He nodded. “I know.” He paused for a moment and didn’t say anything.
“So where’s all this leading, anyway? What do you want me to do?”
“Well, if it’s okay with you, I want to do more fieldwork for a while. I figure I can always move back into office work from the field later. That way, eventually I can tell Meghan I got kicked upstairs from the field, and it would be truthful.”
I rubbed my chin some more as I considered his request. “And your cred will be solid.”
He beamed. “Exactly. You got it.”
I nodded slowly for a couple of seconds, and then I folded my hands on my desk and looked straight at him. “Let me point something out, champ. Did you ever stop to consider that this little fabrication might not be the strongest foundation you could have on which to build your new relationship with Meghan? I mean, think about it. If she’s really your soul mate, the future love of your life, mother of your children—all that shit? If she’s all that, then this little shading—of-the-truth thing right off the bat might not be your wisest move.”
He leaned forward, excitedly. “But you see, that’s just it! It would be completely true. I’d actually be in the field.”
I looked at him, and then I shook my head slowly. “You’d ‘be in the field’? Dude, this sounds like you’re splitting hairs to me. Like it all depends on what the definition of ‘is’ is—one of those sorts of things.”
He shrugged. “C’mon, boss. I really like her. I don’t want to screw this up any worse than I already have.”
I looked at him. “What about the computer work around here? If you’re out playing superhero, how’re we going to get by without your computer skills?”
He smiled. “Simple. I’ve got that figured out. I’ll do both. I can do the computer work on my laptop standing on my head. You know that.”
This was probably true.
I took a deep breath, and then blew it out slowly. “I don’t know, man. I got to say, I don’t think this is the best way to launch a long-term relationship.” I shrugged. “But I’ll tell you what. If it will make you happy, I’ll get you out into the field more. But none of this better blow back on me. Otherwise, I’ll have your ass.”
“Fantastic!” he said, beaming. He sobered up again. “Do you think I can get new business cards?”
His cards now say that he’s “Director of Technology.” Fortunately, business cards are pretty cheap. I chuckled. “Alright. From now on, your title is ‘Special Agent—Licensed to Kill.’”
“C’mon, boss. Just ‘Special Agent’ would be cool.”
I nodded. “Okay. But you remember what I said.”
He grinned. “Excellent! Special agent. That’s perfect! And don’t worry. I’ll take care of the computer work. And what could go wrong? Thanks, boss. Thanks for helping me out.” He started to leave but then stopped suddenly. “Oh, one other thing.”
I stared at him without talking.
“Can you kind of keep this between us?”
“How can I make you a field agent and not tell anyone?”
He shook his head. “Oh, not that. I just mean not tell anyone about me doing this for . . .”
“For love?”
He smiled. “Exactly.”
I nodded. “No problem, man. Your secret’s safe.”
“Thanks, Danny.”
He practically skipped out of my office.
Just before four, my cell phone rang. Caller ID: Ron Bergstrom.
I tapped the screen. “Ron Bergstrom. How you doing? Long time no see. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“I’m good,” he said. “I saw you called, and I only have a minute or so, but I’m guessing we’re sharing this little conversation because Cecilia Ward spoke to you?”
“She did. Interesting lady.”
“Isn’t she, though?”
The tone of his voice instantly had me on alert. I didn’t know Bergstrom at all—I’d only talked to him the one time before. Still, his carefully measured inflection carried a definite undercurrent of something—exasperation, maybe? “The Wards were in today,” I said. “They gave us a complete rundown of the Sophie Thoms case.”
“That’s good, then. Say, Logan, they’re calling my name and I gotta run, but Cecilia said that she might invite you to the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund dedication tomorrow. Did she?”
“Yeah, she did. Toni and I’ll be going.”
“Good. We’ll be there too. How about let’s get together right after. We can wander over to the Terrace Lounge right there at the hotel and get a table. Take some time and sort things out proper-like.”
We said good-bye, and I hung up. I stared at the phone for a second. That was an odd call, all thirty seconds of it. Maybe I’d been hanging around Toni long enough that I was starting to sense angles and hidden motives that would have once gone right past me. My dad’s a lawyer, and he has a saying that popped into my head which goes, “Someone round here’s getting played, and I think I’m the playee.”
Chapter 3
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT WAS MY distinct privilege to work with Sophie Thoms for most of the past two years.” Toni and I were seated at a table of ten in the elegant Spanish Ballroom at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel in downtown Seattle. The crowd was hushed as we listened to Eric Gaston, the executive director of the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation, give a welcome speech just before the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund luncheon was to be served. The Spanish Ballroom at the Fairmont is probably the most well-known Seattle venue for events of this type—has been for close to a hundred years. Hotel management has worked hard to keep it that way. The maroon patterned carpet was thick and luxurious. Large crystal chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceilings, sparkling brilliantly. The gloss-white highly detailed wainscoting on the walls had no scratches, no smudges, probably not even any fingerprints. It shone like a mirror. In fact, the hotel looked like it had just opened for business yesterday instead of in the early 1920s. Everything about the room looked pristine as a small army of uniformed waiters fanned out through the tables, ready to begin serving the meal’s first course.
Even before Gaston introduced himself to the crowd, I recognized him from the Internet research I’d done on the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties with sandy light-brown hair (like mine). He was average height with a solid, muscular build and the deep tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. Directly behind him, three large screens were suspended from the room’s tall ceiling. Each featured a huge black-and-white photo of Sophie. The screen to Gaston’s left showed her in an African village, smiling and wearing a baseball cap as she crouched down amid a throng of laughing children. The photo in the center directly behind Gaston was a black-and-white version of the close-up of Sophie that Toni had showed us in our conference room—the one with the haunting eyes. The photo on his right was a picture of Sophie in a boardroom, studying a report while chewing on a pen.
“Sophie Thoms came from a life of privilege,” Gaston said. “Yet, even at a young age, she recognized her advantages, and she used them to help others. To a remarkable degree, she dedicated herself to what’s now popularly termed ‘giving back’ to those who were much less fortunate than she was.” He shook his head slowly. “In truth, I’m not sure the term ‘giving back’ makes much sense in Sophie’s case, though, for the simple reason that the words imply that Sophie had taken something from somebody . . . that she owed something to somebody.” He shook his head. “Nothing could be further from the truth. You see, for the entire time I was lucky enough to have known her, I was struck by her generosity, her loving attitude, her ready smile, her wit, and most especially, by the way she genuinely cared for people. She didn’t owe anybody anything. But still, Sophie willingly made it her life’s mission to help others. I stand before you now, and I can honestly say that she was an extraordinary young lady, and quite simply the most giving person I’ve ever known.” He stopped, and for a second I thought he was about
to break down. He stared out across the silent audience, biting his lower lip for a few moments, and then, struggling to compose himself, he continued. “Wherever she went, she filled the room with goodness in a way that few people ever do.” Despite his best efforts, there was a distinct tremble in his voice. “It was remarkable,” he continued, “watching the way people young and old responded to her; I’m struck by the words of the English poet Jane Rose Gilbertson:
The sun rose with a breeze early this morn—
neither too cool, neither too warm.
She crept through the window and chased night away,
and I thought of you at the start of the day.
She woke with the beauty of God’s wondrous grace
with a soothing touch and a gentle embrace.
Her soft light of dawn pushed out the gray,
and I thought of you at the start of the day.
I breathed in deep and felt the rush of the air
as it flew ’cross the yard and tousled my hair.
She caressed my face with a warm, soothing ray,
and I thought of you at the start of the day.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll always think that that gentle breeze, that warm ray of sun on your face first thing in the morning—that was . . . no—that is Sophie Thoms.” He paused again for a moment. The room was completely silent save for the clink of dishes as the servers continued their work. “Through the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund that’s been established by her family today, Sophie’s work—her endless generosity—continues.” He shook his head. “Sadly . . . tragically, we won’t have her here with us to watch it grow. But in my heart I believe that this project is something that Sophie would have wholeheartedly endorsed. It is truly a fitting legacy to a wonderfully caring young woman.” He paused, then smiled and continued. “So, that said, we thank you so much for joining us this afternoon and choosing to participate in the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund.” He looked around. “As you can see, we’re starting to serve lunch now. Afterward, we have a couple of very special guests who are here to say a few words, and then there’ll be a reception in the Spanish Foyer. Again, thank you so much for your support, and please enjoy.” Gaston smiled as polite applause filled the room. After a moment, he left the podium and returned to his seat.
Although they were some distance away, I could see the other people seated at the head table stand and shake his hand. Oliver and Cecilia were there, seated next to the governor and a man who I presumed was the governor’s husband. Across from them was a man I’d never actually seen in person before but who was instantly recognizable—one of the world’s wealthiest men along with his equally recognizable wife. And seated next to Gaston was a strikingly beautiful young woman who had to be Nicki Thoms—but for her hair color, she looked just like the picture we had of Sophie. Sophie, of course, had been blonde; Nicki’s hair was as black as Toni’s.
I watched her for a couple seconds and, as I did, I noticed that Nicki seemed quite uncomfortable and fidgety. She glanced around the room, down at her program, at the man across the table, and then around the room again. She spoke to no one. A moment later, she pulled a smartphone from her purse and read a message, which seemed to make her smile. With a quick flurry, she started banging out a text message until Cecilia apparently noticed and said something to her. With an annoyed glance toward her aunt, Nicki slipped her phone back in her purse and resumed her fidgeting. I got the distinct impression that Nicki Thoms was wishing she were somewhere else.
I checked out the rest of the audience. There were probably three hundred people in attendance, many of whom I recognized. Politicians, business people, sports and entertainment stars—all had responded to the call to participate in the charitable fund established in Sophie’s name. I was impressed. The tickets that Cecilia had left for Toni and me read $5,000 recommended donation. If these people kicked in $5,000 apiece, then the Sophie Thoms Fund was off to a smoking good start.
We were seated at the back of the room, near the doors. This was fine with me—I’m not all that comfortable at this type of event and, in my experience, it’s easier to duck out when you sit in the back. Granted, about a month ago Toni had taken me to Nordstrom’s and forced me to buy a decent suit, but I hadn’t counted on having to actually use it so soon. Now, here I was, all decked out in a dark charcoal Armani Collezioni pinstripe suit with a white shirt and a red striped tie. Toni said I looked amazing, but honestly it wasn’t a getup that I was all that comfortable in: generally speaking, I’m more of a shorts-and-Hawaiian-shirt in the summer, giving way to a blue-jeans-and-flannel kind of guy in the fall and winter. Not to mention that I was still feeling a little “tingly” from this morning’s hard training run. Everything else being equal, I’d have rather been home on a Saturday night with my feet up.
Toni, on the other hand—damn! She really did look amazing. This was a “business dress” kind of deal, so she wore a dark green wrap over a sleeveless, pleated, cream-colored dress that fell to just above her knees. The colors of her full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm were on full display, but rather than scream for attention, they blended right in with the wrap as if she’d designed it that way. Her gleaming black hair was pulled back tightly and worn up. This somehow emphasized her dark red lipstick and her deep blue eyes. As always, she was stunning.
I know the other people at our table appreciated Toni—most of the women and all of the men. They could hardly keep from staring. I’ve learned to live with this over time, and it doesn’t bother me; in fact, I find it kind of flattering, and I take it in stride. I was a little surprised that the ladies seemed interested in me, though—must have been the suit.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” the woman to my left asked. I guessed she was mid-forties. A little heavy on the makeup, but still pretty. “In films? Maybe on television?”
I smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Yes,” the woman across from me said. “I know! You’re Danny Logan, right? The detective who saved those police officers a couple of months ago?”
“Well, I . . .” I started to say. Aw, shucks.
“Why, he certainly is,” Toni said, jumping right in, complete with a Southern drawl. “He’s a hero, that’s for sure.”
I glanced at her just long enough to see a sly, mischievous smile on her face.
“You should have seen him,” she said. “He stood there like a rock—bullets were flying all around. Why, it was terrifying.” I half-expected her to swoon.
I gave her a little stink-eye, trying to say “Enough!” Not that I thought it would actually work with her if she was on a roll and really having fun watching me squirm, which it looked like she was. Fortunately, though, the waiters chose that moment to show up with our salads, followed by a surprisingly good crab-stuffed salmon. The topic changed, and I was off the hook. I looked over at her and she winked at me, I suppose to let me know that I’d been saved by the bell.
After lunch was served and the ceremony concluded, we were standing outside in the Spanish Foyer when I noticed Ron Bergstrom walking toward us. Accompanying him was a trim Asian man in a medium-colored gray suit with salt-and-pepper hair.
Ron smiled as he approached. “’Pon my soul, it’s Danny Logan.” He extended his hand.
We shook hands. “Ron Bergstrom,” I said. “It’s good to see you again. Thanks for meeting with us.” I turned and put my hand on Toni’s arm. “You remember my partner, Toni Blair, don’t you?”
He smiled. “I may not be the sharpest chisel in the carving chest, Mr. Logan, but there are some people even I don’t forget.” He shook Toni’s hand. “Ms. Blair, charmed.”
“It’s very nice to see you again, Ron. But please—call me Toni, okay?”
Ron nodded. “Toni it is, then.” I think Ron was probably fifty years old. He had very short reddish-brown hair that was starting to turn gray, worn in a short, near-military cut. He was a stocky, muscular guy—looked like he might have been a rugby player at one time. He wo
re a black sport coat over a white shirt and blue striped tie, along with gray slacks.
“This handsome guy here,” he pointed to the other man, “is my partner, Yoshio Hinari.”
The man smiled broadly. “Just call me Yoshi. Everyone does.”
I nodded. “Okay, I will. Good to meet you, Yoshi.” We shook hands.
“So what’d you guys think about that lunch, eh?” Ron asked. Eh? I wondered if he was originally Canadian.
“Outstanding.”
“I thought it was very nice,” Toni said. “And that room is spectacular.”
“It is,” Yoshi said. Then in a gallant voice, he added, “Best I’ve seen, ma’am. Hardly any rats.”
Toni clapped her hands together in delight. “Perfect! DiCaprio. Titanic.”
Yoshi beamed. “Excellent! A most astute observation.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“And there you have it,” Ron said. “Just like that. The bonding of kindred spirits.” He shook his head and turned back to me. “So, Logan, while these two regale each other with sappy movie lines, what say we dispense with the chitchat and head off to the lounge—have ourselves a little shoptalk over a cold libation—it’s Saturday and, technically, we’re off duty. We can catch up on old times, shoot the breeze, that sort of thing. Sound okay?”
I nodded. “Good idea, but we have to say hello to the Wards first. They sprung for the tickets, after all.” Ron looked at me funny, like he was about to protest, but he never got the chance.
“Oh! Mr. Logan? Mr. Logan?”
I turned and saw Cecilia Ward striding full-steam across the lobby as if she were on a life-or-death kind of critical mission. Oliver and Eric Gaston hustled to keep up, while Nicki Thoms lagged well behind as she worked on her text messages, ignoring people as they tried to get her attention when she passed. Cecilia started to decelerate a couple meters before she reached us, and when she reached a full stop right in front of me, she held out her hand and gave a polite smile. “Thank you both so much for coming this afternoon.” She turned to Ron and Yoshi, and the look on her face instantly changed. The smile disappeared, replaced by the stern visage of a schoolteacher who’s just caught the class clown red-handed in a stunt. She nodded curtly to them. “Lieutenant. Detective.”
Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) Page 4