Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Mr. Delta will see you,” she said. “Just go in.”

  “Thank you, Miss Connor.”

  “Sarah,” she said.

  “Thanks, Sarah.”

  I picked the postcard up off her desk and went into the office. I wondered if I should have said to her, “I’ll be bok!”

  Okay, so I did see The Terminator.

  14

  Mr. Delta was behind a functional-looking metal desk and stood as I entered. He was in his late thirties, with dark hair that was thinning and combed to cover the fact, and a thick, black mustache. He was tall, over six feet, and looked fit. He probably looked great in a bathing suit. Right now he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that was open almost to the waist. Even if it wasn’t, though, I would have guessed that he had a lot of chest hair. He displayed it, probably hoping no one would notice he was going thin on top. I wondered idly if he’d started in the business by posing for cards.

  I disliked him on sight, and he didn’t disappoint me.

  “I’m Rick Delta. Sarah seems to think I can help you with something,” he said. “Maybe you can tell me why I should?”

  “Have you heard about the amazing properties of Rogaine?” I asked.

  “What?” he said. He obviously had never heard of the Hair Club for Men.

  I’ll never understand why men think they can part their hair right over their left or right ear and then just comb it over to the other side. I’d rather shave my head. Luckily, I didn’t have that problem . . . yet.

  “My name is Jacoby,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from New York, and I’m looking for this girl. I understand she might be one of your models.”

  I held the photo out, but he didn’t take it.

  “We don’t have models, Mr. Jacoby,” he said, mispronouncing my name. He said “Juh-co-bee” and it’s “Jack-a-bee.” Of course, he’d already heard me pronounce it, so there was no point in correcting him.

  I wanted to ask him if Delta was his real name but decided against it. It was already evident that we weren’t going to be good friends. Besides, whose name is really Rick Delta?

  “We produce the cards, but we don’t take the photos,” he said.

  “Well, would this be one of the girls on your cards?” I asked, holding the photo out to him. He still didn’t bother taking it.

  “I really couldn’t say, Mr. Jacoby,” he said. “I see so many girls on so many cards that I scarcely notice them anymore. Now, unless you want to place an order for a gross or so of cards, I can’t help you.”

  “What about Ray Cortez?”

  He narrowed his eyes and asked, “What about him?”

  “He took the photo on this card.”

  “He takes a lot of photos.”

  “Well, maybe you can put me in touch with him, and maybe he can identify the girl for me.”

  “I start giving out phone numbers of my photographers and I’ll start to lose them.”

  I didn’t know if he meant that they’d quit him or someone would hire them away, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to get much out of him. I took out a business card and wrote the name and phone number of the hotel I was at on the back I didn’t bother handing it to him. Instead, I just set it down on his desk

  “Maybe you can give him my number, and he can call me,” I said.

  “Who hired you, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “I start naming my clients,” I said with a smile, “and I might start to lose them. Thanks for your help, Mr. Delta.”

  I turned and went back out into the reception area.

  “Your boss isn’t very friendly,” I said to Sarah Connor

  “That’s because you’re not a woman,” she said. “He’s very friendly to women.”

  “Like you?”

  She blushed and said, “No, not me. I’m just a secretary. He prefers the girls on the postcards.”

  Delta struck me as the kind of guy who would use that as a line in a bar. “Want to be on a postcard?”

  “He told me he barely notices the girls on the cards,” I said.

  “Oooh, what a liar.”

  “Sarah,” I said, “do you go to lunch?”

  She placed her chin on her palms and peered up at me.

  “Every day.”

  “Would you go today, with me?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Maybe she wasn’t as flighty as she appeared.

  “Because I’d like to ask you some more questions,” I said, “but not here.”

  “Just business, huh?”

  “No,” I said, “not just business—but I won’t lie to you. I am working, you know.”

  “I know,” she said. “All right, Mr. Jacoby, I’ll go to lunch with you. Pick me up at twelve-thirty.”

  The clock on the wall behind her told me I’d have to kill just about an hour between now and then, and I thought I knew how I could do it.

  “When does your boss go to lunch?”

  “Just about now.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll be back for you at twelve-thirty.”

  “This is going to cost you,” she said.

  “It’ll be worth it,” I said. “See you soon.”

  I went outside and was pleased to find my rented Caddy still where I had left it. I got in, started it up, and turned on the air conditioner and the radio. Pam Tillis had barely finished “Draggin’ My Chains” when I saw Rick Delta coming down the steps.

  15

  The Caddy wasn’t the ideal car to use for a tail job, but if the guy you were tailing wasn’t expecting it, you could have ridden an elephant and he wouldn’t have seen you. Delta didn’t take me very far. There was a restaurant right on 436, a block away from I-4, and he pulled into the parking lot. There was a Denny’s directly across the street, so I pulled into their parking lot. I didn’t even have to get out of the car to watch him.

  He didn’t go in right away, though. He stood outside for about fifteen minutes, waiting impatiently. A few other cars pulled into the already crowded parking lot, but he ignored them. He knew who he was waiting for and what kind of car he drove. Finally, a red Mustang convertible pulled into the lot, driven by a man. When he parked and got out, I saw Delta start toward him. The other man was in his late twenties or so, as tall as Delta but built along more slender lines. He had very black hair, and was either dark-skinned or tan. I caught one clear look at his face and he could have been Hispanic. Ray Cortez?

  The two men conversed very briefly, then walked to the front of the restaurant and entered.

  I got out, squeezed between the hedges that enclosed the Denny’s parking lot, and walked across the street.

  I’ve seen a lot of movies where the detective walks to a suspect’s car, turns down the visor on the driver’s side, and finds the registration right there. I didn’t hold out much hope, but I tried it anyway. A few lottery tickets fell to the floor, but there was no reggie. I replaced the tickets and turned the visor back up. I checked the one on the passenger side, but there was nothing there either. I went through the glove compartment quickly, and although I didn’t find a reggie, I did find an insurance card. I was disappointed, though, when the name on the card turned out to be Virginia Mendez. The street address was someplace called Mandarin Estates, and the mailing address was Longwood, Florida, which meant it was local. Since I didn’t know the area, the address didn’t help me at all.

  I turned and walked away from the car before somebody got curious.

  I thought about going inside the restaurant, but Delta had already seen me once. Still, it was only twelve, and I still had a half an hour to kill. I decided to chance it.

  I went into the restaurant and found that from just inside the door I couldn’t see any of the dining area. That was okay, because they couldn’t see me either.

  The ceiling was lined with thick beams, and there were tons of flowerpots hanging everywhere.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned and saw a man staring at me expectantly. He was white-h
aired, with a pink complexion, and he was wearing a dark suit with a bow tie.

  “Are you here for lunch?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess that depends on your menu.”

  “We have an extensive menu, sir. If you’d like to see one?”

  “Sure,” I said, “let me see one.”

  He executed a small bow, took a menu from a nearby stack, and handed it to me.

  I made a show of studying the menu and then asked, “Mind if I take a look inside?”

  He gave me a stiff smile and said, “Not at all, sir.”

  I inched forward until I could look into the dining area. There were several. To my right was an elevated area, and to the left, a deeper one. I saw Delta and his lunch partner sitting to the left, high up and against the wall. They were both leaning forward, and they were taking turns talking. There were a couple of drinks on the table in front of them.

  “Sir?” the maître d’ said behind me.

  I turned and smiled at him, handing him the menu.

  “I’ll have to check with the wife,” I said.

  “Very well.”

  “The kids’ll love this place,” I said, “but the wife’s the boss, you know?”

  “Of course, sir. I hope to see you again.”

  Liar.

  I went outside, crossed the street, and got back into my Caddy. Tailing Rick Delta had killed time, but it didn’t tell me much. I hoped to find out more from my lunch with Sarah Connor.

  16

  I went back to the parking lot, got into my car, and drove back to the office of Sunny Coast Cards. I got out and was about to go up the steps to the office when I saw Sarah Connor coming down. She spotted me and waved.

  “You’re right on time,” she said.

  “Is that good?” I asked. “Or should I have been fashionably late?”

  “No, it’s good,” she said. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “I’m from New York,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Do you like Chinese? There’s a place just a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Chinese is fine,” I said. I wondered what Chinese food tasted like in Florida. Would it be the same as in New York? Somehow I doubted it.

  We pulled out of the parking lot and she directed me back the way I had come. We went the equivalent of two blocks— I’d discovered that there were very few real blocks in Florida—and then I had to cross over to the other side, into the parking lot of a place called the Chinese Palace. I was glad she hadn’t wanted to go to the same restaurant her boss had gone to. It wouldn’t have done for Delta to see us together.

  We went inside and were shown to a booth by an attractive Chinese girl in her late teens.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “Just some tea,” Sarah said.

  “Beer,” I said.

  “Chinese beer?” the waitress asked.

  “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Well,” Sarah said, crossing her arms on the table, “what questions do you want to ask me?”

  “Your boss didn’t want to answer any questions,” I said. “I should tell you that up front. He probably wouldn’t like it if he knew you were talking to me.”

  She shrugged and said, “He’s an asshole, anyway. The worst he can do is fire me.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Sure I’d mind,” she said. “But I’d find another job. Go ahead, ask away.”

  I took out the photo of Sandy Meyer again and put it on the table in front of me.

  “You showed this to me before,” she said, moving it to her side of the table.

  “She looked familiar before,” I said. “Do you ever remember seeing her with your boss?”

  She frowned, leaving the photo on the table.

  “She still looks familiar,” she said, “but I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen her or just her picture. You know, on a postcard, or a calendar, or something.”

  “And no name comes to mind?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  The waitress came with my beer and a pot of hot tea.

  “You ready to order?” she asked. Her English was only slightly accented.

  “I know what I want,” Sarah said to me.

  “Order for both of us,” I said.

  She ordered wonton soup, chicken with broccoli, young chow fried rice, and a couple of spring rolls.

  “Sound all right?” she said to me.

  “Fine.”

  “Right away,” the waitress said.

  “She’s cute,” Sarah said. “We don’t handle very much material with Orientals.”

  I pulled Sandy Meyer’s photo back over to my side of the table, but left it there where Sarah could see it. Maybe some bells would ring before we finished with lunch.

  I poured some of the hot tea into one of those tiny cups they give you in Chinese restaurants, then poured my beer into a glass. Chinese beer is meant to be consumed with food, not alone, so I left the glass alone, waiting for the food to arrive.

  “Sarah, what do you know about Ray Cortez?” I asked.

  “He’s a photographer.”

  “Is that it?”

  “He’s a good-looking photographer,” she said. “He takes pictures only of gorgeous women.”

  I described the man I had seen with Delta earlier and asked if that was Cortez.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Ray’s not real tall, maybe five ten, and he’s well built, not thin.”

  “Does he live here in Longwood? Or Orlando?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you’ve seen him in the office?”

  “With Mr. Delta a few times, yes,” she said.

  “But not often?”

  “Not too often.”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “And how many times have you seen Cortez?”

  “Five, maybe six times.”

  “Like once every two months?”

  “I suppose. Has Ray done something against the law? Is that why you’re after him?”

  “I’m not after him,” I said, “and he hasn’t done anything wrong that I know of. I’m looking for this woman, and if he’s ever used her as a model he might be able to help me find her.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “If you find him, you’ll find her.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And Mr. Delta wouldn’t give you Ray’s address?”

  “No,” I said, “or his phone number.”

  “And you want me to look it up and give it to you?” she asked.

  “Well . . .” I said. I was wondering how I was going to approach that question. “It would certainly help me out.”

  “And all I get in return is this lunch?” she asked, staring at me over her tiny teacup.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What else would you want?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “A day out?”

  “Sarah, I’m staying in Tampa.”

  “So?” she said. “A day out at Busch Gardens? And dinner?”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” she said, then added, “for now.”

  “Payable before I go back to New York?”

  She nodded and said, “Sure.”

  “Done,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Done,” she said, shaking it.

  The waitress came at that moment and gave us a funny look. We released each other’s hand and sat back so she could serve the food, and then we ate.

  Some parts of this job are easier than others.

  Over lunch I explained to Sarah why I was looking for Sandy Meyer. I told her the truth, since it was bound to sound boring to her.

  “Just a missing wife?” she said.

  “That’s all.”

  “I was hoping for something more exciting.”

  “Most people are w
hen they think of private investigators, but this is the kind of case we handle more than any other.”

  “No spies or anything, huh?” she asked, looking disappointed.

  “Now you’re mixing me up with James Bond.”

  I drove Sarah back to her office after lunch and we sat in the parking lot for a few moments. I saw Delta’s car already there, so we didn’t have to worry about him driving up on us. She promised to call me at my hotel in Tampa with the information as soon as she was able to get it.

  “I’ll have to wait until Mr. Delta is out of the office long enough for me to look for it,” she said. “I’ll check the Rolodex in his office first. If it’s not there I’ll have to look around.”

  “Don’t get caught,” I said.

  “If I do,” she said, “and I get fired, you’ll have to give me a job as your detective assistant.”

  “We’ll talk about that if and when it happens,” I said. “Listen, do you know anybody named Virginia Mendez?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “No, the name isn’t familiar.”

  “Not a model? Or a business associate of Delta’s?”

  “I’m sorry, Miles,” she said. “That name doesn’t ring a bell at all.”

  “Do you know where Mandarin Estates is?”

  “I think it’s a development around here someplace, but I’m not sure where. Why?”

  “It’s just an address I happened to come across.”

  “And Virginia Mendez? Is she another woman you’re looking for?”

  “No,” I said, “just a name I came across.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you there.”

  “All right, then,” I said. “Tell me something else.”

  “If I can.”

  “Is your boss’s real name Rick Delta?”

  She laughed and said, “I don’t know for sure, but you’d kind of doubt it, wouldn’t you?”

  She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek before she got out of the car. God, this job is easier when you have a winning personality.

  17

  I was tempted to look for Mandarin Estates before I headed back to Tampa, but whoever Virginia Mendez was she was likely not to have anything to do with Sandy Meyer, and I didn’t want to go off on any tangents. Rick Delta’s lunch was probably just that, a lunch, and just because I didn’t like him didn’t mean he was up to anything, uh . . . well, up to anything.