“I understand,” Christine said, believing him, in the end.

“Christine, please, help me. I’m counting on you.”

Chapter Forty-three

Brigham Instruments was housed in a boxy new building of red brick, shaped like an L, and Christine stepped inside, glancing around the reception room. It was modern, with cheery blue wainscoting and an off-white wall covered with framed covers from the Brigham Hospital Catalog, General Surgery Edition, next to framed Better Business Bureau certificates and laminated newspaper articles. Two blue padded chairs flanked an end table that held an artificial plant, and to the right, Christine passed an open French door that read SALES/SERVICE over the top. She walked to the reception desk.

“May I help you?” an older receptionist asked, sitting at a panel counter about shoulder height. Her hooded eyes were gray-blue, almost the same shade as her straight gray hair, which she wore closely cropped with dangling silver earrings.

“I’m Christine Nilsson, the one who called about a meeting with Tim Foster.”

“Of course, I was so happy when your call came in.” The receptionist’s expression changed, falling into concerned lines. “Please do everything you can to help Zachary. I know they have the wrong man.”

“You do?” Christine’s ears perked up.

“Absolutely, we all do, all the girls in billing and the ones in back, in the warehouse.” The receptionist gestured behind her. “We think it’s terrible that they arrested him. He didn’t do it, we just know it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know that boy. I tell him, ‘you’re the grandson I never had.’”

Christine smiled, warmed. “How long have you known him?”

“Two years, since he started here. He’s so handsome and so sweet, he does the nicest things for everybody here. We all love him. And he’s so good-looking!” The receptionist’s aged eyes flared. “My granddaughter calls him dreamy. The girls in back have a crush on him, and I don’t blame them. It’s not just that he’s handsome. He’s a good person, inside.”

“What makes you say that?” Christine realized it was the first time she’d heard something nice about Zachary, and her heart lifted.

“He’s so thoughtful. He remembers things about us. He knows I have a Chihuahua, Rico, and he always brings a box of dog treats for him, special for small dogs. And when he pays a call on his accounts in Delaware, he always brings Millie in the warehouse a box of salt water taffy. Oh, we all just love him.” The receptionist’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not like some of the account managers, who are only nice to the bosses. He’s nice to everybody, no matter whether they’re a big shot or not. In fact, just last week, he visited one of the other girls in the hospital when she broke her arm. He knows she likes mysteries, so he brought them.”

Christine made a mental note to talk to Griff about whether they could call these women as witnesses to Zachary’s character at trial. “Does he have any friends here, like other account managers?”

“He was friendly with Tim, most of all, so he’s probably the one you should talk to.” The receptionist shifted her gaze to the open French door. “Oh, here he is. Tim?”

Christine looked up as a heavyset African-American man appeared in the sales/service door, motioning to her. He had a broad grin and large dark eyes set far apart behind gold-rimmed glasses. He crossed the room to shake her hand, dressed in a Brigham-blue polo shirt and neatly pressed khaki pants, with the perfect break over his shiny loafers.

“Christine, hello, I’m Tim Foster.”

“Nice to meet you.” Christine shook his hand. He had a strong grip, and such a convivial way about him that she liked him instantly. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Happy to. Come this way, we can talk. I have a half an hour before I have to leave. Everyone’s at lunch, and I wanted to fit you in.”

“Thank you so much.” Christine followed him through the open door and past a row of tall blue cubicles, which were empty except for family photos, Eagles and Phillies sports schedules, and miniature American flags.

“This is where our inside salespeople sit.” Tim spoke freely as they walked down the hall. “They’re the only ones who get cubicles. Brigham has fifty-five employees and fifteen account managers. We supply medical instruments nationwide and we’re a medium-sized player. It’s a family-owned business, started by the Brigham family about sixty years ago.”

“Did Zachary have a cubicle?”

“No, he was an account manager. His office was in his house. We mail our account managers anything they need, so he only comes into the main office one to three times a month to pick up samples, supplies, or for a meeting. We do send the big paper catalog home, but we’re encouraging more of our accounts to order online, as you can imagine.”

“Yes,” Christine said, as Tim let her into a small corner office with a dark wood desk and a narrow window that overlooked a loading dock, where a white container truck was reversing in. A stack of blue Brigham catalogs sat on the corner of his desk, next to a flat monitor, and Tim gestured at a wall chart that read BRIGHAM PREMIUM INSTRUMENTS, above PREMIUM GRADE, MIDGRADE, AND FLOOR GRADE, with an array of shiny, stainless-steel instruments.

“We make fifteen thousand medical instruments of all types. Three different product lines, each with its own scissors, hemostats, forceps, needle holders, retractors, and whatnot. We manufacture instruments for all surgical fields. Cardiac, gynecology, rectal, urology, ophthalmology, microsurgery, you name it. We even make instruments for plastic surgery, which change fairly often. Please, sit down.”

“Thanks.” Christine sat and slid her pad from her purse. “Do all the account managers sell all of the types?”

“Yes, they do.” Tim eased into his desk chair. “That’s what’s difficult about the job. It’s a challenge to keep abreast of the product lines. We make twenty-seven different types of scissors, alone.”

“I was curious what kind of an employee Zachary was.”

“He was the best.” Tim nodded. “He really was. He was the golden boy. No pun. Yes, he’s a good-looking kid, he’s been employee of the month more than anybody else. Eight times in two years.”