“Like that Addy person.”
“Adderly’s different.” Adderly’s job was information: he assumed that if Teddy was asking, there was a reason, and not to waste time. Purely business. “But yeah. People—especially people who have bartender-worthy troubles—like to feel needed.” He’d never bothered to break it down before. “And they like having me owe them favors. It makes them feel important, like they weren’t just complaining into the first sympathetic ear they could find.”
“And that’s what we need, to get people to want to talk to you.” She tapped the screen of her tablet thoughtfully, opening what looked like a to-do list. “But first, we need people to talk to. And better—more useful—questions to ask.”
“That’s your area, Mallard.” He was willing to help, but this was her job, not his. He frowned at the rail, and rearranged the order of the limes and lemons. Someone had moved them, and he didn’t want to grab the wrong one, during a rush.
Movement out of the corner of his eye made him look up. “Teddy.” Seth approached them diffidently, as though afraid to interrupt, but needing to say something. “It’s almost time.”
Teddy looked at the windup alarm clock shoved under the bar. “Yeah, thanks, I still have some things I need to get done,” he said to Ginny. “You going to hang around a bit, after we open?”
“Not sure we should talk about it with other people around,” she said dubiously. “But yeah. Until it gets crowded, anyway. Okay if I set up in the far corner table”—she waved at the small table for two nearest the front window—“and work there? We need to figure out what to do next.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“And hey, Blondie,” Seth called over his shoulder as he headed back into the kitchen, his sass restored. “Out with the dog!”
“I told you the next time you called me that, I’d kill your credit rating,” she said, not looking around or raising her voice. “All right, Georgie, you heard the not-nice man. Out we go . . .”
The dog obediently got up on her feet, and trotted toward the door, almost as though she were relieved to be going outside, where she belonged.
“I’ll be right back,” Ginny said over her shoulder. “Try not to trip over anything while I’m gone.”
The gesture Teddy made in response would have gotten him a dirty look from his mother. Ginny just laughed, and went out the door after her dog.
“That girl gonna get you in trouble,” Seth said from the kitchen’s doorway. “Trouuuuuble.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda getting that,” Teddy said. “Ah, it’s only until Monday. How much trouble can we find in three days?”
Seth didn’t even bother answering that. But Mallard did. “Scared, Tonica?”
She’d come back faster than he’d expected; he looked out through the plate-glass storefront window to double-check that Georgie was well and truly tied to her usual post. She was, curled up in a comfortable-looking flop on the sidewalk next to the bike rack.
Her owner, meanwhile, was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and a challenging look on her face.
“Hah.” Be damned if he’d back down now. “You just tell me what you need me to do.”
And from the kitchen they both heard a mournful male voice call out “Trouuuuuuble . . .”
When the woman went back inside, Penny jumped down from the hood of the parked car she’d been sleeping on, and picked her way across the pavement to the shar-pei. She settled herself on one side of the dog’s head, then licked one paw and started to groom Georgie’s fur as though she were a kitten. “She looks worried.”
“She’s fine.” No matter what, Georgie would defend her mistress. Her ear twitched: Penny’s grooming tickled.
“I’m not saying she isn’t. Just that she looked worried.”
“She’s not worried. Everything’s fine.” Georgie concentrated, trying to remember if there had been anything that might be not-fine. But it was no use: everything earlier than a few days ago was a blur of memories, her littermates falling over each other in their urgency to get at the milk, alongside the first time Ginny picked her up, as though they’d both happened at the same time.
Penny paused in her grooming, and looked up at the dog with fond disdain. “Hrmmmm.”
Georgie was still fussing; now that Penny had mentioned it, she couldn’t not worry. “Does she really look worried? It’s because of the man they spoke to yesterday, isn’t it? The one who smelled like fear?”
“Maybe.” And maybe not. But there was something going on, something that had both humans putting their heads together and talking in low voices. Penny hated when they did that; it made it difficult to overhear things then.
Finished with Georgie’s head to her satisfaction, Penny sat back and continued twisting the claw, gently, to make sure Georgie fell in with her plan. “It’s not like her to come here two days in a row. Not so early. They’re talking a lot, too,” Penny added.
“So?”
The cat inspected her paw, giving it a few careful grooming licks, nonchalant as an old tom. “So, whatever they’re doing, I think that we should help them.”
Georgie turned her square-muzzled face sideways, interrupting the grooming session, and looked at the cat. “I know that voice. That’s the voice that got me into trouble before, with the mailman.”
Penny twitched her whiskers as though considering that accusation. “I’m a cat. Trouble’s what I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Georgie sighed and lowered her head back to the pavement. She wanted to help Ginny, wanted it more than anything else in the world. But . . . “You’re going to get us all in trouble. I can tell already.”
Walter Jacobs leaned back in his leather-upholstered office chair, the phone—an old-fashioned landline—held in his right hand, the other twirling the silver-and-ruby-chip pen between his fingers.
“No, everything’s fine,” he reassured the person on the other end of the line. “You know me, I like nailing things down and then adding a layer of glue, just to be certain. The deal will close on Tuesday, just as planned.”
The lawyer for the buyers spoke, a faint buzzing sound through the wires, and Jacobs nodded, even though the other man couldn’t see him. “Indeed. Every transaction of this size is a headache. But I think that your clients have chosen wisely in this building, an excellent mix of location and price. Once the renovations are done, it will be the premier space in Seattle.”
He laughed, an expansive chuckle that wasn’t echoed in his expression.
“All right, all right, I can’t help myself. Born salesman, me, especially when I believe in the deal. Yes, all right. You too. Relax, everything’s going to be fine. See you on Tuesday.”
He ended the call and placed the phone back into the cradle with a delicacy of motion that seemed at odds with his surroundings, the modern lines of the desk and credenza behind him suggesting a more brutal approach.
“That may not have been the smartest promise you’ve ever made. What happens if we don’t get Joseph back here in time? What if he talks?”
The man sitting at the other side of the desk was twice Jacobs’s size, a college linebacker not only gone to seed, but also sprouted. But the suit covering his mass was expensively tailored, and the intelligence inside was vicious.
Jacobs flicked one large hand in a “don’t worry” gesture. “Joe will come to his senses, eventually. Everything will be fine. I have copies of the papers, and power of attorney with regard to all company decisions. I made sure of that, after Joe’s stroke two years ago.”
He had especially made sure, once the single deal he had done during that time became three, and then five, and now this. There were things happening that Uncle Joe did not need to put his hand on. The old man needed less stress now, not more.
“And if there’s something that seems a bit off, or unclear, well, Stephen wants this deal as badly as we do. He won’t rock the boat, even if we have to fudge a few details. And his clients . . . are idiots, who
can’t see anything but their shiny new building.”
His own legal counsel was not so easily reassured. “Your uncle took the most recent markups, as well as the original documents. If he does anything stupid—stupider, I mean—we could have a real problem. You should have had someone deal with him before this, instead of giving him more rope to hang himself with. Because that rope could hang us, too.”
There was a suggestion hanging in those words, barely veiled.
Walter leaned forward, the earlier studied casualness dropped to reveal a more intense focus. “There are two things about my uncle that are carved in granite. One is that he is, as they say, an honest man. The other is that he would die rather than bring shame to the family name.”
His companion did not look away, or let himself appear intimidated. “You must have been adopted, then.”
Walter smiled at that, the momentary tension broken, and leaned back. “You may be right. Don’t worry, Sam. Joe will be found and talked off whatever ledge he thinks he’s on, we’ll file the papers as scheduled on Monday, close on Tuesday, and nobody’s nose will twitch even the slightest.” He said it with such confidence, he almost believed it was already done.
“And then?”
“Once the paperwork is signed, it all becomes someone else’s problem. All we have to do is cash the checks, and never speak of it again. And in September, Joe can take his retirement like a good old man and worry about his health, not business.”
He worried about his uncle. The man had been the only father figure he’d ever known, and the stroke had scared him more than it had the older man. His retirement would be good for them all, in so many ways.
Sam remained focused on the papers, unconvinced by Walter’s reassurances. “Your uncle has never pulled crap like this before, and he’s no dummy. You really think this woman can find him?”
“Unless he’s left the country, which I highly doubt, then yes. Virginia Mallard has a good reputation—many happy clients.”
“She bills herself as a concierge.” Sam might as well have been saying that she was a maid, or a store clerk. “This is a little more important than picking up dry cleaning or arranging a birthday party.”
“Tsk. Your bias is showing, Samuel. Concierge services are considerably wider in scale and scope than that—and our Ms. Mallard built quite the résumé in information services before striking out on her own—with excellent references, I might add. A judge, and two rather well-placed businessmen, all singing her praises as trustworthy and discreet. I couldn’t have designed someone better suited to our needs.”
“Still . . .”
“Still? Not having an advanced degree—or being a woman—does not preclude competence, Sam.” His tone was still mild, still collegial, but the veiled hint of Sam’s words earlier was sharper here. Tread carefully, it said.
Since Jacobs—who had only gone to a two-year college before joining the company—paid his retainer, Sam dared not respond to that except to nod agreement.
Walter waited, then, reassured that the lawyer knew his place, continued. “Ms. Mallard is a trained researcher, used to putting together bits of information to achieve the client’s desire. Her only concern is getting paid, and her career depends on having satisfied clients. Believe me, I did my own research before choosing her.”
He paused, and tilted his head to look at his companion, the action oddly incongruous with his expression. “Or do you think I should have hired a private investigator to track down my uncle? Someone bound by their legal obligations—someone who might, perhaps, have been a cop in an earlier career, who might ask uncomfortable questions, or be able to fill in certain blanks on their own? Do you really believe that would have been the wisest course?”
“Oh Christ, no.” The other man’s eyes went wide in mild horror at the thought. “But can you control her?”
“I hold the checkbook. That gives me all the power in this relationship. And even if she does scent something off in Joe’s disappearance, what might she do about it? The man’s an adult, no foul play has come to him, and I’ve asked her to do nothing even slightly off-color.”
“And if you did, I don’t want to know about it,” Sam muttered quietly.
“I assure you, all my dealings with Ms. Mallard were entirely aboveboard. She will do her damnedest to impress me, in the hopes of gaining my future patronage and referrals. Now, what about the other projects that my beloved uncle has left us in the lurch over? The required details in the Corkin Bay property have been filed?”
“On time, and without a peep from the other parties. So far as they are concerned, everything is proceeding according to plan, and your uncle’s absence from the final meeting did not cause the slightest alarm. They were perfectly happy to accept me as his proxy in this final meeting.”
In that instance, at least, knowledge of the old man’s impending retirement worked in their favor. And perhaps even more: if need be, they could spin this weekend as the first crack in Joe’s hold on things, a softening of the wits, where he simply walked off . . .
It might cause some discomfort with other deals, things he had negotiated might have to be reworked, but they could handle damage control later. Seize the day, seize the opportunity, that was Walter’s philosophy.
“Excellent,” Walter said now. “That’s excellent. Now, what else is still pending, that you need to tell me about?”
4
Ginny supposed that, after she talked to Tonica, she could have gone back to her apartment. She probably should have. But there was something about the clear autumn light filtering in through the windows that made her reluctant to move. Or maybe it was just the sense of being surrounded by people while she worked: she loved working at home, but there were times that she missed an office setting, hearing other people talking quietly around her.
Other people, one of whom might have been the one to send that text message to her. The thought made her look again, this time suspiciously.
No. If she started getting paranoid, the caller had won, or something like that.
Her phone chimed at her, the third of four daily alarms she had set.
“Hey, Tonica,” she called out. “I’m going to take Georgie for a walk. Can you keep an eye on my stuff?”
When Mary’s had opened for the day, Ginny had claimed the table by the window, where the Wi-Fi signal was strongest, and set up the tablet and her cell phone as a portable office. She’d hate to lose the spot, leaving for ten minutes.
“Yeah, I got it.” He pulled out a white cloth from under the bar and draped it over the table. “There. Go.”
They made a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood, and Ginny thought briefly about taking Georgie home—but the dog seemed content where she was, and truthfully, if they went all the way home, she might as well stay there, too.
Being alone with her paranoia seemed worse than sitting in a crowd.
“You okay with hanging around a while longer?” she asked. Georgie seemed more interested in sniffing the lamppost than responding to a question, but her tail quivered enough for Ginny to decide that yes, Georgie was okay with it.
When they got back, another dog—a shaggy black terrier—was also tied up outside Mary’s. Georgie and the other dog exchanged formal sniffs, then settled down next to each other.
“Guess I’m not the only one who likes company sometimes. Okay, then.”
Reassured, she went back inside, reclaimed her table, and went to work tracking down the whereabouts of one Joseph Jacobs. Although right then, she was less tracking and more studying.
Walter—DubJay—had come through with the bank information, including the name of the person to talk to at Joe’s bank, if she needed it. Ginny considered the phone number, but decided that it wasn’t needed—yet. He hadn’t closed his account or taken any major withdrawals, and that was what she’d been worried about. He wasn’t using his credit or debit cards, either, which meant he was either holed up somewhere for free or where he could pay by che
ck.
“Who pays by check anymore? Who accepts checks anymore?” She chewed her lip a minute, then opened a new browser window and entered a series of numbers and codes.
“All right, you haven’t made an outgoing call in two days—and everything’s going to your voice mail. Hm.”
She felt a little dirty, getting access to his phone info. But not enough not to look. Although she did make a mental note to never, ever give anyone her mobile phone account password, even if it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Around 4:30, she finally acknowledged that she was chasing her own tail, and it wasn’t going to do her any more good than it did Georgie. The digital trail had shown her where Joseph Jacobs wasn’t. To find out where he was, they needed to talk to actual people.
On the plus side, finding people who weren’t hiding was, in theory, an easier proposition than one man who was. Ginny turned her attention to that, starting with his date book. At some point, someone put a slice of pizza on her table, and her drink—a ginger ale with a twist of lime—never seemed to get empty, but other than that, she was in her own little world, until she suddenly realized that first, it had gotten dark outside, and that second, there were people in the previously empty spaces around her.
She took out her earplugs, letting the sounds of “St. James Infirmary” spill out of the buds, and stretched her arms over her head, hearing and feeling something in her back crack. Mary’s had started to hop with the usual Friday night crowd—mostly neighborhood people decompressing after a long workweek, with a few strangers who found themselves in the neighborhood and were drawn in by the welcoming façade.
Ginny kept her place at the table, out of the way of the social swirl, although people she knew would swing by and say hello, and then move on again when she indicated she wasn’t in a social mood. That was one of the nice things about Mary’s—people respected the urge to be among without being part of.
Collared: A Gin & Tonic Mystery Page 7