The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

storage unit that will house fuel cells so the solar panels collect the sunlight during the day to split water into hydrogen and oxygen for storage, Then at night, the cell will recombine the elements and poof, 24/7 energy.”
    I cocked my head to the side. “What good is that?”
    Richard gave me a are you totally stupid look. “Just end global warming and provide cheap, unlimited energy to the entire planet is all.”
    “But aren’t solar panels like crazy expensive? And kind of fragile?”
    Richard’s indignation was palpable. “With the technology we have available, manufacturers are working on super thin collectors. The holdup is storing the energy.”
    “And that’s where Valentino comes in.” I nodded. “What’s it called?”
    “Falcon. Like the bird of prey.” He was obviously tickled by the name. I was simply unnerved. Again with the birds, this couldn’t be pure coincidence.
    “Are falcons anything like hawks?” I asked, trying to sound disinterested.
    Richard rolled his eyes. “Duh. They are in the same order of birds, falconiformes .”
    Well excuse me, Dr. Do Little.
    The wall clock chimed ten and I took a deep breath. “I’m going to vacuum in here. Can you do me a favor, Richard? I left my invoices in my car. Do you think you could grab them for me?” I tossed him my keys.
    Richard sighed, but I switched on the vacuum before he could come up with an excuse. He punched the down arrow on the elevator while I concentrated on dragging the carpet to make tidy patterns on the knap. As soon as he was gone, I shut off the vacuum and bolted to Valentino’s office. The doors were locked.
    I had maybe fifteen minutes before Richard realized there weren’t any invoices in my car, other than gas station receipts, and came back, so I scuttled to Sierra’s desk. Leisurely, I rubbed across the surface, ignoring the camera mounted in the corner. “Key, key, key…” I chanted under my breath, aware that precious seconds were slipping away. The longer I fondled the desk, the more likely the guard would be to come check on me. Still rubbing in useless circles with my left hand, I slid my right down to open drawers. Her top drawer revealed only the leather-bound book, a tidy row of pens and a stapler. I reached under the desk and felt a button, probably a security alert, and I was careful not to trigger an alarm.
    The bottom drawer held a bevy of manila file folders. I pretended to drop my rag and ducked behind the desk to reach inside the drawer, checking for a key secured inside. Nothing. The files were mostly marked with a name, client ID number and date, except for one halfway back, which was blank. Shaking hands tugged it loose and I opened it while holding my breath. Several envelopes, like you would get from a bank teller were lodged inside. I opened one and thought Eureka! As a shiny brass key fell into my sweaty palm.
    “Let’s get cracking,” I muttered, pretending to bash my head against the desk and rub for the camera’s benefit. Wheeling my cleaning cart in front of the secured office I stowed the rag and made a show of emptying the trash. If anyone had been watching me, they must be bored senseless by now. Keeping my mental fingers crossed, I scurried for the office. I inserted the key with a whispered prayer and exhaled loudly when it clicked the lock open. After parting the doors, I flicked on the lights and scanned the room. An antique cherry desk, much like the one at his house, held a computer and matching bookshelves lined the walls. Most of the shelves had been drafted for storage purposes, but a few technical manuals interspersed the clutter. The mauve carpeting looked odd with all of the dark, masculine furniture, but I wasn’t here to critique the décor.
    I strode to the desk, having no clue what I sought, but the need to find something gave me a natural high. The first thing I noticed was the lack of pictures, just like Sierra’s. Valentino practiced what he preached, but my heart broke for Candie. Every wife should know her picture was proudly displayed in her husband’s workspace.
    “There I go again with the shoulds,” I chastised myself and opened a few drawers. Paperclips, legal pads, post-its still in the wrapping. No clues here then.
    “Stop right where you are.” A harsh voice commanded my attention.
    Busted. And not by Richard. But I knew the man, even if I’d never seen him in person before.
    Come on, you worthless seven pounds of gray matter, churn