Love Spell
Page 6
Molly hushed him immediately. “I’m not at liberty to discuss this here, Clint. I’m on my lunch break. I’m taking you back to your hotel as soon as we finish here. We’ll review the matter in private another time. I’m warning you now because your ignorance is a liability.”
Hefting her purse from the floor, she dug out an old model cell phone and phone charger. “Keep this on you at all times. Keep it properly charged. I’m on speed dial. I will be checking in on you. Call me only if necessary otherwise.
“Suffice it to say, you have become—for better or worse—a material witness to Jane’s criminal activity. You will stop taking stupid risks. Yesterday, you entirely ignored my advice. I cannot afford that. I need you alive.” She stabbed her salad fiercely and rammed an overly large bite between her teeth, chewed with vigor, and swallowed hard.
“For now,” she said, relaxing slightly, “keep eating, and ignore Jane. Enjoy the date.”
More pleasant shivers tickled Clint’s spine. It was official: he was really, truly on a date with Molly Weatherpound. Enough said.
“I’ll be good,” he said. Therein was the lie. Well, actually, it was more of a half-truth. Aware that he was marked for death, taking precautions was wise. His plans, however, were not served by confining himself to a budget hotel room. He needed help finding Fey, and he felt most comfortable interviewing his prospects in person. Clint had a hunch that if his gambit played out well, he’d solve not only his problems, but whatever issues Molly was hiding from him as well. Still, she seemed willing to give him more answers if he was patient. He could live with that.
He took another bite of his pork chop and asked, “So, dinner tonight?”
SEVEN
Ignoring Molly might have been a stupid thing to do.
But what’s life without a little risk? Clint asked himself as he hobbled out of his newly-repaired car and into San Francisco’s financial district. After Molly had dropped him off, he’d endured another battery of stern warnings to stay put. He even complied with her instructions for a full twenty minutes before hopping a bus to the mechanic’s shop to collect his ride. A short drive from the garage to downtown, and he was in business.
The motion of commerce and culture blurred around him in human form. Men in designer suits, carrying briefcases worth more than Clint earned in a year, mingled with twenty-somethings in shorts and windbreakers, shouldering rucksacks that probably only set them back a few meals. A digital stock ticker on the side of a bank showed the Dow was up 2.1 points this afternoon. A man on a folding chair coaxed tunes from a cello. Across the street, plastic barricades gave a cluster of city workers a place to pretend to be busy as they sat around a hole in the asphalt, chatting over a late lunch. A few clouds sprawled across the sky, casting artful shadows on the skyscrapers below. He wished he had his sketchpad and charcoals.
Next to him, a khaki building sprouted from the sidewalk and stopped eighteen floors above California Street. Somewhere up there was a small-time private investigation firm trying to drum up business by offering a free initial consultation (just like everyone else). This online offer included text large enough to ensure that anyone who wasn’t actually blind would know that the firm had the lowest prices imaginable to mankind.
Desperation. He could use this—provided the P.I. didn’t recognize that he was equally desperate.
He crossed his fingers, and walked through the front door. He checked the directory in the lobby, found the office he was looking for, and made his way to the elevator.
The elevator disgorged him on the twelfth floor. He got his bearings, and then wandered the hallway until he found a glorified broom closet with the correct office number on the door. The words “Sullivan and Self Private Investigators” were emblazoned beneath the office number. Clint had laughed out loud when he first saw the firm’s name online. To see it stenciled in silver on an actual office door, trying to look legitimate, was almost beyond ridiculous. He’d have no trouble at all negotiating his price.
Then again, he realized, you get what you pay for…
Something was better than nothing, so of course he knocked.
Nothing.
“Okay,” he muttered, and knocked again, slightly louder. He checked his watch. 2:19—still well within standard business hours, but again his knock went unanswered. Using Molly’s loaned phone, he dialed the number he’d gotten from the Internet and heard a phone ring beyond the door with the silver letters. An old-fashioned answering machine picked up after the fourth ring, a half second before he heard it on his phone. The echo gave the perky, female voice a stadium concert quality that didn’t fit with the “little girl” sound of it. He hung up before the message ended. Yawning, he made a mental note to try another time; right now, it was time for a nap. His swing shift was really wearing on him.
And he hated swing shift.
Clint smiled at the thought that soon, his financial woes would be on their way into his personal history books. Even an entry-level position with Graphitti would pad his wallet in a way that his spot as a custodian never could.
He knew he should probably care about missing last night’s shift, but if they were really going to fire him, they would have done so by now. Clint yawned again as he made his way around the corner from the Sullivan and Self office and into the main hall. Luck alone kept him from plowing directly into a random redhead in a business suit. The last thing he needed was to have another nameless chick running him down.
The woman dropped a stack of papers with a gasp, and stared at him in surprise. Surprise immediately turned to shock.
A moment later, she fainted.
Lindsay didn’t actually remember passing out. She’d only gone to the ladies room for Heaven’s sake.
Prior to that, she’d sent a small print job to the communal copier/scanner/printer down the hall from the ladies’ room, where she took a few, luxurious minutes to freshen up. There was no way she’d admit that she had nothing better to do than print various cheesecake recipes scoured from on the Internet; she had simply been… preparing herself for the time she’d entertain clients, whereupon she’d wow them with her culinary prowess rivaled only by her investigatory skills. It was all perfectly legitimate.
Lindsay had pictured herself wearing an apron that flattered her figure, working miracles in her office-turned-kitchen there on the twelfth floor. Of course, even with flour smeared across her face and her hair tucked up in the tall, white cap, she would still look stunning. She had practically tasted the fresh strawberry topping that would make her dream cheesecake perfect.
Perfect. Beautiful. Just like the smoky, gray-blue eyes in the expertly-crafted face, topped by lazy, blond hair of the man who had suddenly stepped in front of her.
She’d jumped back instinctively, scattering papers scattered everywhere, and sending her her heart rate soaring. She’d made to reprimand his carelessness, only to have a new realization dawn on her: Clint Christopherson had been a whisper beyond arm’s reach.
Lindsay woke to find herself leaning painfully against a cream-colored office wall, surrounded by familiar tiled flooring, and posh light fixtures. The smell of printer toner and the sound of phones were immediately disappointing—she’d so hoped she was waking up to a Saturday morning.
“You okay?” a man asked her.
Surely she wasn’t hearing that voice. It wasn’t real. It belonged in dreams buried under scars that had been plastered over by years of actually growing up and finally getting over feeling any need for the opposite sex. This voice should not be talking to her.
“Did that fall hurt as much as it looked?” Apparently, he wasn’t aware that he didn’t exist. “I mean, that wall isn’t actually padded is it?”
Who asked that kind of thing? This was an office building, not an insane asylum. Of course tumbling into the wall hurt. Meanwhile, pretty boy sat there in a stupid crouch, staring at her like an idiot.
Not even offering to help her up.
What did you expect, Li
ndsay? This is him, she thought.
Mustering all her remaining dignity, she collected her legs beneath her, and reached to gather the explosion of cheesecake recipes. To her surprise, he actually reached for them as well. As soon as her hand neared his, however, he jerked his arm back as if she’d dumped a pan of scalding water on the limb.
Don’t tell me you still think girls have cooties, she wondered bitterly. She savored the bitterness; it helped keep her mind off the fact that she couldn’t quite breathe properly.
Her papers gathered, she sucked in a breath that sounded too ragged to belong to any real woman, and charged around the corner and into her office. Shame scorched her face, and she unintentionally slammed the door behind her. She dropped back against the door and switched to “hyperventilation mode.” Dealing with yesterday’s eviction notice was easier than handling the sudden reappearance of… that man. No, he wasn’t a man. Men helped fainted women from the floor, and didn’t leave them to pick up the mess they’d caused.
Oh, heaven forbid that a woman’s hand might ever touch yours, she thought. Not as if you even deserve it.
There would be no thinking about the smile he flashed when he first locked his eyes on her. No thinking about the eyes at all. Or that light touch of cologne, the same he’d worn even back in high school.
The rap on the door made her jump.
“Hello?” came his muffled voice. She pressed a hand to her chest to see if she could still feel her heart.
“I’m not here!” When had her voice begun to sound like a rat’s?
“Er… yeah,” he said. “Well, can you tell me when someone might be in? I was hoping to hire them.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened at the word “hire,” and a strange demon possessed her to whirl around and fling the door open. There he was, staring quizzically at her. Without the slightest bit of permission, her eyes traveled the length of his frame, from the shockingly shredded Giants t-shirt (do not look at the face!) to the matching jeans over… worn loafers? With one blue and one khaki sock.
Still cannot dress himself. Check, she thought.
And yet, she must treat all clients in a professional manner.
Even if they’re scum in loafers. Even if I don’t want them.
And so she pasted on her most professional mask, complete with a wan, but welcoming smile. Her posture auto-corrected itself, and her head tilted slightly to the side, and back. He looked better seen down the length of her nose. In return, he put on a stupid half grin. He posted a hand on the doorframe and leaned slightly toward her as he engaged her eyes. Several seconds passed. Or was it twenty minutes? She had no idea. Did it matter?
He wiped at the corners of his mouth. “Do I still have lunch on my face?”
She ignored the question and retreated to the comparative safety of her desk. Battling to maintain steady breathing and a semblance of professional composure, she flew through a mindless checklist of activities: quickly login to the computer; pointedly ignore the scum client; bring up her official case tracking forms.
“Please, sit—” she began to say. But he was already perched in the chair opposite her, seeming to fill her office ominously as he reached across the desk and took a mint from the candy dish. She pursed her lips at his audacity in taking free candy without asking. Never mind that it was there for guests. Never mind she was being silly. Lindsay would ignore his rudeness. This would be an excellent test of her professional mettle. If she could treat this… person… with maturity and courtesy, she could do it with anyone.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Miss Sullivan, chief investigator here at Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. May I ask what brings you here today?”
He flashed a goblinesque smile. “Is ‘Self’ a partner, or do you multitask that well? Pretty efficient to be both the boss and the secretary. I’m impressed.”
That remark was allowed to pass. She knew better than to expect intelligence and grace from him. Carry on, Lindsay, she calmly told herself.
“And how did you learn of our services, Mister…?”
“Call me Clint. I don’t go by ‘Mister’ anything, unless you want to call me ‘Mister Awesome.’ Or maybe ‘Mister Master of the Pencil.’”
Lindsay groaned inside, and typed a few notes before hopping on the Internet. She let the client—yes; she could call him that—stew in his chair while she scowled at her computer screen and hammered away on the keyboard. Some minutes later, she had everything she was looking for. She smiled to herself, vindicated.
“How was it, again, that you learned of our services?” she asked, still looking at the information she’d quickly dredged up.
“Well, Miss Self…”
“Sullivan.”
“Whatever. I saw an online ad. Free consultations are nice, and it seemed you might offer a good deal. I’ve never been a huge fan of paying for name brands if I don’t have to.”
Lindsay turned back to glance out the window to hide her crestfallen look. It wouldn’t do to let him see that, nor would it do to admit how much it hurt to think that he didn’t even recognize her. Of course, she had improved with time, so perhaps his ignorance was a good thing?
The question now was whether to kill it here, where it was easy, or to take the case and the risks that came with it. Mrs. Ashworth’s polite rejection passed through her mind, and a downward glance caught a glimpse of the stack of bills from Monday. Still unpaid.
Was there really any choice but to bite the bullet? Sigh.
“Yes, Mister… um, Client. Clint,” she hastily corrected. “That’s correct. We offer the most competitive prices in the industry. Now, what is the nature of the work you would like to hire us for?”
“Before I get into that, since you’re cheap…,” he started.
She resented the remark instantly.
“…Could you maybe present some kind of credentials? Something to help convince me you’re worth the cost?”
Forcibly swallowing a glower, she turned back to the work she’d done online. This was perfect. “Your last name, sir?”
“Christopherson. Spelled s-o-n.”
She glanced at him, and then back at her screen. A few more keystrokes, and she pivoted the monitor to where the client could see it. With the barest of effort, she was able to set before him his entire life profile, complete with the mug shot taken after he was arrested during a party for UCSF’s Delta Sigma Pi.
“This is you? Clint Christopherson?” she asked.
The dumb, bug-eyed look was adequate retribution for his remarks. His date of birth, home address and phone number were easy finds. His driver’s license—not much harder. Just to prove herself, she’d pulled his social security number, bank account information, all four of his e-mail addresses (including one he hadn’t used since high school), photographs of him from as far back as thirteen years ago, his job history, and a list of his residences since he moved out of Reseda in the late ’90s. Last was a list of at least a dozen online dating sites he was registered with. And that wasn’t even the most intimate information she knew she could get.
Finally, he found his tongue. “You don’t know what kind of boxers I wear, too, do you? That’s… scary… that you can find out so much about me in five minutes or less.”
She merely smiled. “Your underwear is of no consequence to me. I do hope, however, that this convinces you that I may have some clue about what I’m doing.”
A nod.
“And so,” she began, not bothering to hide a note of triumph, “what is it that you need me for?”
A flash of worry flickered through his eyes (don’t look at the eyes Lindsay!), and she felt a pang of fear tinged with scandalous curiosity. Had he gotten himself into some kind of trouble? How satisfying would it be to stick it to him by leaving him to broil in his own juices? She could simply pronounce her judgment here and now, and he would be cut adrift to sail the stormy seas of his own problems. The thought made her feel a little guilty however, so she settled back into
her proper, business-like mindset.
“Well, it’s… complicated,” he began, looking everywhere but at her. “Oh, and are your eyes normally that blue, or do you wear those cosmetic contact lenses?”
Her heart fluttered, and she spun her monitor back toward her and pretended to examine some minutia, hoping to hide the unwelcome blush.
“In a nutshell,” he said, “I’m looking for someone.” The moment passed.
“Very good,” she said, trying desperately to keep things on track. “Tell me about this person of interest you seek.”
He reclined in his chair, rubbing at his chin. “Where would you like me to start?”
“A name and basic physical description would be good.”
Clint chewed his lower lip. “Fey. Ancient. Certifiable.”
“Fey what?”
“Aunt Fey.” He shrugged.
Lindsay frowned again. “You are familiar with the concept of surnames, correct?”
The client sat back in his chair, looking slightly offended. “She didn’t tell me, okay. She only said ‘Aunt Fey, with an e.’ That was it. We didn’t exactly discuss life, the universe and everything.”
Lindsay entered additional notes. “How long have you known this ‘Aunt Fey’? Is she from your father’s side, mother’s side, or your aunt through marriage?”
“Whose marriage?”
“Yours.”
The jerk laughed. “Look, Self…”
“I’ve already asked you to please call me Miss Sullivan.”
He waved it away. “Look, I’m not married. Your search should have made that pretty clear.”
Lindsay growled at herself, angry for already losing ground against him so soon.
His left hand came up, fingers spread. He pointed at his bare ring finger to make his point. “Why do you think I even made that wish in the first place? Your snooping makes it pretty clear that women don’t exactly flock to me. They really don’t know what they’re missing, though.”