* * *
We walked west on Flagler Avenue, stepping on the engraved bricks sold by the Flagler Merchants Association. For $50 a pop, tourists and locals had the chance to immortalize themselves with three lines of text for all to see. Mariel stopped to view the brick she bought to memorialize her Dad.
After a few blocks, we turned left to Ed’s office. The address he gave me led to a single story, concrete-block house. A sign in the front window displayed a phone number and advertised the place was “For Rent 2Bd 1 Bth”. We walked up to the door and I knocked anyway. Nobody answered. I verified the address against Ed’s business card and decided we were at the correct place. While searching for a doorbell, I noticed a stone walkway leading to the left of the building.
We followed it and found a second entrance. I knocked again and this time, the door opened. The house included a small side bedroom converted into an office with its own entrance. Ed ushered us inside.
He grabbed my hand and shook it, “Max, Mariel. Thank you for coming.”
“Please, have a seat.” Ed directed us to two upright wooden client chairs with upholstered seats. The chairs didn’t go with the rest of the room. I wondered if they might have come from a dining room set, maybe one broken up in a divorce settlement.
“What do you think?” He asked, gesturing around the room. The décor was half-beachy and half-lawyerly. Amid sailing icons and an Ivy League diploma, requisite bookshelves had the requisite books. He seemed to have everything he needed if not everything ever published.
“You appear to be well equipped,” I told him.
“Thank you,” Ed walked across the room to a stereo receiver next to a CD player and speakers. Classical music played.
He turned down the music and sat behind a huge, old wooden desk. It was heavy and dark and could have come from some Captain’s quarters. I couldn’t imagine how he ever got it in the door. I also couldn’t imagine how he could ever find anything on the desktop.
So much paper covered the surface that if I hadn’t noticed the wire leading up from the floor, I wouldn’t have known there was a phone on the desk. Besides the shelves, chairs and desk, there wasn’t any other furniture in the room. If there was more, I doubted there would have been room for Ed.
“It’s ah, very cozy,” offered Mariel.
Ed opened his mouth to reply a second before a muffled ringing sound come from under the papers on his desk. “Um, excuse me, please.” He lifted a manila folder and then answered his phone.
“McCarthy Law, how may I help you...?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m in a meeting now…”
“No, it was good seeing you again too…”
“No, I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”
“Well, it’s a little bit too close...”
“No, no one else is interested in renting it…”
“Yes, I did have a good time, but…”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I really can’t talk now…”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. We can talk about it then…”
“OK”
Ed hung up, and avoiding eye contact with us, pulled a folder from the pile on his desk. “Thank you and now to business.” He continued our conversation as if the phone never rang.
We agreed on an hourly rate and while Mariel and I read the service agreement, Ed called the police. He was right about the money. We just finished reading when he put down the phone and said, “The police will release the notebook to me tomorrow morning. Why don’t you give me your address? I’ll pick up the notebook and then come by.” He rummaged through the piles on his desk, and pulled out a piece of paper.
“Sure,” I said and told him the address. He wrote it down, and the paper disappeared back into the desktop.
“Just don’t make it too early,” Mariel added. “I think the birthday boy is going to be up tonight.”
Life's a Beach Then You Die Page 2