On my way out, I paused at a portable phone that sat on a table in the short hallway. It was unplugged from the wall. I plugged it back in and turned on the handset, hoping for the broken dial tone that indicates a new voice mail, but just heard the regular one so I turned it off.
Then I reconsidered and hit redial.
The line rang three times before a woman answered, already angry. “This has to stop.”
“Who is this—”
“Do. Not. Call. This. Number. Again.”
She hung up.
CHAPTER 7
I jotted down the phone number in my notebook to look into further.
I wanted to talk to Keir Metcalf in person, but I wanted to have all of my facts straight first. So my next stop was the records department at the Toledo Police headquarters, a long row of bank-teller-esque windows and oddly fancy tile flooring just inside the entrance. I didn’t want to wait for the results of the query, and I left my email address with the clerk and headed a bit south to Perrysburg, where AA Security ran an office from a small strip-mall storefront between a mattress store and a bookshop called Gathering Volumes. The glass front of AA’s office was tinted black, impossible to see into.
The door chimed as I went inside; the interior was all grey industrial carpet and beige cubicle walls. It looked like the office of a second-rate financial-services group that had turned me down for a small business loan once. A receptionist sat at an L-shaped desk to the left of the door, reading a magazine.
“Hi there, are you hiring?”
“For what, sweetheart?” Her expression said that AA Security only had space for one vagina and it was hers.
“Investigators,” I said.
“You want to be a detective, sweetheart, you need to be licensed.”
“I am licensed.” I showed her my laminated ID from the state.
“Oh.” She put down her magazine, which appeared to be something to do with homesteading. She was a Clairol blonde in a camo dress, her eyes rimmed in electric-blue liner behind cat-eye glasses. Everything about her confused me. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have an application or something I could fill out?” I knew there was no chance this place had a job application. “I’d really appreciate the chance—I’m new to town, and it’s, you know, hard. Or could I speak with the owner, maybe?”
I could hear someone on the phone toward the back of the office. He seemed to be talking about boat refinishing.
The receptionist sighed and got to her feet. The camo dress was complemented by towering camo heels. Without them she’d be shorter than me, but with them she had me by three inches. Hands on her hips, she strode down the hallway with a model’s posture and disappeared through a doorway.
I glanced around the small waiting area. Two orange burlap chairs that looked borrowed from a seventies bureaucracy, a low glass table with an ashtray and no magazines. It had been years since you were allowed to smoke inside a business, so who knew what the ashtray was for. It was clean as a whistle. I lifted up the corner of the receptionist’s magazine—Hobby Farms. Her desk was separated from a small conference table by a row of shoulder-height filing cabinets, the top of which was adorned by a potted plant and a glossy black statuette with a gold plaque at the bottom. I couldn’t tell what the statuette depicted—a crashing wave? a dustpan?—or what it said, and I withdrew from it as the receptionist reappeared and did her runway walk back in my direction.
“Have a seat,” she said. “He’s on the phone.”
While I waited, I checked my email and found a message from a Toledo records clerk. We have two run sheets for calls from Mrs. Arlene French, no corresponding reports. That meant that a formal report hadn’t been taken, and charges hadn’t been considered. The first run sheet was dated in March and said “Nature: Domestic disturbance.” RP heard an individual shouting “bad words” up at a neighbor’s window. Responder found homeowner engaged in civilized conversation at the time of arrival. Nothing to follow up on at this time.
I smiled. “Bad words” did sound like a description that Arlene might use.
The second report contained even less info: RP stated that her neighbor’s ex-husband was ringing neighbor’s doorbell “ceaselessly.” Neighbor not home.
These incident sheets didn’t exactly crack the case wide open. But they did tell me that Deputy Montoya’s investigation had definitely been less than thorough.
I put my phone away just as Keir Metcalf approached from down the hall. In person he was six-four and he wore a tweed blazer over a black button-down and jeans. Cowboy boots. The shirt was untucked, and it was undone one button too far from the collar; a wiry patch of grey chest hair tufted out above a pair of mirrored aviators that he had hooked into the front of the shirt. He smirked vaguely, pleased with himself. “Keir Metcalf, how are ya?”
I shook his hand and followed him back down the hallway. “You know, I’m not hiring right now, but I’ve never thought about getting a female investigator so I thought I might as well hear your story.”
“Not sure you’re allowed to say that. Never thought about getting a female.”
His eyes narrowed at me like he was trying to decide if I was being funny or not. Then he decided that I was and he laughed. “You know what I mean.”
“Sure,” I said. “And you know that there are places only a woman can go. And certain people are much more likely to open up to me than they are to you.”
Metcalf was terribly amused by me. “Mostly what we do is security. Personal protection, corporate services, special events. VIP detail. We did Luke Bryant not too long ago.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“You carry a gun?”
“It’s in my car, but yeah.”
“See there,” Metcalf said. “That’s why I don’t have any females. What on earth good is a gun gonna do you in the car?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone in here.”
He laughed again. “You’re sorta cute. You married?”
Oh, I hated this man. I hoped Maggie was right about him just so I would have the pleasure of watching him get arrested. As if anything had ever been that simple. “Divorced,” I said.
“Me too. Some things, they just don’t work out, right?”
“Now there’s someone I wouldn’t mind shooting.”
Metcalf’s expression remained neutral. Conspicuously neutral? I wasn’t sure. “I bet you’ve never fired that gun of yours outside of your CCW class.”
I smiled at him. “I have to be honest about something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not looking for a job. I work for your former stepdaughter, Maggie Holmer.”
The amused smile stuck around but his eyes went hard. “What’s this, now?”
“It’s about Rebecca.”
Strangely, his expression seemed to relax on that. “May she rest.”
“Yes, about that. Maggie seems to think that there was a lot of unrest between the two of you.”
Metcalf twitched his mouth like he was checking his teeth for poppy seeds. “We had our troubles. But all of that was over.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“The day of the last hearing. Divorce court, downtown.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Same time, same place. Why is Maggie hiring a PI? I thought what happened to Rebecca was an accident.”
“There are still some questions.”
“Who has these questions? Just Maggie?”
“And now me.”
He scowled. “So she’s saying, what, that somebody murdered Rebecca?”
“Like I said, there are some questions.”
“Maggie’s a—she can be difficult. I always wondered if something was wrong with her. She was in high school when Rebecca and I got married and she was always moping around like she was five minutes away from slitting her wrists.”
His compassion was inspiring. “She was depress
ed?”
“Nah, she just needed to get over herself.”
“Any idea why she’d think you might have something to do with Rebecca’s death?”
“Rebecca was a fine woman, and I’m sorry she’s gone. I’m sorry our marriage fell apart. She probably tripped over that goddamn dog, to be honest.”
Everyone kept saying that. Which made me much less likely to believe it.
“But listen,” Metcalf added, “if you want a piece of unsolicited advice, don’t trust somebody like Maggie. She’s the type of girl who says, I don’t like drama.” He made his voice go shrill on the last four words. “But actually she loves it. So if you work for people like that, you aren’t going to have a future in this business.”
* * *
Despite his memes and his Bible pamphlets, the Christian spirit did not appear to be especially strong within Keir Metcalf. After I talked to him, I sat in the car in front of the bookstore and tried to figure out the owner of the phone number Rebecca had last dialed from her house. My searching wasn’t immediately successful, which told me it was a cell phone but little else. I was still sitting there thinking about it when the door of AA Security opened and Metcalf came out, sunglasses on, a phone of his own to his ear.
I rolled down my window to listen.
“—unbelievable. After everything I’ve done for you? Oh, really?”
Then he got into his car, a deep blue Escalade, and I couldn’t hear the rest.
He peeled out of the parking lot and I decided to follow.
* * *
Metcalf stopped for gas, then drove north through rush-hour traffic—surprisingly heavy for a city of this size—and into a municipality called Ottawa Hills, according to Google Maps. We went down a long road lined with new-build subdivisions and Metcalf eventually stopped on a gravel driveway, where a red pickup truck was already parked. I drove past and took the next turn, another driveway about a hundred feet away. “I’m home,” I murmured and got out my binoculars.
Metcalf and another white guy, tall and thin with white hair, were standing in the first driveway, talking. The older guy pointed at something in the distance, drawing a line with an index finger in midair. Metcalf nodded.
I scanned the area through the binoculars, but there wasn’t much to see; the driveway where the trio stood seemed to cut across a mostly empty lot with the skeleton of a large construction project just getting started far back from the road. I could make out a concrete elevator shaft and a huge mound of dirt.
I watched the men for close to an hour. I couldn’t hear anything and as the daylight began to wane, I wondered what I was doing there. I grew increasingly concerned that the owner of the driveway where I was lurking would notice me, especially when my phone rang—the call from a Columbus number I didn’t recognize—through the car’s Bluetooth.
I quickly put my window up and whispered, “This is Roxane.”
“Why are we whispering?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Cat.”
I felt my teeth grind together. I could never get used to calling her that—she was always Catherine to me. But I didn’t know why on earth she was calling me. “What do you want?”
“Ouch.”
“What’s this number?”
“Wystan’s cell.”
I watched the men through the window. More pointing, nodding, and Keir Metcalf wrote some stuff on a clipboard.
“The house sold, finally,” Catherine said. “We’re clearing everything out this week. I have some things that belong to you. So that’s why I’m calling.”
I would’ve liked to tell her to throw it all away, but I knew what I’d left there—my Kindle, a nearly full bottle of Midleton that I’d nicked from my father’s office, my beloved black leather jacket, and several bras. I had actually thought about dropping by the house in Bexley more than once and went so far as to drive past it back in March or April, but the FOR SALE sign freaked me out and I didn’t stop and I didn’t go back.
“Roxane?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Can I come by tonight to drop it off?”
That was a terrible idea. “I’m in Toledo.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d love to see you. Not sure when I’ll be back in Ohio.”
I rubbed the center of my forehead. “See me for what?”
“I just have no fucking idea, Roxane.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“When did that ever stop you from wanting me before?”
“Catherine, I’m not doing this.”
“What about your stuff?”
“Can you put it on my porch?”
She huffed. “Put it on your porch?”
“Like drop it off?”
“Whatever.”
She hung up on me, offended that I hadn’t said yes, come over, I’ll race home from northwestern Ohio so you can fuck with me in person. I shook my head and rolled the window back down.
It was nearly dark by the time the men got into their respective vehicles and drove back the way Metcalf had come.
I followed, hoping to get a license plate number for the red truck. But both vehicles went to the same place, a brick building with a giant mural proclaiming MANCY’S STEAKS CELEBRATING 100 YEARS.
The steakhouse was an old-fashioned joint, all white table linens and orangish lighting and low, arched brick doorways. Keir Metcalf was at a round table with the man from the gravel driveway and another guy, this one a bit younger, mid-forties, stocky build, tan suit. I lingered near the bar and ordered a club soda and eavesdropped for a while. But though the restaurant seemed like the ideal place for a good old boys’ network meeting about nefarious deeds, they seemed to be talking about fences.
I thought I was doing a good job of being a wallflower. Then, about thirty-five minutes into the discussion, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “I thought that was you,” Metcalf said. “What, are you following me?”
I decided to play it straight. “Sure. Either that or I heard this place makes a mean club soda.”
He was back to finding me amusing. “Why don’t you come and sit down? You’ll be able to hear the conversation so much better.”
I wasn’t sure if he thought that would intimidate me into walking away or if he thought that would convince me he had nothing to hide—or if he just wanted to see if I’d do it. But it took more than being casually arrogant in a steakhouse to intimidate me. “Great, I’d love to,” I announced.
Metcalf looked a little surprised, but he held out a hand toward the table.
“Crazy coincidence,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. I remembered what Maggie had said about his personality. “But I just interviewed this young lady for a job today. Say hello, honey.”
“Hello, honey,” I said because I knew they would like it, and they did. “I’m Roxane. Just moved here from Columbus.”
“Scooter,” the guy in the red pickup said. Up close, I saw his hair was spiky with gel like he was a teenager.
“Joel Creedle,” the tan suit said. He resembled a low-rent Russell Crowe—the rounded face, indistinct stubble, thin lips, dark hair almost curling over his forehead.
Scooter said, “What part of the city are you in?”
“Oh, by the mall,” I said vaguely.
Joel said, “The Franklin Park Mall?”
I nodded, feeling Metcalf’s eyes boring holes into me. I hoped this was his personality and not his idea of foreplay.
“Maybe we’re neighbors,” Joel added.
“I have a feeling you live somewhere nicer than me.” I gestured around the steakhouse. “I can’t afford to eat here.”
“Or drink, apparently.” Metcalf pointed at my club soda. “You want something else? On me.”
I went for demure. “I better not.”
Scooter was still giving me a thorough once-over—I wasn’t sure what was taking so long. “There’s no way Lindy’s letting you hire another gal
to work in there.”
“Roxane’s a detective, not a secretary.” Metcalf winked at me. “Or so she says.”
Now the whole group was amused by me. “A woman private dick? Metcalf, you ever hear of such a thing?”
Metcalf nodded. “I’ve met some at conferences and whatnot. Bull dykes, every last one of ’em.”
A chorus of disgusted “hmmm”s went around the table. The consensus on bull dykes was not favorable.
“But you got to be able to work with people of all stripes in this business,” Keir Metcalf added, magnanimously, like this made him the resident liberal of his peer group.
Going for a change of subject, I said, “So you aren’t all PIs, then?”
“Nope,” Scooter said, and tapped his chest. “State trooper.” He pointed at Joel. “Preacher man.”
“Excuse me?”
Joel Creedle smiled indulgently. “I like to think of myself as a shepherd.”
Metcalf said, “Joel’s a pastor. Are you a believer, Roxane?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Ooh, she’s a feisty one.”
“You should have heard Lindy talking to her today. Talk about feisty…”
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