The Art of Eavesdropping

by Christy Barritt

  I balled my napkin and threw it at her. A smile cracked her face, and she let out a laugh.

  “In all seriousness, I like it,” she said. “But I miss hanging out with you. I wish this new job didn’t make you work so much.”

  “It’s not always going to be like this. But I’m just getting my feet wet and learning the ropes. That means that I gotta put in some extra time. The good news is that I get paid by the hour so we should be able to pay all our bills this month.”

  My sister reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her fussy teenager persona disappearing for a moment. “I know the only reason you work so hard is because you want to take care of me. I wish that you were able to chase your own dreams.”

  “My dreams mean nothing if you’re not there with me as a part of them.” My voice caught.

  I meant the words. My sister, even though she was younger than I by ten years, was one of my best friends. I couldn’t imagine life without her. That meant I needed to keep her healthy and safe.

  As I remembered the words I’d read in my dad’s journal last night, his message was driven home even more.

  He had enemies who would like to see us dead.

  My heart stuttered.

  Did that explain why I felt like I was being watched sometimes? It seemed like a logical explanation to me. But, even if I did need help, whom was I supposed to turn to? Whom could I trust to keep that secret and watch my back? I had no idea. In fact, right now I felt all alone as I faced this.

  I was still trying to comprehend everything that my dad had said in the journal entry I’d read. I’d read only the first two pages, but I’d skimmed the rest. He’d laid out a guidebook for what I needed to do, measures I needed to take.

  I’d decided to only read one entry a day. That was all I could comprehend.

  Even though I’d been ready to quit my new job with Oscar, I now realized that I needed to learn how to be more street smart. Working for the PI just might be the perfect job for me to do that.

  My sister snatched my last piece of toast and stood, hoisting her book bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to be late for school. You behave yourself today.”

  “Yeah, you do the same.” I smiled as I watched her walk away. Before Ruth reached the door, a coughing fit seized her.

  My smile disappeared.

  How much longer did she have until she needed that new lung transplant? The doctors couldn’t give us an exact time. They just said it would need to be soon.

  I had fifteen hundred dollars saved up right now. But I wasn’t sure that would be enough to get us through.

  Then I remembered Jono with his expensive clothes and car. Someone like him could spend that much money in a day and not even blink an eye.

  Life just didn’t seem fair sometimes.

  Life wasn’t fair. But sitting here and feeling sorry for myself was going to do nothing.

  I stood from the table. It was only seven o’clock, but I was going to go into work.

  I couldn’t wait to find out where we were on the Flash Slivinski case.

  Thinking about his problems definitely beat thinking about my own.

  “I’ve been doing some research on Art Smith,” Michael started as he sat at his desk, clicking away on a laptop computer.

  Everyone was already here by the time I arrived—and I hadn’t even come in late like Oscar had told me.

  Oscar brought us coffee—even me. I must be predictable. He’d known I’d be here on time, hadn’t he? Velma brought in donuts I couldn’t eat—Michael warned me not to. And as I stared at a stray piece of wilted lettuce on the box, I knew his advice was sound.

  She’d probably gotten these out of a dumpster.

  In other words, everything seemed normal—except Oscar was being a little nicer than usual.

  I glanced across the office at Oscar’s door. “Shouldn’t we bring Oscar in on this meeting? Won’t he want to hear any updates?”

  Michael looked at me as if I’d just asked an absurd question. “No, why would we do that?”

  “Because, isn’t he the private eye on the case? I mean, I’m not even licensed. We might do the footwork, but he calls the shots. Right?”

  “I am actually licensed. And you might have thought I was exaggerating when I said Oscar was just a figurehead. But I wasn’t. At one time, he was a great PI. He lost himself in alcohol and fame.”

  My respect for the man continued to decrease, which I didn’t think was possible.

  I sighed and leaned back, staring at the chocolate-covered donut in front of me. I really wanted to eat it still, but I had to choose my battles. Instead, I needed to focus on this case.

  “Okay,” I started. “Who is Art Smith?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Michael turned his screen toward me. “Art Smith works out of New York City. He’s thirty-six, and he’s an attorney.”

  “That doesn’t tell me one single thing about why he fits in with any of this.”

  “I’m getting to that.” Michael picked up an orange from his desk and began tossing it in the air. He apparently juggled when he had energy to burn. “It turns out he has a connection with our friend Flash Slivinski.”

  I leaned forward, suddenly intrigued. “Is that right?”

  “True fact. You see, Art Smith is not only an attorney, but he’s an attorney for Windsor Washington Golf Clubs.”

  “Okay . . .” I waited for Michael to continue his thought. I realized it must somehow tie in with Flash’s career, but I didn’t know how.

  “Flash has an endorsement deal with Windsor Washington Golf Clubs. But lately, he’s been giving the company some bad press. He was caught on video saying that their products were inferior. Of course, he later apologized and explained that his words had been taken out of context. But the damage had already been done.”

  “So why didn’t the company just drop him?”

  “Because, apparently, they were going to have to pay out more money in order to do that. Law and contracts are complicated, especially when it comes to endorsement deals. They would lose money either way.”

  I processed that before saying, “So you think this company is looking for another excuse as to why Flash needs to be dropped from the contract, one that will change the legal ramifications?”

  Michael caught the orange and held it in his hands. “Bingo!”

  I didn’t feel as confident as he did. “But do you think that this Art guy would go as far as to kill Flash’s date so he could save his company some money? It sounds extreme.”

  “I don’t want to believe that, but I’ve seen far crazier things happen. I feel like it should be checked out at least.”

  I leaned back, trying to think things through and be open-minded. “Okay, but what about that camera that we found at Flash’s place? Did you make any headway?”

  “I’ve been working on that.” Michael turned back to his computer. “It’s all digital so whatever was being recorded was sent to some kind of server. I’m trying to figure out exactly whose server that might be. The owner of the site has some great firewalls that are nearly impossible to get through.”

  “So we’re not going to get anywhere with that, huh?”

  Michael raised his shoulder. “I didn’t say that. I am pretty good at this, if I do say so myself. But I don’t have any answers—yet.”

  “Last question—what about the man who hit your car? Do the police have any leads?”

  “I called this morning, and the answer was . . . no. Not surprising. I don’t expect they’ll find anyone. For someone to pull something like that in broad daylight . . . they knew what they were doing, especially since cops patrol the area quite often. This guy just happened to hit between police drive-bys.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Michael looked at me. “How about you? Any updates?”

  I straightened. “I did see one thing when I was at the police station last night, but I’m not sure if it’s significant. I didn’t even tell Oscar becaus
e I didn’t want to set him off.”

  His eyes lit with curiosity. “What’s that?”

  “The name Bernard Sutherland. Does that ring any bells?”

  Excitement raced through Michael’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, it does. Bernard Sutherland is Flash’s manager.”

  I sucked in a breath at the revelation. “His name was listed in Sarah Vance’s file. You think that police are investigating him as a possible suspect?”

  “Did it say anything else?”

  “Something about loose cannon and the word ‘caddy’ had been scribbled. I’m not sure what all that means, though.”

  “I’d say it’s something worth looking into. But, first, let’s start with Art and work our way down.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Twenty minutes later, Michael and I were in Oscar’s BMW, headed toward one of the many country clubs in Storm River. Michael’s minivan was in the shop, and my car wouldn’t have been believable at the expensive venue, so we’d borrowed our boss’s.

  I’d touched up my makeup and pulled my hair back into a neat bun before we left. Michael had pulled on a Polo shirt and khakis. However, he hadn’t lost his hat or skater shoes. He could get away with the look. It somehow fit his laid-back vibe.

  Founders Circle Golf and Country Club was only about five minutes away from Oscar’s office. It was amazing how such a short distance could change things. Don’t get me wrong—the area where Oscar’s office was located was nice and refined, as was the rest of Storm River.

  But as soon as you crossed to this side of Main Street, the town became the playground of millionaires. Most of the homes had to be more than six thousand square feet. There were four golf clubs, and yachts lined the inlet coming from the river. I’d never felt so out of place.

  A gated fence stretched around the grounds of the club, allowing only members and their guests to enter. That would be challenge number one. But it wasn’t surprising. This was typical Storm River, designed with the hoity-toity in mind.

  “Just remember to play it cool and follow my lead,” Michael said.

  Despite his words, sweat formed across my skin. How was I ever going to pull this off? I wasn’t a country club girl. In some ways Oscar was right. I’d rather be tracking through the jungle and exploring nature than coming to a place like this.

  “You’re getting nervous.” Michael gave me a side glance.

  “Is it that easy to see that I’m ready to—” I paused and cleared my throat before adding, “flee.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe a little. You have to get those impulses under control. You can be nervous, just don’t show it.”

  “I’m trying. I really am.” I rubbed my hands against my jeans.

  As we pulled up to a station near the gate, Michael rolled down his window and flashed what almost appeared to be a cultured smile. “My wife and I are interested in placing our membership here at the club, and we were hoping to get a tour.”

  The guard, a man who wore a fitted suit and a matching uptight expression, stared at us with obvious distaste in his eyes. “We only accept new guests by appointment. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Unfortunately, this is the only time we’re available for a tour. Is there any way that the rules might be bent?” Michael sounded amiable and kind, tapping into the side of him that made him sound like everyone’s best friend.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t bend the rules for anybody.” The guard still sounded uptight and snooty.

  “What if I slipped you a little something?” A fifty-dollar bill magically appeared in Michael’s hand.

  The man let out a haughty laugh. “I’m sorry, but we cannot be bought here. We like to maintain the utmost integrity in all of our dealings. Now if you would run along.”

  He nodded at the car behind us, indicating that there were more important people waiting to get in.

  Michael exchanged a look with me and narrowed his eyes.

  We both knew this wasn’t going to work. After a moment of hesitation, Michael turned the car around, and we headed away.

  Only we didn’t.

  Michael pulled onto a street nearby and parked the BMW.

  “What are you doing?” I sensed he had another plan up his sleeve.

  “I’m going to teach you a little bit about surveillance.”

  “I’m not sure how surveillance is going to help us in this situation. We need to talk to this guy.”

  “I know. But we need to surveil him until we can find the opportunity to speak with him.”

  I nodded toward the rolling green hills of the golf course. “That place is huge. I’m not sure how you think you’re going to be able to locate Art inside and surveil him.”

  “We’ll figure out a way.” Michael reached into the backseat and grabbed a duffle bag. “Come on.”

  Before I had a chance to ask any more questions, he was out the door and headed down the sidewalk. I scrambled to keep up with him, wondering just what was in store.

  Part of me couldn’t wait to find out.

  Michael stopped near a row of cherry blossom trees that lined the white fencing around the golf course. He sat on a bench on the sidewalk with the bag beside him and slipped on some sunglasses.

  I still wasn’t sure how this was going to prove anything.

  “So how do we find Art in there?” I always liked having a plan. It was just my personality. Winging it—and/or being in the dark—wasn’t my thing.

  “I’m checking his social media right now.” Michael pulled out his phone. “I’m not really sure how investigators did things before the era of Facebook and Twitter.”

  I sat beside him and glanced over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not on social media.”

  He stopped and stared at me. “Really?”

  I nodded. “I think it’s a waste of time. I prefer face-to-face interactions. I find them more meaningful. And, if those things don’t work, reading a book is always a good choice.”

  “You’re an interesting girl, Elliot Ransom.”

  “Thank you?” That was the second time he’d said something like that, and I still wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

  As Michael continued to scroll through postings, I glanced at his bag and wondered what was inside. Telephoto lenses, perhaps? Beef jerky and water? I had no idea.

  “There he is.” Michael held up his phone and showed me a picture. “Just two minutes ago Art posted a photo on Twitter, tagging himself in front of the west wing of the Founders Circle Country and Golf Club. He was sporting his handy-dandy Windsor Washington golf clubs, of course.”

  “Do you know where that area of the golf course is?”

  Michael stood. “As a matter of fact, I do. Follow me.”

  Just as before, he took off at a quick clip, and I could hardly keep up.

  I wondered how he knew so much about this place. He didn’t seem like the golfing type or a country club regular. But I’d save those questions for another day.

  He rounded the corner and an identical sidewalk came into view. Michael found another bench by another tree and put his bag down again. Except this time, he reached inside and pulled something out.

  I stared for a moment. Were those binoculars? Weren’t passersby going to raise questions if they saw him using those in broad daylight?

  “I need you to help me not be seen,” he started.

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” Did I really want to know?

  “I need you to distract anybody who might walk past.”

  “How exactly do you expect me to distract them?” I could do a dance from the Festival of the Chicken, but I wasn’t sure that’s what he had in mind.

  He shrugged. “You’ll figure it out.”

  A quell of nerves rose in me. “You do realize I’m an introvert, right? This isn’t in my skillset.”

  “This is the age of the introvert. You’ll be fine.”

  “Age of the introvert?”

  “Yes, the rise of the introvert has b
een well documented. It’s cool to be introverted. Just don’t use that as a crutch. Now, I’d talk you through it more, but we don’t have any time to waste.”

  He glanced up and down the street, before putting the binoculars to his eyes and peering at the golf course in the distance.

  All of this fascinated me. I wondered if my dad had done things like this before. Did I really have the habilidades to follow in his footsteps? Did being the sidekick to a private investigator count as following in the footsteps of an international agent of intrigue?

  I had so many questions.

  I ran my sweaty hands over my jeans as I glanced around.

  It was a beautiful day, just the kind of day that might send people out to wander the sidewalks. The good news was this side of town didn’t contain any of the quaint shops that other parts of town did. Across the street, residential homes stood tall and broad.

  With any luck, I would walk away from this without having to embarrass myself.

  But as soon as that thought entered my head, a man and a woman strolled around the corner arm in arm. They were probably in their fifties and reminded me of a couple who’d just come from a horse race. She wore an oversized hat, and the man had a handlebar mustache that made him look like he’d stepped out of another century.

  My gut twisted with anxiety. This was it. This was when I needed to distract them before they called the police on us for being Peeping Toms. Me and my introverted self could do this.

  I tried to get over myself as I stepped toward them. I knew a simple conversation wouldn’t do. If I was too calm and demure, all they would do was glance around and pay only half attention to me. I needed something big.

  But not a chicken dance. Resist the chicken dance.

  “Did you see that?” I pointed behind them.

  The couple turned. The woman clutched her purse as if she was afraid this was some kind of scam.

  In some ways, it was, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “See what?” A hint of annoyance laced the man’s voice.

  “It was a very rare fulvous whistling duck.” I wanted to clamp my mouth shut as soon as the words left my lips.