Stuff to Spy For

by Don Bruns

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Have you witnessed a suicide before?”

  “Um, no.”

  Carol Conroy pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Maria Walters doesn’t think it was a suicide, and neither do I.”

  I finished my beer. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re in security.”

  I looked into her brown eyes. “Mrs. Conroy, as you just pointed out, I’m not a policeman. I’m not a detective. I’m just a security salesman.”

  The lady moved her bottle of beer over to my side of the pitted booth. “Have mine.” I looked down and saw someone had carved the word “muerte” in the vinyl. I was pretty sure the word was Spanish for death.

  “What makes you think someone killed Mr. Walters?”

  She took a deep breath. “Ever since Synco Systems took on this new project, there have been strange things going on. I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but the project does involve the United States government. Enough said.”

  I just kept listening.

  “Did Sarah tell you about Tony Quatman?”

  I shook my head. The name didn’t ring a bell.

  “He is the designer of the system. This new computer system that’s supposed to prohibit any hackers from breaking in.”

  “Okay.”

  “A week after Synco signed a contract with the government, Tony resigned. Didn’t give a reason. He just wrote a note and walked out.” She made a flourish with her right hand, brandishing the yellow pencil as if she was writing the note herself.

  “And why is that a problem?”

  “Tony was to get a very nice bonus when the project was completed.”

  I understood. I was to get a very nice bonus when I’d finished playing Sarah’s boyfriend. And thinking about that made me feel kind of sleazy, sitting here talking to Sandler Conroy’s wife while Conroy was probably boinking his prostitute girlfriend. My pretend girlfriend. This whole thing was so sordid.

  “He walked out. No bonus. Now does that make any sense to you? You’re a businessman, Mr. Moore. Would you walk out on a bonus?”

  “Mrs. Conroy—”

  “No one has seen or heard from him since.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “His secretary, Julia Bayford, she didn’t show up the next day, and we’ve heard nothing from her or her husband.”

  “People move. People change plans.”

  “I want you to look into it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a security guy.” She let that hang, as if I should jump at the chance to use my vast experience in selling security systems to help solve a possible murder and disappearance.

  “As I said, I sell security systems. That’s it.”

  “Listen to me. You’re going to have full access to the building. You’re brand new to the company and you can look places that no one else has looked. If you stumble onto something you shouldn’t see, you just tell them that you were doing security work.”

  I nearly swallowed the entire second beer.

  “Mr. Moore, I believe Ralph was murdered. I believe that someone either forced Tony Quatman out, or they killed him. I believe Julia Bayford—”

  “I can’t do this. I wouldn’t have a clue what to look for. I have no idea why these people are disappearing, and to be honest, Mrs. Conroy, I don’t care. I just want to do my job, get paid, and leave. Look, I really need this job. I can’t take a chance of screwing this up.”

  She shook her head, pulling her hair back from her face. In the dark bar I saw the dark side of the pretty lady. Her lipstick was a little more red than I’d first noticed. Her eyes a little dark with the makeup. Maybe a little too much blush on her cheekbones. “Mr. Moore, if I’m right, and Ralph Walters was murdered, if Tony Quatman was murdered, I believe someone else is going to be killed as well. Believe me when I say I’d like to prevent that at all costs.”

  “Who would—” The bartender stood by the table. He took us both by surprise, and I wondered what he thought if he’d heard the conversation.

  “Another beer?” I shook my head no. Three in mid-afternoon was pushing it a little bit. I had to drive back to Carol City.

  “What do you propose?”

  “I propose that you do security work for me. I’ll give you ideas of what to look for and you basically become my spy.”

  “Mrs. Conroy, I could lose my job.”

  “You work for me. My father owns the company. My husband is the president.” These rich bitches.

  “I work for you?”

  “And I pay you on top of your salary, your bonus—” If she only knew.

  “And how much am I being paid, Mrs. Conroy?”

  “Ten thousand dollars, Mr. Moore.”

  My mouth must have dropped wide open.

  “And, another five thousand if you find any solid information.”

  This was crazy. I wanted to call Em and James and tell them the news. It was official. I was going to be rich.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  “You’re going to tell me what to look for?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to give me an idea of where to look?”

  “I am.”

  “Mrs. Conroy, are you sure I’m the right person for this job?”

  “You’re the logical person for this job.”

  “Because?”

  “You’re in the right place at the right time.”

  Working a deal with Sandler Conroy’s mistress; working a deal with Sandler Conroy’s wife. I needed the money. There’s no other logical explanation why I would have put myself in such a screwed-up position. It was greed, pure and simple. There is no other answer.

  “Then we’ve got a deal.” I reached across the booth to shake her hand, but she’d laid the pencil on the table and put both hands in her lap. The lady was very cold. Sarah’s comment about “bitch” came to mind.

  She slid from the booth, stood up, and dropped a twenty on the vinyl top. “I want you to start immediately. As I said, it’s a matter of life and death.” She walked to the doorway, never even looking to see if I was keeping pace. “I’m very worried about my safety. And, I’m worried about my father’s company.”

  I grabbed the pencil and shoved it in my pocket, walking quickly to catch up. “You have a right to that. Are you close to your father?” It was none of my business, but I thought I’d ask.

  Carol Conroy paused, studying my question. Finally she turned around. “Not especially. But that’s not the issue is it?”

  “So you’re close to your father’s company.”

  The lady smirked. “Mr. Moore, I’m hiring you to do a job. I’m not interested in your philosophy.”

  When we walked outside, she squinted in the late afternoon sun.

  “Mrs. Conroy, let me walk you to your car.” I followed her eyes, up the street from where I’d parked.

  “What is he doing?” Carol Conroy shouted, pointing up the street, and I looked. An Asian man with a ball cap pulled low knelt by a Lexus half a block from us.

  “I don’t know. It appears he’s—”

  “That’s my car.” Her sharp tone was almost accusing. “Stop him.” She spun around, and her eyes burned into mine.

  I took off running, assuming I’d figure out what to do when I reached the man. My first assignment and I’d just started the job seconds ago.

  He saw me or heard me and leaped to his feet as a gray Honda Civic in the next block burned rubber, beating me to the man and stopping right in front of the Lexus. The short Asian guy stepped into the street, yanked the passenger door open, and jumped into the Honda as the driver pulled back into the street, the door swinging wildly. For a moment I thought he might fall out, but he managed to grab the handle and pull the door shut. I stopped by her car, breathing hard, watching the other car disappear. Half a block and my chest and lungs were on fire. I was beat. What kind of condition was I in? Too many beers, pizzas, burgers
, and no exercise. I had to do something about this. Especially if I was going to be in this type of business. I already knew Mrs. C. was going to be pissed.

  She was walking in measured strides, shaking her head. When she got to the Lexus she gave me an annoyed look. “Too bad you didn’t move a little faster.”

  “Excuse me?” I was still trying to catch my breath and I could feel my heart racing. I could have had a heart attack, and she was telling me I was too slow?

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Not a good look. His ball cap was pulled down in front. But I might recognize him if I saw him again.”

  She pursed her lips, staring in the direction of the departed Honda. “I didn’t get close enough to see. Mr. Moore, I told you this might be a matter of life and death.”

  It was a matter of $15,000. I had to tell myself it was all about the money. “I assume you’re worried about your husband? With Ralph Walters being killed, Mr. Conroy is possibly a target?”

  “Sandler?” She laughed, a harsh, nasty, sarcastic type of laugh. “Please, Mr. Moore. I could give a rat’s ass about my husband.” Pretty harsh words from such a petite young woman.

  “Then who do you think might be the next victim?”

  She looked down the street again, biting her bottom lip. “Me, Mr. Moore. I believe I’m next in line to be killed.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I parked my dirty tan 2000 Chevy Cavalier in the parking lot outside Sarah’s condo building. When I’d left Carol Conroy at the Red Derby I’d made sure she saw me get into the little car, so if she did drive by Sarah’s condo, checking on her husband, she’d notice my crappy little piece of junk. I thought about going up and telling Sarah that I was fulfilling my obligation, but I wasn’t sure what I’d find. Maybe Sandler Conroy himself. The deal was to park the car overnight, and that’s what I did.

  James had followed me to the complex. I got in the truck and he sat there, staring at the building.

  “Opera.”

  “What?”

  “Name of the building. High-end condo for Sarah the hooker. She must have made some serious jack hooking.”

  “James, every time I see her I think about that. But she got me the job. That’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah. And she’s also put you in a position.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  “Seems to me, amigo, that you should get hazard pay.”

  I didn’t say anything for a while. Hazard pay. I was getting it. James didn’t know I was getting it.

  Finally, James pulled out of the lot. “We’re not getting any younger, Skip. If we’re going to make a mark, it’s about time we do that.”

  “James—”

  “And we’re never going to make our mark working for someone else.”

  “James.” It was his obsession. Make a million by the time we were thirty. Or before.

  He reached down beside the driver’s seat into a small bucket on the floor and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one in his mouth, he lit it with a match, bending the match with one hand and one finger, striking it with his thumb. “Tell me I’m wrong, Skip.”

  “About the hazard pay.”

  “Hazard pay?”

  “You mentioned hazard pay.”

  James took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift from his mouth out the window into the warm Miami evening. “I don’t mean to be the materialistic weasel of this group, but do you think we’ll get hazard pay out of this?” He turned to me and smiled.

  It took me a moment. “Armageddon?”

  “Ah, the man knows his movies.”

  “Good quote.”

  “Good movie.” He slouched back in his seat and stepped on the gas. The truck moved a little faster. Not much.

  “James, she offered me hazard pay.”

  “Oh?” He looked at me with a frown on his face.

  “Yeah. I’m being paid for the job.”

  “Gigolo.”

  “Ten grand.”

  He was silent for a moment. “A well-paid gigolo. Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “And I get the feeling there may be more to this.”

  “Hey, ten grand, James. That’s damned good hazard pay.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me.”

  I could tell his feelings were hurt. “Listen. I’m getting paid. And there is more to this.”

  He was holding the cigarette with one hand, steering and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with his other. “So spill.”

  “I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”

  “We’re reversing roles here?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I tend to be the one who goes out on a limb. Our relationship—” he took another mouth full of smoke, “it depends on me being the adventurous one. You are the voice of reason, amigo.”

  “Usually.”

  “So we’re reversing roles.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. A Cadillac Escalade entered the highway, and James slowed down to let it ease into traffic. Before he died, James’s father dreamed of driving a Cadillac, and James always showed a lot of respect for any of their vehicles. He swore he’d own a Cadillac or two or three before he was thirty.

  “What sparked this moment of adventure?”

  I had the answer ready for him. “Greed.”

  My partner was quiet for a minute, maybe two. He never took his eyes off the road as we hit highway 95 and cruised along, past the concrete and stucco buildings, the myriad entrances and exits, the cement walls that rose on the side of the highway, sheltering the residential communities from the noise of traffic.

  Finally I had to speak. “I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry. I mean, we’re not married, man. And even married couples don’t share everything.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “All right. Here’s the rest of the story.”

  James glanced at me, his eyes wide and bright. My buddy from fourth grade. My best friend. Ready for another quest. I needed him. Right now. “I had a meeting with Carol Conroy this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “Sandler Conroy’s wife.”

  “Oh, man, you didn’t tell her about—”

  “Never came up.”

  “Then pray tell, what was this meeting about?”

  “She wants to hire me.”

  “Skip, you’re already hired. You’ve got two jobs at Synco Systems. Setting up the security system and pretending to be Sarah’s boyfriend. I mean, what the hell else is there?”

  “I accepted a third position.”

  “Pard! What are you doing?”

  And I told him. I told him how Carol Conroy thought that Walters’s death may not have been suicide. I told him about Tony Quatman and his secretary. I told him that she didn’t feel close to her father, and she didn’t seem to care about her husband. Actually said that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about Sandler Conroy. And finally I told him that Mrs. Conroy thought she might be in line to be murdered.

  We swung off the highway by the Miami Dolphin stadium and headed to our apartment complex.

  “You still haven’t told me how much.”

  “After all that, and you want to know how much? Aren’t you worried about a woman who thinks she’s going to be murdered?”

  James tossed his cigarette out the window, the sparks scattering brightly in the air. “Maybe I should be more worried that she trusts you to prevent the murder. I’m not sure I’d even trust you when it comes to that.”

  “I told you. I may have gone too far.”

  “How much?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Have you noticed that I have no idea what I’m looking for? She didn’t give me a clue what I should expect.”

  He was quiet again.

  “Okay. She didn’t give me a clue as to what we should expect.”

  James gave me a wry
smile. “Whatever the lady wants us to look for, that’s what we’ll look for. It sounds like she’s going to make it up as she goes.”

  “I had my first assignment today.”

  “You’re just gung-ho about making all this money, compadre. I’m proud of you.”

  “James, someone was messing around with her Lexus.”

  “Lexus?” His eyes were bright. The fact that someone was messing around wasn’t important. The fact that the lady owned an expensive luxury car—well—

  “Lexus. It looked like maybe he was doing something to the tires.”

  “And?”

  “I tried to chase him down, but somebody picked him up in a Honda Civic.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Short, Asian, maybe in his thirties, but I didn’t get that close.”

  “Skip?”

  “What?”

  “How much?”

  “James, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Something else I didn’t mention.”

  My partner shook his head. “How much have you kept from me, amigo? If you don’t want me involved, just say so.”

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

  “So spill.”

  “Sarah said this involved a contract with the federal government.”

  “This guy who invented the security system for the computers. Tony Quatman. He invented this for the government?”

  “Department of Defense.”

  “Heavy stuff.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were both quiet as James drove. This was way over our heads. Way.

  “And he’s disappeared?”

  “Gone. No trace.”

  “His secretary?”

  “Gone.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “That’s it? Mmmm?”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, James.”

  “How much?”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out Carol Conroy’s yellow pencil, and wrote the figure on a discarded candy wrapper between our seats. I turned the figure toward James. The dashboard lights were bright enough for him to see the numbers.

  “Ten thousand dollars? Dude.”

  “If we do the job. And she’s throwing in another five thousand if we get any hard information.”

  “Fifteen grand?”