expecting it. She was on the floor and I was on top of her. I had my hand over her mouth, my thumb and index finger pressing in her cheeks, so that if she tried to talk, she’d end up biting herself. I knew it was hurting her, but it shut her up. I had to talk fast. She was in pain and the security guard probably made rounds.
    “I’m not going to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want to do. This company does a lot of importing, but it’s not what you read on these invoices. Heroin, coke, you name it. These are not nice people you work for. If you call them and tell them that I was in here, they’ll put a bullet in my head.”
    I shifted, putting more of my weight on the floor and less on her. Then I relaxed my hand, but still kept it very close to her mouth.
    She didn’t do anything for a moment, then she said, “Please, I’ve got two kids.” She was very scared, I realized. It was time to let her up and hope that she took it in the spirit intended. I don’t like scaring people.
    I stood up, then reached down and lifted her up. She was breathing quickly, like a scared kitten.
    “Please don’t yell. It’s all going to be all right,” I said. “Let’s get out of here, before that guard shows up and starts asking questions. I’ll explain everything once we’re out of here.” She nodded. I picked up the flashlight and we left. I heard the guard whistling, so I ducked us into the copy room.
    “Why shouldn’t I just call the guard?” she asked, starting to realize that I no longer had the upper hand.
    “Because you’ll feel very bad when you find out that I’ve got a .38 slug in my head.”
    The guard’s footsteps got closer. I moved away from the door, making it clear that she could tell the guard if she wanted. Also making