Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle

by Blechta, Rick

  “Get a grip,” she mumbled, scanning the information on the screen.

  It looked as if it would be a day for reading reports from the four operatives who worked for her. There was only one appointment, an early afternoon interview with an operative looking for work: Dan Hudson, a surveillance expert with a résumé as long as her arm.

  She desperately needed someone with Hudson’s skill set. Lately, businesses, even small ones, were having prospective employees seriously vetted for any skeletons they might have in their closets. It wasn’t just for security clearances anymore, either. Weirdness in an employee’s personal life more and more often rebounded onto their employers, as well. Increasingly, smart businesses wanted at least some idea of what their employees got up to after hours and on social media.

  Based on what she was seeing in Hudson’s four-page résumé, Shannon would be a fool not to take him, but she’d been in the game long enough to know that nothing could replace double-checking everything. “Take nothing at face value” had always been her motto. Every single time she’d strayed from that path, investigations had turned to shit. People had gotten angry or hurt — or worse.

  “Have you finished checking those phone numbers for me, Karen?” she called out.

  “Just finishing them up,” her secretary replied from the outer office. “I’m firing an email to you now.”

  Shannon’s mail program pinged a moment later. Picking up the résumé, she turned to the computer. An hour and a quarter later, she’d cross-checked every single reference given. Some of the people weren’t available, some had spoken to her, and some made it clear they wouldn’t. All to be expected when one dealt with government organizations, especially ones that dealt in secrets — theirs and other people’s.

  With the wall clock across the room approaching twelve, Shannon got up and retrieved some coffee from the pot in the outer office, shutting the door before returning to her desk. If she got a favourable feel from Daniel James Hudson, she would hire him, but she didn’t want to appear too eager. Let him cool his heels with Karen for a few minutes.

  Shannon heard him arrive precisely at twelve. Good. At five after, she buzzed Karen and asked her to send him in. She stood to shake his hand, making sure her grip was suitably strong. “I’m Shannon O’Brien.”

  “Dan Hudson. Pleased to meet you.”

  From the merest flick of his eyes, she knew she’d surprised him. Good. Her goal was to find out how cocky he was. O’Brien Investigates didn’t hire employees who thought too much of themselves.

  They sat, Shannon resting her clasped hands on the desk, Hudson leaning back in his seat, but not lounging, another telltale sign of someone with possibly too much ego. While chatting a bit before getting down to the nitty-gritty of the interview, she sized up this possible employee.

  There was something appealingly “boyish” about Dan Hudson. He certainly had the demeanor of a fully mature forty-four year old. Using her cop’s eye, she already had his height pegged at six-four, and while she wouldn’t call him husky, he was well put-together and obviously took care of himself. He had short-cropped, light-brown hair and a fairly nondescript face, good for someone whose work went more smoothly the less they were noticed. But there was something arresting about his brown eyes. Shannon got the feeling they didn’t miss much. She was certain he was doing as much “sizing up” from his side of the desk as she was.

  Finally sitting back in her seat, she said, “Your résumé is quite impressive. You’ve worked for some heavy hitters: CSIS, the RCMP, and you were with Special Forces for seven years. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Is there anyone you worked for that you didn’t list in the résumé? I don’t want to be blindsided by something you neglected to tell me. When one runs with the crowd you have, there are often things left unsaid.”

  “I worked with the FBI on a few things, all done through the RCMP when I was with them.”

  “Nothing else? No other foreign organizations that prefer to remain anonymous?”

  Hudson caught Shannon’s gaze and held it. “None.”

  She let the moment last a second or two longer, keeping her face just as expressionless as his.

  He dropped out of the staring contest first. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I can’t figure out why you want to work for a small company like mine. Your references have all said great things about you. You’ve been playing in the fast lane, doing a fair bit of travelling, too. Why give that up?”

  “Because after nearly twenty years, I’m tired of having no fixed address. I’ve spent maybe two months all told in my apartment in Ottawa during the past year and a half. I have no close friends and I never visit anyone other than the few relatives I still have. To cut to the chase, I’m tired. It’s time I put down some roots.”

  Shannon had heard something similar from a friend she contacted at RCMP headquarters — and not one of the people on Hudson’s list of references.

  They spent a few minutes discussing what she was looking for, the expected hours, and how much she was willing to pay.

  “Why don’t we try this out for a few months, see if we both like the fit?”

  For the first time, Hudson smiled, and it was a good one. “Sure. It sounds as if you can make use of my skills. I won’t have to travel much and I’ve heard good things about the way you do business. There are a lot of sleazeball outfits in this game, and you’re not one of them.”

  They shook hands. There would be the usual contract to sign, outlining what he was expected to do, but Shannon felt good about taking him on. He could certainly do anything she’d need in the way of surveillance detection and that sort of thing. The time he’d spent with Special Forces at the beginning of his career meant he’d be able to handle himself if a situation got sticky. Dan Hudson could be a strong addition to her group of operatives.

  “How long will it take you to get settled in town?”

  “I never even got my stuff completely unpacked in Ottawa and I moved into my current place three years ago.” He grinned. “How pathetic is that? Anyway, I could start as soon as you need me. I’ve already got a place, and my stuff arrived from Ottawa last week, so I’m good to go.”

  “Well, I have to get the word out that we’re going into the employee-vetting game in a big way. I have only one job of that sort going on at the moment, and I’ve already assigned someone to it.”

  “Then I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “I don’t think it will be long.”

  After he left, Shannon spent a few minutes thumbing through Hudson’s résumé again. It wouldn’t be hard for him to find work with the skill set he had. Why was he willing to work for one of the small players in town? She felt sure he could name his price with any of her larger competitors.

  Chapter Five

  “So what do you want to do tonight?” Tony asked as soon as we’d gotten into his Vette. “We haven’t had much time alone and you only have a few more days.”

  I was looking out the window, preoccupied by what we’d been discussing. It was all completely unnerving, to say the least. Someone was following me around, possibly breaking into our apartment, and who knew what else? Rather than being comforted by calm words from a wise woman, Lili had succeeded in freaking me out even more.

  Tony gave me a few moments before asking again what I wanted to do.

  “I’d like to have you make me something nice for dinner, you know, like we used to do when we first met.”

  He grinned. “That was because we wanted to have a bed handy so we could just fall right into it.”

  I put my hand over his as it rested on the gear shift. “I’m just glad you’re with me, right here, right now. Let’s go home.”

  Parking in the underground garage, I couldn’t prevent myself from looking around for someone sitting in a darkened car or echoing footsteps approaching from the opposite end of the cavern-like room beneath ou
r building. Until the elevator doors finally closed behind us, I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath.

  Everything in our apartment appeared exactly as it had when I’d left. Was it my imagination, though, or was there an almost imperceptible change, as if a guest three weeks earlier had worn perfume and the ghost of it still lingered in the air?

  I sat in the kitchen with Tony as he prepared spaghetti all’amatriciana, a pasta dish I particularly adore.

  Almost as soon as my derrière was planted on one of the stools opposite our island stove top, he had a glass of white wine placed in my hand. An eagle eye was on it, too, because every time it got halfway down, he’d be there refilling it.

  “Are you trying to get me tipsy?” I teased.

  His answer was not the expected smart aleck kind. “I’m trying to get you to relax. You’re like a coiled spring, Marta. If I touch you, I’m almost afraid you’ll fly apart in million directions. You were supposed to be taking it easy.”

  “Well, it seems someone else had other ideas.”

  “Do you think maybe we’re taking this all too seriously?”

  I immediately noticed the use of the word “we’re” and wondered if he honestly felt that way, or was just trying to be more gentle in his criticism.

  I took another sip of wine, as grateful for its alcohol as much as its flavour.

  I caught his eye before he looked down at the onion he was about to slice. “Let’s say I’m wrong about what’s going on, that this is all about some fan who’s got a weird sense of humour and more money than God to send me very expensive bouquets. Maybe this is all a big giggle to him.”

  “If it is a him.”

  “Let’s just say it is, okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  “If what I just said is the case, eventually he’ll step out of the shadows to present one in person, and that will be the end of it. But what if this isn’t so simple? What if this guy has some serious problems?” I shook my head. “Look, I don’t want to go off the deep end on this, but I also don’t want to leave myself wide open because we didn’t take a possible threat seriously.”

  Tony began slicing the onion thinly. “Then we have to find that out.”

  I nodded and took another sip of wine. Tony’s hand reached for the bottle, but I put my hand on top of the glass.

  “Question is: how do we go about doing that?”

  As Tony cooked up the sauce and boiled the pasta, we talked all around my problem and how to go about solving it.

  Cops? Why would they be interested? There was nothing much to go on at this point, other than mysterious flower deliveries. Besides, as Tony pointed out, which cops? So far I’d gotten ten bouquets in ten different cities spread over seven countries on three continents. It would be a jurisdictional nightmare.

  We opened a bottle of seriously good Chianti for the pasta, but didn’t pay it the attention it deserved — nor the pasta, either.

  Gesturing across the table with his fork, Tony said, “Your problem sounds like a job for Mike Hammer.”

  “Who?”

  “Sherlock Holmes then. We need a private detective. Someone who’s not a cop, but knows about these things. You really should read more crime fiction.”

  “No thanks. The possibility of the real thing is quite enough for my imagination. Tony, you don’t know what it’s like being by yourself all the time in other cities.”

  “You’re constantly around people.”

  “There are a lot of times when I’m out on the street alone. I can’t stay cooped up in a hotel room or rented apartment for weeks on end, and I can’t always go out with a crowd of people. What do you think it would be like to be constantly looking over my shoulder for trouble? I did that downstairs in the parking garage earlier.”

  “I did, too,” he admitted. “You don’t just need a detective, Marta. You also need a bodyguard, someone who’ll look over your shoulder for you — and for me.”

  “Where do we find somebody like that?”

  Tony nodded to himself. “I think I know just where to begin.”

  We made wonderful love later that evening, slow and gentle and heavy on the passion. Afterwards, as we lay next to each other, breathless from our exertions, Tony’s hand snaked into mine.

  “Marta, I don’t ever want anything to happen to you — not if I can prevent it. I couldn’t live with myself if I failed you so badly.”

  “Do you honestly believe what I’ve been telling you, or are you just trying to cover your options?” I asked, turning on my side to look at him.

  “It makes no difference what I believe. I don’t want you to even have to think about something that might be going on. You’re all that matters. I want you to feel safe.”

  His hand made a move toward my right breast. I grabbed his wrist.

  “Do you believe me?”

  He took a deep breath before his answer. “Yes.”

  “Honest and true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Yes!”

  I let go of his wrist. “That’s all right then.”

  Tony was as good as his word. Next morning, by the time I got out of the shower, the coffee was ready and he was on the phone.

  After filling my favourite mug — “Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back, and instead of bleeding, he sings” is what it says on the side — I went into the living room and sat at the opposite end of the sofa from my ever-loving husband, feeling much more at ease than I had twelve hours earlier.

  “Yeah, yeah. I think I know where that is…. Sure. I wrote it down…. Yes, I’ll tell them that you recommended them…. Okay, and thanks. I knew you’d have a name.”

  “Who were speaking to?” I asked as Tony put down the phone.

  “My cousin, Mario.”

  “The one who’s been in and out of prison a couple of times, the one nobody ever talks about?”

  He grinned. “Hey, you want something like a private eye, call up someone who knows about the windy side of the law. Besides Mario says he had nuttin’ to do with that holdup. He was framed!”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Um, no.” He held up a scrap of paper. “But he did have the name of a private detective. Thinks they might be good for a bodyguard, too, or can connect you with someone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “An operation called O’Brien Investigates.”

  “And how does Mario know about them?”

  “The lady who owns the company, Shannon O’Brien, was the cop who busted him.”

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  I let Tony make the appointment. For some reason, I suddenly felt shy about the whole thing. I mean, it’s one thing to say to friends that you think you’re being stalked, and it’s another thing to say it to a perfect stranger, especially one who’s an ex-cop.

  Ten thirty found us racing up the Don Valley Parkway and onto the 404 for our appointment with the private eye. She had an office in one of those business complexes that have sprouted up all over the suburbs surrounding Toronto. O’Brien Investigates was off Woodbine near Unionville, and because of the usual miserable Toronto traffic we barely made it on time.

  As we walked toward the glass door with the company’s name on it, I had to admit I was more nervous than I’d been the last time I had to audition for an opera gig, ten long years ago.

  I wasn’t impressed by the state of the outer office. While it was clean, the carpet had seen its best years. The office furniture wasn’t much better.

  Tony looked at me, obviously thinking the same thing: a low-rent operation.

  The receptionist didn’t do anything to allay our uneasiness. Her red hair, piled on top of her head, came right out of a bottle. I had no idea how someone with nails that long could expect to type on a computer keyboard, but unless it was all gibberish, her speed and dexterity were impressive. She kept typing even after we’d reached her desk.

  “We ha
ve an appointment,” Tony said. “Eleven o’clock with Ms. O’Brien.”

  Finally she looked up. At least she didn’t have gum in her mouth. “Right. The opera singer.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “Shannon had me research you on the Internet after your call this morning.” She looked over at Tony and I couldn’t miss the gleam of interest in her eye. “And you must be Tony. We spoke on the phone.”

  Tony stuck out his hand to shake, but the redhead handed him a clipboard with a pen on a string attached to it.

  “Shannon will be with you in a few minutes. Could you fill this out while you wait, please?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to her computer and began typing furiously again.

  We went over to some plastic seats that looked as if they’d come right out of an interview room at a police station. Taking the clipboard, I filled out the usual information about who I was and where I lived. There was a spot at the bottom of the page “For Office Use Only” that had blank lines for listing financial information. It suddenly dawned on me that this was going to cost money — probably a lot of money.

  I’d barely had time to put down the date and my signature when the door to the inner office opened.

  The woman standing there was as tall as I am. Pulled back in a ponytail, her blond hair didn’t come out of a bottle. You couldn’t have called her skinny, more like wiry. For some reason I immediately thought of her taking on some bad guy twice her size and coming out on top. Being an ex-cop, perhaps that’s the way she’d been taught to present herself. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to meet her in a dark alley.

  Her hand shot out. “I’m Shannon O’Brien.”

  “Marta Hendriks. And this is my husband Tony Lusardi.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” she answered as we all shook hands.

  I noticed her eyes quickly flick downwards at Tony’s and my matching wedding bands.

  We went into her small, windowless office. To break the blankness of the walls, there was a series of large photos of a rock band in concert, not something I would have expected to see in a private detective’s inner sanctum. They were expertly done, capturing the energy of the show and its music.