Читать книгу Out of Mind - Michael Burke - Страница 9

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It was a hot, damp August night, and the Perseids were spectacular. The asphalt plant next door had closed a month ago, and a steady breeze carried the summer haze away to the ocean, allowing our stars to shine brightly in a pitch-black sky. The moon was visiting Australia and didn’t interfere. I sat on a deck chair on the fire escape sipping a martini, watching the meteors streak away from the torso of Perseus. A few spectacular beauties stole the show. The Swift-Tuttle comet had swept through our solar system some years ago and left a trail of dust for the earth to plow through every August. He’ll be back in a hundred and thirty years to replenish the supply.

The Perseids are the finest shower of the year, although it seems a bit callous to eagerly watch for the meteors, chunks of rock and iron that had been traveling for millions of years, to meet their fate. Each creates a glowing trail that shines majestically for an instant before it disintegrates into nothingness. Maybe we’d all like to go down in a blaze of glory, or maybe I’m just feeling low because Kathy turned me down again. Police Chief Kathy MacGregor has something else, or someone else, on her mind these days. Told me to get a job. She’s right. I need something to do. I should reopen my office. The sign could read:

JOHNNY ‘BLUE’ HERON

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE

Or, I could run an ad in The Daily Flyer:

Got a problem.

Want to spy on someone

Call Blue at . . .

I’d fallen asleep, the sun had risen, and my cell phone interrupted my dreams with its version of Ride of the Valkyries. I climbed back in through the window, found it on top of the microwave in the kitchen, and flipped it open, “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon.” A female voice greeted me. “Is this Mr. Heron?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I checked my watch.

“I was told you are a good investigator. I may need one. Are you interested?”

“So far, yes.” I had some old friends in town who tended to give me good referrals.

“Can we meet? Where’s your office?”

‘Well. We’re in the middle of renovations at the moment, new paint, might even put in a new desk. I could come by your place.”

“No,” she answered. “I’d rather not be seen talking with you. My husband might come home. Can you suggest somewhere discreet?”

I thought for a second. “There’s a bar right off City Hall Park, not far from Police Headquarters. It has a small sign out front, LEROY’S BAR AND STRIP CLUB. He likes to keep a low profile. You know the place?”

“No. Is it private?”

“On the northwest corner of the Park. You can’t miss it. There’s lot behind the bar where you can leave your car. If we meet there in the morning, I doubt you will see any of your friends.”

“Eleven o’clock tomorrow, then.” She was about to hang up.

“Could I have a name?”

She hesitated, then offered her name, “Louella. But you must keep this case totally confidential. Don’t tell a soul.”

“I’m good at confidential—it’s my business.” In this case confidential would be easy—all I know about it is one name, Louella.”

“See you then, Mr. Heron. And,” she added, “good luck with the renovation.”