Читать книгу Another Side Of Midnight - Mia Zachary - Страница 15

The Business of Information

JON WAS BACK in my office so fast you’d think he teleported. He’d probably been lurking in the foyer, waiting for Stone to leave. I was already waiting for him to leave again, too.

“So, who was our unexpected visitor?”

I must have reacted to his odd tone because Jon smiled and plopped down on the chair Stone had occupied. “Start talking, girlfriend, and don’t skimp on the details.”

“I’m not your girlfriend and there’s nothing to tell.”

“Puh-lease. I have eyes. I saw him and I saw the sparks.” He leaned his elbows on my desk, his brown eyes intent. “Now, who was that divine creature?”

“Stone is…”

My voice trailed off. I tapped my pen on the blotter, struggling for a description. He wasn’t my lover or my friend. He was an impulse I’d quickly regretted, a mistake I wouldn’t mind repeating, but also a problem I needed to resolve.

“Stone is none of your business.”

Jon pouted, an expression that managed to look adorable on him instead of infantile. “You’re no fun. At least give me a vicarious thrill and tell me he’s as good as he looks.”

I pictured Stone naked and sweaty and smiled. “Better.”

“So you are involved.” His voice sounded flat for a second, but then he camped it up as usual. “Here I’ve been teasing about your nonexistent love life, and all the while you’ve had this big, sexy secret.”

Yeah, but sexy or not, our relationship was staying a secret. I arched my left brow. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. When did you meet him? Where did you meet him? What did—”

“Skip traces,” I blurted.

“Excuse me?”

To stop Jon from pursuing the subject of Stone, I’d get him to search the proprietary information databases. Locating people is time-consuming, often frustrating but also a large part of the job.

I handed Jon a couple of manila folders from my Do Something pile. One client was looking for child support from her scumbag ex-husband; another was searching for his birth mother; and the third wanted to find a former boyfriend from the class of 1952.

“See if you can at least find current addresses. Anything else you come up with would be great.”

“You want me to find them? Me, a mere secretary?”

“Administrative assistant,” I retorted.

Jon gave me a look. “You’re not completely off the hook, Steele. I’ll just bide my time until you confess all the sordid details about Cameron Stone.”

“Skip traces.”

I opened the top drawer of my desk to put away Vince’s letter. I’d finish it later. Catching sight of a particular court petition, I hesitated. Now was as good a time as any to take care of that. But after less than a second’s hesitation, I decided to wait and see what happened. I locked the drawer on the letter, the petition, my gun and my past.

Moving around the office, I unplugged my gadgets and chucked them into my backpack. I never leave without making sure I have supplies for any situation. Cell phone, pens, notepads and new digital camera landed among the detritus. Bandages, GPS locator, lip gloss, high-powered binoculars, condoms, protein bars, electronic data organizer—that kind of thing.

Bag ladies haul less stuff around than I do. “Where do you want me to start?” Jon was still skimming through the files.

“The deadbeat dad. Ryan’s mother is working two jobs, so keep the cost down, please.”

He looked up with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I never would have guessed you had a soft heart.”

That’s why I surround it with the toughest armor possible. The damned thing keeps getting me into trouble. I sent him a cool glare. “It’s better to milk a client with repeat business than to hit them with one big bill that they won’t pay.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

I picked up my backpack and helmet. “Quit lounging around and get back to work.”

Jon casually got to his feet like it was his own idea. “Where are you off to?”

I filled him in on my schedule as we walked down the hall. “I’m stopping at Dreyer’s office to pick up some papers he needs filed. Then I’m going to run by a claimant’s house to see if he’s up to anything his doctor says he can’t do. I doubt I’ll be back.”

“Okay, I’ll lock up. Call in for messages before I leave.” He slid behind his desk and logged onto the Internet. He opened the first file, apparently eager to get started.

“Oh, and Jon?” I turned, halfway out the front door, not looking at him directly. “About earlier. Um, thanks.”

I think he knew I wasn’t talking about my lunch. He kept his expression neutral, though. “Don’t get all mushy on me now, Steele. I won’t know how to handle it.”

Moment over. I sneered at him and left.

I WALKED PAST the Ticket to Paradise travel agency next door and waved to Lisa and Isabelle. They discount my trips on the rare occasions I leave the state. In exchange, I run background checks on their new boyfriends.

I have the same sort of barter arrangement with Barry Dreyer, the attorney on the other side of the travel agency. He’s helping me with a velocity issue. One more speeding ticket and I max out the number of points on my license. In return, I listen to the endless stories about his kids.

His eyes lit up behind wire-rimmed glasses, deepening his laugh lines. “Stella! I’m glad you could drop by. I’ve got new pictures.”

Sometimes I think Barry and his family live at the Sears portrait studio. He married later in life and never expected to have kids, let alone twins. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but the boys already had their father’s overbite and receding hairline. Combine this with their mother’s narrow chin and close-set eyes and you had two less than attractive toddlers.

“Here. Look at these.”

Barry proudly handed me a couple of five-by-sevens. I shuffled through images of the boys in various poses and forced a smile.

“Great pictures. I like the composition and the lighting.” If you can’t say something nice, compliment the skill of the photographer.

“Yeah, I’ve got good-looking sons, don’t I?” He accepted the pictures back, beaming as he put them away. “Let me tell you what those two did yesterday—”

“Gee, Barry, I’d love to hear about it, but I’ve got to get going. I just came to pick up the Complaint you want filed.”

“Oh, sure. Let me see where Elaine put them.” He went to the credenza and rifled through some stacks of paper.

Barry doesn’t have a paralegal anymore. He kept dating them and then he married the last one. He hasn’t hired another. I guess Kim doesn’t want history repeating itself. Instead, Barry keeps a secretary and pays me to file suit papers and serve subpoenas for him. My monthly bill is cheaper than a full-time employee or a divorce.

“Listen, Stella, I’ve got something else for you. A little more interesting than filing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Estate stuff. I need you to do an asset search. The widow is very merry and wants everything she married the old guy for.” He watched me closely as I scanned the documents.

It took me a minute, but then I jerked my head up. “Uh, it looks like there’s a few things missing.”

“Yeah,” Barry scoffed. “Just a few. As the estate’s Personal Representative, I can engage experts to ascertain the value of the assets. I already got letters of administration for you. We just need to do a retainer agreement.”

After signing some forms and making copies of what Barry had in his file, I shoved the papers into my backpack and told him I’d get something for him as soon as I could.

“I appreciate this, Stella. Come back when you have more time. I’ll tell you my plan for the twins’ birthday party.”

Nodding politely, I decided I’d rather hear about dental surgery. “Sure, Barry.”

I left his office and walked across the parking lot, thinking about the other attorney I needed to visit soon. Although Douglas Holbrook was one of the most successful, well-respected lawyers in Nevada, my hopes for righting an old wrong faded with each passing year.

Or maybe it was my resolve that was weakening. The cost of my mistake had been higher than I could have imagined. Trying to correct it would cost me everything I had left.

With difficulty, I shook off that line of thought and started the Harley. Seeing a break in the traffic, I pulled out onto Paradise and headed north. When the road ended, I drove up the Strip for a mile or so before making a left on Lewis Avenue. I parked in the public garage and walked the block down to the Regional Justice Center.

As soon as I entered the building, two overweight and overly eager security guards went on high alert.

“Hold it!”

“Stop right there, miss!”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Do we have to do this every time, you guys?”

Not until the metal detector, handheld scanner and manual search of my backpack failed to reveal any incendiary devices was I allowed inside. One of these days I’ll start carrying a purse and briefcase and avoid the hassle.

After waiting in line for ten minutes, I filed Barry’s papers with the District Court on the third floor. I slipped the timestamped receipts into a folder in my backpack and headed back out into the heat. I think Walter and Ted were glad to see me go. Must have been the bitchy T-shirt and black eye that set them off.

As I bounded down the steps, the opening notes of Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” began to play. I dug out my cell phone.

“Midnight.”

I love saying that. Cool, succinct and kind of mysterious. But wasted on my secretary.

“It’s Jon. Mrs. Cavanaugh just called with the schedule she said you wanted. She also gave me the tag number for the Mercedes.”

“Great. Hang on while I get a pen.” I planted myself on one of the concrete benches and found a notepad. “Okay, just give me the next twenty-four hours.”

“She said he’s working from eight tonight until four in the morning, then he’s off the rest of the day. He’s supposed to play golf at the Red Rock course. Tee-off is at eleven. I’ll leave the rest of it on your desk.”

“Fax it to the house, too, will you?”

I scribbled down a few more messages and reminded Jon to turn off the espresso machine before he left. After we disconnected, I bounced the phone in my hand, procrastinating. I didn’t have to make the call. Cavanaugh was an average, everyday infidelity case….

Except for the missing four hundred grand. Nothing ordinary about that. Reaching into the zippered pocket of my backpack, I pulled out Stone’s business card. Three phone numbers, but no address.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a private eye; I’m supposed to have access to all sorts of data. So why hadn’t I tracked him down before now? Why hadn’t I located him through vehicle registration, income or property tax records or something?

Because there hadn’t been any records to find. Stone’s not a U.S. citizen. Apparently he didn’t live, work or drive here. The guy was a ghost. So, not wanting to pass up an opportunity, instead of dialing Stone’s cell phone or paging him for a call back, I punched in the number for his answering service.

“Canongate Consultants.”

Hmm. This might be promising. I decided to pretend not to know where I was calling. “Can I talk to Cameron Stone, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I take a message?” The girl sounded young, with just enough of an accent to let me know she was originally from the East Coast.

“When will he back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.”

I leaned back on the bench, adjusted my sunglasses and pushed a little. “Well, maybe I can drop by. I have something for him. Where’s his office?”

“Like I said, he’s not in right now.” She was starting to get an attitude, but I gave her points for control.

“Will he be there tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Stone is not available. I’d be happy to take a message.” She didn’t sound either sorry or happy, and her East Coast roots were showing.

I wasn’t getting anywhere nor was I likely to. I stood up and grabbed my bag, ready to leave. “Fine, just tell him Steele called and—”

“Oh! Is this Ms. Mez-zuh-knot?”

I frowned and answered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. “It’s pronounced Met-suh-no-teh.”

“If you’ll give me your message, I’ll use the emergency access.”

She acted like Stone was some kind of government agent. I could just imagine her punching codes into a red hotline phone. “I just want to give him some information. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, Ms. Mezzanotte, my instructions are to contact Mr. Stone immediately anytime you call.”

What the hell was this about? I felt both flattered and pissed off. Did Stone really think he’d be forgiven just because he made a show of his current—and, I was certain, temporary—availability? I tried not to be impressed.

“The message is, ‘I have Cavanaugh’s schedule.’”

“Okay. You have Cavanaugh’s schedule. I’ve got it. Is there anything else, Ms. Mezzanotte?”

Yeah, there was a lot more. But nothing fit for even Bronx-born ears. “No, that’s it. Thanks, um…what’s your name?”

“I’m Jamie. If there’s anything else I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

I hung up and dialed information, asking for the reverse directory. After giving the operator Stone’s telephone number, I got an address in return. One more call to information got me a main switchboard. It was in an office building on Rainbow Boulevard—one of those anonymous, multicompany executive suites. Another dead end in my ghost hunt.

I stuffed the cell phone in my backpack and hiked back to the parking garage to get my bike. Knots had formed in my neck and shoulders and Stone was to blame. The man had been back in my life for less than three hours and already he was driving me crazy.

I didn’t need some secretive Scotsman messing with my head, or any other body parts. Holding in the clutch and twisting the throttle, I let the growl of the Harley’s 1450cc twin cam engine express my frustration. As I pulled out of the parking garage, I squealed the tires.

Just because I could.