Right from the Gecko by Cynthia Baxter Page B

Unfortunately, I still wasn’t sure exactly what I hoped to learn from him. Maybe something that would reassure me that Detective Paleka was right, that Marnie’s death had nothing to do with the audiotape I still feared could be putting me in danger.
    â€œMr. Carrera?” I asked politely as I strode into his office.
    He stood up as I entered. Even though Richard Carrera was the head of this operation, he was barely over five feet tall. And he was as slight as he was short. I had a feeling I could have wrestled him to the ground without too much trouble. Just like the other man in the office, the one I’d pegged as a reporter, he wore a crisp white shirt. But he had on a necktie, one that was covered with palm trees but held in place with an expensive-looking gold clasp. An interesting combination of Hawaiian casual and no-nonsense business, I decided.
    But his features made it clear his roots were not Polynesian. True, his neatly cut hair was as black as coal and his eyes were such a dark brown that they, too, were almost the same shade. But his features, like his name, struck me as Hispanic in origin. Especially his eyebrows, which were the thickest, blackest, and bushiest I’d ever seen in my life.
    â€œJessica Popper, right?” he greeted me. “Come in and have a seat.”
    Even with those few words, I saw that Mr. Carrera’s way of speaking involved moving his lips but keeping his two rows of white, even teeth tightly clenched. That was an idiosyncrasy I couldn’t affix to any particular ethnicity.
    It also made him a little hard to hear—and to understand. I wondered if it was more than coincidence that he’d ended up in a career that focused on the printed word.
    â€œThanks for taking the time to speak with me, Mr. Carrera,” I said as I took him up on his offer and lowered myself onto one of the two metal folding chairs that faced his desk.
    Unlike the reporter who worked for him, Richard Carrera kept his desk perfectly clear of paper. Unless, of course, he had made a point of straightening up before opening his office to a stranger. My suspicious side wondered if he had something to hide, while my practical side told me he was probably just one of those people who prefers a neat working environment.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he asked. At least, I was pretty sure that was what he asked. Given the fact that his words came out sounding like, “Whahdoferyou?” I had to rely a lot on context.
    â€œI was hoping you’d be willing to talk to me about Marnie Burton.” Before he had a chance to mumble an obvious question like, “Why should I?” or “Who are you?”—or at least something that sounded like that—I volunteered, “I was a friend of Marnie’s. Needless to say, I’ve been frantic ever since I heard the news, and I’ve been desperate to find out anything I can about what happened. I even stopped at the police station earlier today and talked to someone named Detective Paleka, but he wasn’t all that helpful about the details. I was hoping you might know something.”
    He sat perfectly still, his dark eyes burning into mine in a truly unnerving way. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or surprised or if this was simply the way he looked all the time. “Why would I know any more than the police?” he finally said, his teeth still clamped together.
    â€œBecause you were Marnie’s boss. And because you’re the person the police called in to identify her last night.
    â€œBesides,” I continued, “you’re a newspaperman. It’s your job to find out things other people don’t know and to find them out first. That’s your area of expertise.”
    One thing I’d learned being in business for myself was that it never hurt to butter people up a little. Especially people of the male persuasion.
    And it seemed to be working. I could have just been