Stan, having secured sufficient caffeine to function, now sits at his table, morning sun muted by the lowered shades; a concession to his hangover. Stan usually likes the shades up and the sun shining in, he gets so little of it in the cubicle “cave”.
His “World’s best accountant” cup – a gift from last Christmas’ secret Santa – is warm in his hand as Stan peruses morning headlines on his tablet. His feed is made up of mostly financial information; the world is too full of angst, so Stan filters out even local news. Therefore, the headlines about the double death at Silva and Son’s accounting never make it to his screen.
Finally, Stan’s internal clock dings at him. He slaps his tablet down, pushes back from the kitchen table, and heads to the bathroom to shower and shave.
Filling the sink with warm water, Stan dips his brush and begins to suds his face. Staring in the mirror, his green eyes stare back. Green? he wonders, and takes a closer look. Grabbing his phone, he turns on the flashlight and shines it around his eyes. No doubt about it, his eyes are green. And what is more, they look back with their own secret joke.
Shaking it off, Stan returns to his shave. He jumps, grabs the towel, and dabs at a cut, but upon closer inspection, finds nothing. He resumes shaving, while out of sight behind his jaw, a bloodless red line gaps open, as if a mask is lifting away from his skull.
Morning ablutions finished, Stan is all business as he dresses in his uniform; beige pants, white shirt, but as he reaches for his brown belt, his hand swings to a different hanger where he keeps his “going out” clothes, and he finds himself with a navy belt looped around his waist.
Finishing with brown shoes, navy tie (might as well go for broke!) and his beige jacket, his green eyes twinkle back at him from his full-length mirror. Stan straightens his lapel, and pats a Silva and Son’s twenty-year pin proudly into place.
“No way they’d want to cheat you of this, old man,” he says to his smirking reflection. “Let’s give them another chance to see the mistake they’ve made, shall we?” Skipping the umbrella, Stan pops a charcoal fedora on his head, and hesitates the briefest of moments as he spies the statue in the mirror. It now occupies a place of honor on his dresser. Stan could swear that its eyes were drab wooden brown last night; they are a sparkling green this morning. Shrugging, he drapes his beige raincoat over his arm, pats the pin again, and heads to the office as he has every day for nineteen years; albeit with a lighter step.
Morning had started early for Detective Schwartz. Two A.M. early, with the call from the janitor at Silva and Son’s. She nursed her fourth black coffee as she and a team of officers kept the scene clear, and interviewed employees as they arrived for the morning shift.
Reviewing her notes, Ally sat across from tearful soccer mom Sheila Masterson in a borrowed vacant office one floor up from the accounting office. “So, Ms. Masterson, let me make sure I have this correct: Ted Daily left the firm a week ago last… Monday?” Sheila nodded. “So, any idea why he would be here ten days later, after hours, sitting at Mr. Greene’s desk?”
Sheila was shaking her head before Ally finished. “No, I-I have no idea…”, Sheila began, then her eyes widened, “unless – well it would be pure guess in my part…”
“Guess away, Ms. Masterson, anything you know helps.”
Sheila’s cheeks pinked as she continued, “Well, Ted is – was – pretty competitive. He thought Stan Greene wasn’t aggressive enough, that he could do better, give his clients a better tax break – so, well, he was always going on about wanting Stan’s clients. Bills’ and Charlotte’s too…”. Ally nodded encouragement to Sheila, so she continued in a rush. “Ted told me he was going to quit and take all the best paying clients with him to start his own business.”
Ally raised an eyebrow, “A dangerous confession to make to a fellow employee, Ms. Masterson, Mr. Daily, Ted, must have really trusted you.”
The pink now going to red, Sheila’s tears renewed. For a moment, Ally thought she might ugly-cry. “Ted and I were- well…”. Sheila could no longer maintain eye contact with Ally.
Ugly-cry indeed, Ally thought.
Ally tapped her best-girlfriend demeanor, and in a quiet voice added, “Sheila, I know this is hard, but we really need your help here. I’m sure Ted would want the truth to be found.”
Sheila snorted a snot bubble, giggling through her tears as Ally handed her a tissue. “Obviously you didn’t know Ted. He is-was a lying bastard. We had a thing, alright? For a while. Turns out our thing wasn’t the most important thing in *his* life. I broke it off. His coke habit and lying were just more than I wanted around my girls. But. He told me – before I broke it off? He told me that he planned to sneak in and get the client files. I didn’t think he’d actually do it, but after that, I wanted nothing more to do with him. Jerk.” She blew her nose thoroughly as Ally handed her a handful of tissues.
With a deep breath, Sheila said, “Look I’m slammed by this, you have my contact information, can I just go home, and … stare at the wall while my kids are still at school? I need some time…”
“Of course, Sheila, just one more thing,” Ally said. “You mentioned Stan Greene – what can you tell me about him?”
Another snort, “Stan? Beige Stan? Talk about being mis-named, Green would be more color than sad Stan has ever allowed in his life.” Sheila warmed to her topic in true mean-girl fashion. “You know those kids in school, the ones that could never make eye contact, that looked like their mom dressed them, that saved their lunch money and bought investment bonds before they were out of school? That’s Stan. Always toes the line, always uber-conservative with his client’s tax breaks, in that way Ted was right- they probably could save more with someone else, but, well, they LIKE Stan, go figure. And he’s a snob. Barbara has had a secret crush on him for a year – God only knows why. Stan won’t even look at her. He has the hots for the bartender at that dive he goes to every week – what’s it called? Oh yeah, The Spot,” another snort. “It’s a spot alright, but of WHAT I don’t want to know…ANYWAY, he got the axe yesterday. ”
Ally looked up from her notes, “Axe? Layed off?”
“Yeah, they didn’t want to pay the pension, see? Stan had nineteen years in, had become a liability. It sucks, he didn’t deserve that, but you know, that’s how business works these days…” Sheila looked thoughtful for a moment. “But you know – I thought they were just going to cut hours and give him Ted’s accounts. We all thought that. Next thing we know, there’s a shout behind closed doors, and security is leading Stan out the door – barely let him pack his desk, including his precious ten-year plaque.”
“Ok, great, thank you Ms. Masterson, you’ve been very helpful,” she said as she slid her card to Sheila, “That is my cell number, please feel free to call or text me directly with anything further you think of. Rest up.”
“Thanks, Detective… Schwartz?”
“Ally, call me Ally.”
Sheila nodded, gathered her purse and phone, and left.
Well, THAT one is a font of information, now to sort the useful from the trash-talk… Ally thought. Damn my coffee is empty. Again. Hoping to flag a uniform and get another, she stepped into the hall just as said uniform was directing a man to her location.
Beige pants and jacket, white shirt, brown shoes, beige raincoat on his arm, he could only be “Beige Stan”.
As the officer grumped away with Ally’s empty coffee cup, she introduced herself. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Beige- I mean Greene, I appreciate your cooperation. I’m Detective Ally Schwartz.” Stan looked at Ally, and she thought, Whoa, not so beige!. She had the weird feeling he was laughing at her through his own private joke. And his eyes. So… Green!