by Mark Henwick
“Agreed.” I nodded and took a sip of my coffee. “You have my word.”
“Good.” The eyes warmed up a touch. She sat forward. I know all the body language pop psychology, but that doesn’t mean I don’t go along. I sat forward too, and she began to talk quietly and intensely.
“I believe my company is under attack. I don’t mean in the normal commercial sense, but a systematic, criminal attack intended to disrupt my business to the point it collapses or my only viable choice is to sell. But I can’t prove it.”
She paused to see if I had any comment, but I just sat and waited for her to continue.
“This is the worst possible time for this to happen. You may know, my new division, Kingslund Media, has been formed from the purchase of an existing PR business, Frankell-Maines?”
I nodded; that much I knew from the papers.
She continued. “The funding came through the banks, and it’s taking a lot of effort to keep it going and repay the loans while it gets in a position to maintain itself. In the meantime, my capital reserve is earmarked for a takeover bid that I’m preparing. Any damage to either operation could put the whole company in jeopardy. Just a rumor of a financial problem could start the dominos falling in this environment. I can’t walk into Bell and Hewitt and get a bunch of their agents rooting through my business because everyone would know there’s something up. Even worse, there might be a leak about the funding or the takeover.”
I nodded. I could see the problem. Bell and Hewitt were the big downtown investigation firm, but I always got the feeling that companies used them for show rather than results. Meow.
“Okay,” I said. “I see why you might need a less well-known investigator, and one with some financial expertise. Is that why you were advised to come see me?”
“No.” There was still a wariness in her eyes when I mentioned the recommendation. It made me very interested in where this story was leading. She continued, “I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I need to say that the level of attacks has been escalating. In the beginning it was just minor financial irregularities. If I’m right, it’s now completely out of hand. I’m worried that a key employee may have been abducted. I’m sure that some staff who’ve just left, have done so because they’ve been threatened. I need this stopped now.”
“Jen, I understand the secrecy issues, but if I’m working on your case and I discover a felony, such as abduction, we will need to talk to the police.” I had to draw that line for her. I needed the business, but not at the expense of giving Morales an excuse to come after me.
She looked a bit unhappy about it, but nodded. My respect for her went up a notch. Faced with compromising her business operation or helping an employee, she’d gone for the employee.
“Also, I’m not the police.” I tapped the table to make my point. “I can discover things for you, and maybe with that knowledge you can prevent anything further from happening. But if someone needs ‘stopping’, then it’s back to the police again. They have the big guys in uniforms with all the guns and helmets and flak jackets.”
She nodded again.
She seemed reluctant to go on with her brief, so I prodded her. “We can go into more detail on those things, and if we proceed, I’ll draw up a set of tasks against them, but I need to hear the rest first.”
Her mouth became set, as if she were unsure how I would react. Her weight shifted backwards. She really wasn’t happy about this part.
“I have a great piece of land outside of town, out on US 285. It’s called Silver Hills. I have planning permission for a resort and golf course, but I’m not building yet. It’s supposed to be getting a bit of preparatory landscaping work. I’ve had a couple of work crews...” she stumbled a bit, broke off eye contact and then finished, “well, scared off.”
I raised my eyebrows questioningly. “Scared off? How? Guys with guns or telephone threats of some kind?”
It took a while for her to respond. “No, something completely different. Wolves, pawprints all over the site, things going missing. The site getting torn up overnight. Damage to equipment.”
I blew out a breath. “Well, I can’t believe we’ve got wolves in this part of the Rockies, not this close to Denver. Wild animals, okay, maybe a bear. More likely a bunch of bored teens walking their dogs and stealing stuff. Can I be clear—I got specially recommended because something or someone like this scared your work crews?” I sat all the way back, folded my arms and just watched her. There was obviously something about this she wasn’t telling me.
“Yes,” she said. “I spoke to a friend about this, one with some experience in these kinds of things, and the recommendation came back that, if it involved something ‘weird’, then you’re the person.”
This didn’t sound good to me. I wanted to keep the number of people who know anything about me and weird things to an absolute minimum. In my experience, weird is dangerous. I already spent enough time looking over my shoulder. But at the same time, I was intrigued and, of course, I had to think about my bank balance.
“Any weird stuff that might have happened to me doesn’t make me an expert,” I said cautiously.
“Do you know someone who is?” Her eyes were locked back on me and the ice queen was showing through again.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Is that ‘no’ you don’t know anyone better suited, or ‘no’ you won’t take the case?”
I needed the business. I held up a placating hand. “How about this—I’ll split the case into three and do some checking on each. The three are staff, financial and your resort at Silver Hills. I’ll report to you if I discover anything significant, or at the end of the day, regardless. If I can’t find anything on any one of the cases, I’ll say so and you’ll be able to get someone else in for that part if you want. If I do find proof of a felony, we go to the police. In between, we just proceed as seems fit.”
“Done,” she said quickly. There was a note of relief in her voice. I hadn’t done anything yet, but it was something I’d seen before, as if just talking to someone else had shifted part of the burden.
“Can I see the contract, please?” she asked.
I passed the standard duplicate forms across and sipped my cooling coffee as she bent her head over them. She noted some stuff on her smartphone as she went. She also made some changes, initialing them before moving on. I huffed quietly. I’d have to take a look at those and I hated reading legal forms.
There was a bit of turnover in Papa Dee’s clientele. A couple walked out, kissed and went to separate cars. A guy whose face made me think of an angry rabbit came over and sat one table away from us. Now, there’s a convention that most people stick to in half-empty coffee shops. You try to space yourself out, you don’t take a table right next to someone else. He flicked up his laptop screen and dived in. A nerd. Low level of social skills. Probably only came in for the free internet. I sighed. Nothing that set my alarms off, but we’d have to talk quietly if there was more to say.
The waiter wandered over with a coffee refill for us. He had a bit of a swagger and strong, square hands. I imagined those hands gently massaging my back and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. A quick peek confirmed he had thick, dark hair that I could almost feel my fingers running though. And a nice smile. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. Not going to happen. Not allowed. Rules.
Back in the real world, Jennifer had signed the contracts and pushed them back at me. I hoped she hadn’t spotted me eyeing the waiter. Or my reaction afterwards.
I checked her amendments. They were perfectly fair. She had emphasized the confidentiality aspects, corrected a typo that I’d kept meaning to correct, and added nothing that made me unhappy. I matched her initials, signed both copies and passed one back to her.
She fiddled with her smartphone and looked up.
“Good. Thank you. I’ve transferred five thousand into your bank account to cover preliminary costs. Bank details as in the agreement.” She made a wry face. “Or at
least, the money is wherever it goes to when it’s left my account and isn’t yet in yours.”
I kept my face impassive and managed not to punch the air. Five thousand would take care of the bills due next week and then some.
“Thanks,” I said blandly. “My reports will detail costs.”
We exchanged cell numbers and email addresses, and she handed a USB drive across to me. “This contains files of my internal accounts with my analysis, a list of employees who’ve left recently, with contact details, and the missing man I’m especially worried about, Troy Huber. And security footage from Silver Hills.”
She bit her lip and looked down at the table. “Amber, I know I sound evasive about the problem at the resort. Please, just have a look at the clip before you make your mind up. You’ll understand.”
As I slipped the drive into my pocket, she also handed me a photo and a set of keys. “That’s Troy and these are for his apartment down in LoDo. The address is on the label.”
I took them silently, glancing at the picture. I wondered how she came to have a set of keys for Troy’s apartment.
“What’s his job?” I asked.
“He’s the head chef at the Golden Harvest restaurant. He didn’t show up for work over the weekend. The police won’t do anything yet. All that information is on the drive.”
I nodded. The Golden Harvest was her signature restaurant and the priciest place in town. Certainly not somewhere I could afford to eat, but I had heard the chef was something special. People would notice his absence.
“Married? Partner? Local family?” She just shook her head.
“Okay. I’ll start with his apartment and I’ll call you.”
She nodded her thanks and made a call to her driver to pick her up, before turning back to me.
“May I ask a personal question, Amber?”
I shrugged. “Of course.”
“Those are really beautiful boots. They’re handmade, aren’t they?”
I pulled my jeans up to the tops of the boots and stretched my legs out beside the table to show her, obscurely pleased she’d noticed. “Yup. Made by a friend of mine.”
“They’re so soft!” She felt the supple leather. “Does he do it as a business?”
“Sure. Here, I’ll give you his contact info.” I fiddled with my cell and sent Werner’s details to her.
“Werner Schumacher?” she asked. “Mr. Schumacher is the shoe maker?”
“Indeed he is.” I laughed. “Your car’s here.” I pointed at the black limo and the driver shouldering his way through the doors.
She got up and took my hand, squeezing it.
“Thank you, Amber. Please call as soon as you can.” She started towards the door and stopped as if something had just occurred to her. She turned back and waved at my boots. “Do you ride?”
I shook my head with a little smile. “Not unless you count a couple of hours when I was fourteen.”
“Oh. Never mind. Maybe we can do some, after we straighten this business out. I have horses. Bye.” And with that she was out the door.
I loved the cheerful assumption that all would go well.
I sat there, watching a car that had gone around the block a couple of times do it again, and wondered why I hadn’t picked up my gun when I walked out of the office.
In between, I wondered what the hell I was getting into, let alone what I was already in. And what were the prospects for a private investigator in, say, Alaska?
Chapter 4
The fourth time the car came around, I walked out in front of it, making the driver hit the brakes.
“Hey, lady!” He stuck his head out the window. “You wanna watch where you’re going.”
He got points for the lady tag, even if he was shouting at me. I had walked in front of him.
“Sorry, just not used to cars driving around here this time of day.” I wandered over to his window, standing just behind his shoulder, where it would be difficult for him to turn and fire a gun accurately. I bent down stiffly and checked out the interior of the car. There was nothing suspicious I could see, but that didn’t mean anything. “You looking for someplace?” I kept my voice casual and friendly.
“Yeah, I am, matter of fact.” He pushed his bottle bottom glasses back up his nose and peered at me through them. “You know where Tiley’s Architects are?”
I had to smile. Paranoia might keep me alive another day, but I didn’t think this guy had my number. “Sure. See the turn there, looks like it goes into the parking lot?” He nodded. “Follow it around the far side of the building. It branches off to the left and Tiley’s is the building at the end.”
“Ah, thanks! I’ve been looking for ages.” He pushed his glasses futilely back up his sweaty nose. “Sorry if I gave you a scare with the car. You did kind of surprise me.”
He drove off with a wave to where I had pointed. I watched him follow my instructions. It’s as if men are welded to the car seat. Why can’t they just get out and ask someone?
I made it back to the office without being attacked by any more nearsighted drivers.
Tullah had gone off to her classes at college. That was part of the deal we had cut, that she would only be here when she could. Sometimes her mother came in for her. She was an impressive woman, Mary Autplumes. A full blood Arapaho, she was married to my Kung Fu teacher, Master Liu Leung, hence the train crash of last names that left Tullah calling herself Autplumes-Leung.
Between Mary and Liu, I wasn’t sure which one of them scared me most, but their daughter was a joy.
Except for her last name, the mixture had worked well for Tullah. She had a fresh-faced look with exotic, half-Chinese eyes and long dark hair. She was always cheerful. She was good for me and the office. I didn’t look forward to her graduating and getting a real job.
Right on cue as I sat down, the cell bleeped at me. I peered at the caller ID and flipped it open.
“Colonel,” I said.
“Sergeant.” We weren’t big on formalities or small talk. “Tomorrow afternoon, fourteen hundred, your office?”
“Okay,” I said and the line went dead.
I logged in and marked it on the calendar, more for Tullah than me. I didn’t forget meetings with Colonel Laine.
At that point, I finally got the opportunity to sit back and feel pissed off.
It wasn’t that I had a problem with Jennifer Kingslund herself. I liked her as a person. Her story was a bit vague and she wasn’t telling me everything, but I’m used to that. No, the first thing that was getting to me about taking this job was that I couldn’t afford to turn it down. I hated being in that position.
Then there was the ‘weird’ stuff. There are whole days when I forget and act as if I’m a normal person. But I’m not, and there are things out there that aren’t either.
Weird stuff had gotten close to killing me. The fewer people who could link me to weird stuff, the safer I would be. I should have run a mile. Instead, I was dying to get into the case. It would stop me from going out and doing safe, well-paid surveillance on some cheating spouse. Adrenaline is addictive.
The weird stuff started a couple of years ago. I was doing a job I loved in the army, in special operations, a covert battalion called Ops 4-10. I had a clear role and well-understood objectives in a unit I respected. I had colleagues to watch my back, friends and more. And it had all changed in one blinding, terrifying night in the South American jungle.
My hand unconsciously touched my throat. There was nothing to see now, not even scars, but still, a phantom sensation tingled the ends of my fingers, as if I could feel the wounds. According to the medic in the relief squad, half my throat had been torn out. I’d healed in five days. There were some benefits to what had happened. Among the not-benefits was waking up in an isolation cell.
I got the mirror from the desk drawer and looked at myself, touching my face, as if I expected it to feel different today. I checked my canines. Normal. No sign of the ticking time bomb in my blood.
My desk was clear except for my photos. They were there to give me inspiration when I needed it.
“Guys, I need it now,” I whispered.
I picked up the picture of my Dad, Blane Farrell. He’s standing in Wash Park, midway through explaining the way the latest toy works. It’s some water powered rocket whose sole purpose seems to be to get everyone wet. His hair, always unruly, is having a bad day and sticks out at all angles, but on him it looks good. His handsome face is serious, because, well, toys are serious things. His shirt is caught in the breeze, flapping open with half of the collar up, half down, and the tail pulling out of his shorts. On his feet he’s wearing his favorite sandals, scuffed and scratched. A gawky girl stands next to him, grinning. She’s all knees and elbows, sticking out of her tomboy clothes, freckles on her too-big nose. She’s turned her face up to look at him, and it’s as if the first springtime sun is shining on her after a cold winter.
Dad died when I was fifteen.
I swapped his picture for the one of Top, aka Master Sergeant Gabriel Luther Wells, standing at attention with the ease of a man who has lived a long time in the army and has nothing to prove and no one to fear. He’s huge, completely dwarfing the gawky girl beside him, even though she’s grown some. She’s standing at attention too, but she’s stiff as a board, those knees and elbows tucked away in her uniform. She’s scared those new sergeant stripes are going to fall off her arms, but through all that, you can see the joy shining in her eyes.
It was my proudest day.
The third I didn’t pick up. It wasn’t actually a photo. It was a slim rectangle of jet black granite the size of a desktop photo, polished to a sheen, with gold letters in the bottom right hand corner saying simply, Tara Farrell. This one was for reflection rather than inspiration.
If Dad and Top had something to say to me, I knew it would be: ‘If you’ve got a job to do, girl, get out and do it’. I sighed. Who needs inspiration when you can have a kick in the butt? I needed to stop wallowing in self-pity, get out and do my job. And take even more care than usual.