Who Glares Wins
Lexi Graves Mysteries, Book 2
Camilla Chafer
Who Glares Wins
Copyright: Camilla Chafer
Published: July 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9569086-9-8
Publisher: Audacious
The right of Camilla Chafer to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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Other books:
Lexi Graves Mysteries:
Armed & Fabulous
Who Glares Wins
Command Indecision
Stella Mayweather Series (Urban Fantasy):
Illicit Magic
Unruly Magic
Devious Magic
Magic Rising
Who Glares Wins
Only a few weeks into her new job as a private investigator, Lexi Graves thinks she may have bitten off more than she can chew with her first solo cases.
In between going undercover as a plush pony at a “Bronie” conference and following her cheating brother-in-law, she’s got a saboteur-turned-killer to catch and a missing woman to find. Two of her cases may be connected, but how? There’s no short list of suspects to investigate, but the closer Lexi gets to the killer, the more her life is put in jeopardy. Trying to avoid being framed for a murder she didn’t commit, Lexi knows her luck is running out.
To make matters worse, her boyfriend, sexy detective, Adam Maddox, thinks she’s out of the PI game faster than she got into it. Her boss, the mysterious Solomon, meanwhile, hopes to get her between the sheets by night, as well as solving cases by day, and Lexi’s "just say no" resolve might not be as fortified as she believes.
All she wants is to be taken seriously and there’s only one way she can do that—solve the cases, no matter what.
Chapter One
Only two months into my new job at the Solomon Agency, and I had the awful feeling I might have bitten off more than I could chew. It wasn't the shooting practice—I was good at that—or the stakeouts, which weren’t nearly as exciting as in the movies; no, it wasn’t that at all. My problem was I was fairly sure my new colleagues—a coterie of ex-detectives, seasoned agency men, and one former criminal—didn’t take me seriously.
My boyfriend certainly didn't regard my new career seriously, that was for sure. No, Detective Adam Maddox thought it was “cute” that I was now a woman crime-fighter, and put it all down to an addiction to the adrenaline rush from my most recent brush with death. Vincent Marciano, company accountant and serial killer, was now behind bars, and everyone thought I should get over all the excitement. Everyone, that is, except my boss, John Solomon. Quite possibly the only bad guy on the good guys’ side, I liked him a whole lot.
After retiring from whatever he was doing for the government, and my decision not to return to temping hell, Solomon offered me a job at his new agency. If he thought I could become a card-carrying, licensed private investigator, I was going to damned well try my best, supportive colleagues or not.
Solomon was currently ensconced in his office, a small glass-walled corner, off the larger space I shared with four other men. We were all on the second floor of a mostly unoccupied building in downtown Montgomery. With Solomon was Steve Fletcher, and since the door hadn’t shut fully, I could just hear their conversation. Given its direction, all I could hope was that my cheeks weren’t turning pink from mortification.
My colleagues came with a shared lifetime of Army, police, national security, and, in Lucas “Don’t-call-me-by-my-surname-ever” Given's case, nefarious computer skills. I also suspected, some jail time with him, although he’d stopped twitching so frequently. I, meanwhile, brought to the table brilliant administration skills, a good eye for body language, a mind fit for crime-solving and, today, the cutest polka dot, peep-toe pumps known to woman.
Given the glances I received, first from Fletcher, then Solomon, I figured they weren't talking about my excellent taste in footwear. Every so often, I caught the phrase “not ready” and “not enough training” and “are you serious?” from Fletcher. Fletcher was a hard nut and the word “crack” wasn't in his vocabulary; unless you counted single-handedly busting a Mexican cocaine cartel, while taking two bullets in the leg. He walked with a limp and a scowl. He was a few years older than I and had seen things I hoped never to see. He seemed to like reminding me of that, too. Well, he could bite me!
Solomon turned away and picked up his cell phone, tapping a few keys before returning it to his desk. A moment later, my phone vibrated. I picked it up, wrenching my sneaky peripheral vision away from my whiny colleague and blinked at the message.
Did you just mouth “bite me”?
I looked up, gaping at Solomon, while knitting my eyebrows together just so. One corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing smile. I inhaled my gasp and dropped my gaze to the paperwork amassed on my desk, my eyes wide.
Unable to resist my curiosity at how he felt about biting me, I peeked a glance through my perfectly mascara’d lashes. I saw that Solomon hadn’t looked away, and his eyebrows were slightly raised. He commented softly on Fletcher’s reticence and shook his head, without taking his eyes off me, but his face revealed nothing. I fought the urge to send a cheeky wink in his direction, and instead, grabbed the desk phone just as it started to ring. I had to shift slightly in my seat to keep Solomon out of my line of sight.
"Hello?"
"This is Jim on front desk,” came the cigarette-smoking voice of our receptionist slash security guard. His voice sounded like crunching gravel. “Your appointment just arrived."
"Thanks. I'll be right down."
I slipped my feet back into the peep-toes, smoothed my dress, and left the office with my head held high and my back ramrod-straight. I was determined not to give Fletcher the satisfaction of seeing how his words stung me. Taking the elevator down one floor to the small, sparsely furnished entrance lobby, I noticed the walls had recently been painted a soft gray and the wooden floor was buffed to gleaming. I looked around. There was only one person waiting and she looked up when I entered. She glanced over, taking me in from head to polka-dotted toe, then looked down at the magazine she held open in her hands. Her black hair fell around her chin to frame her sweetheart face.
"That her?” I mouthed to Jim, and he nodded. I took a moment to look her over before I approached. Elisabeth Fong was dressed for business in a neat, black suit, the skirt exactly to her knee. She had it accessorized with low-heeled, black Mary Janes, a white top, and a large black purse with a discreet logo. The suit was off the rack, but the purse was very nice, and I suspected she must have saved for it and used it every day, taking visible pride in her professional attire. Her hair was cut into a sharp bob, straight and jet-black, and her lips bore a liberal application of pink gloss, the only makeup she wore. She was neat, orderly, and guaranteed not to stand out in a crowd. Judging by the circles under her eyes, however, she looked like she hadn't been sleeping too well.
I walked over to her and inclined my head. "Elisabeth Fong?"
She looked up, blinked, eyeing me over again, and paused on my pink shift dress. I resisted the urge to smooth the imaginary creases out and waited for her to respond.
"Yes,"
said Elisabeth Fong; then, "is he ready for me?"
I frowned. "He?"
"Lex Graves?"
This was the third time since starting this job that this happened. From the periphery of my sight, I noticed Jim heard; but he just shook his head and focused on the worn paperback in his hands, saying nothing. I would have put money on it that he'd set a few people straight too, without saying a thing to me. "Lexi Graves," I corrected her.
"Oh." Elisabeth blinked back in surprise.
"Why don't you follow me?" I stepped back and waited for her to rise, then beckoned her to follow me into one of the meeting rooms off the lobby. Most private investigators saw clients in their offices, but Solomon preferred that we kept our office space separate from where we met potential clients. That was probably a good thing, given that our shared desk space didn’t offer much privacy; and the boardroom required a walk between the desks, something that made clients uncomfortable. When people hired a private investigator, they usually wanted to keep their business quiet, I soon discovered. Elisabeth would be no different. Whatever managed to bring her here was troubling her.
I swiped my keycard into a corridor that took us down to the first floor of the agency, and showed her into the main meeting room. It was an anonymous space, only a nondescript round table with four chairs, the furniture being one of the perks of the building. A phone used for conference calls sat on top, and there was a laptop connection too. The blinds were usually closed, which was fine by me because this side of the building had a lovely view of the dumpsters. But soft light filtered through the plastic slats, giving the client nothing to view, and nothing from which they could make any assumptions. They didn’t know if we were busy or quiet, neat or untidy. They couldn't make any suppositions whatsoever, personal or business-related. I suspected that was Solomon’s plan, given that the agency was as new as my tenure.
Most of all though, it meant clients couldn't poke around in places their eyes weren't meant to see. I thought the room could use a plant, at the very least, but Solomon didn't take my suggestion of a ficus very well.
"I was hoping to meet a private investigator, but I guess you'll do." Elisabeth smiled at me hopefully, but not at all apologetically. "It's hard to get anyone to take me seriously."
"I am a private investigator," I explained patiently, knowing exactly what she meant about being taken seriously, but resisting the urge to point out the irony of the moment. I knew what the problem was. Elisabeth Fong expected a grizzled, old ex-detective, probably with a paunch and nicotine-stained fingers, who talked in staccato bursts and had seen too much evil in the world. In short, not me. Even though my hair had recently returned to brunette, and I didn’t resemble the peppy blonde I’d once been anymore, I still had a serious case of the cutes. Usually that worked for me; in Elisabeth's eyes, however, I clearly read “unprofessional.”
"But you're..."
"A chick? It happens." It was partly why Solomon hired me. I did not look like anyone's expectations of a private detective. Case in point, I was disarming. When Fletcher walked into a building, people thought “cop”. When I walked into a building… I got hit on. "Why don't you tell me why you came to see me?" I suggested, cutting to the chase.
Elisabeth paused, clearly wondering if I was worth her time; then seemed to decide, yes, I was. "It's like this… my friend is missing." The woman threw her hands in the air, clearly already exasperated, and her concern started to flow. "No one will take me seriously,” she repeated. “I went to the police as soon as I thought Marissa was missing, and they said it was too early to know. So I waited a few more days, and then they said, maybe she ran off. So, I waited another week, and they checked her place out because I was being a pest, and found nothing. But I knew someone went through her apartment, because she's neat, you know, and I could tell."
I did know. I would know if anyone had been in my apartment. Perhaps it was a woman thing. None of my three brothers could detect if a tornado had paid a visit to any of their places.
"How long has she been missing?"
"Two weeks now. It's not like her, really it isn't."
"You say the police think she..." I looked down at my one word note. "Marissa," I continued, "might have taken off?" The woman nodded. "But you don't think so? Why don’t you tell me about that?"
"Well, they think Marissa took off because she's got no one here. She was a foster kid so she doesn't have any family, and her job wasn't an exciting, high-flying one. It was kinda dull. They think maybe she got bored, and she met some guy and took off. But I know her. She's my best friend. Marissa wouldn't go anywhere without telling me first."
"Have you been close very long?"
"Six years."
"There's no chance she met a guy? Decided to take off and do something different with her life?" It wasn’t exactly unheard of. People changed their lives on a whim sometimes.
"No. She broke up with her last boyfriend two years ago and she wasn't into dating. Said she was fed up with losers."
I pondered that. A woman missing for two weeks and her best friend insists she wouldn’t leave without a word. Worst-case scenario? She was dead already. Clearly, that had already crossed Elisabeth’s mind because she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, biting her lip gently.
"Okay, there's a form I need you to fill out,” I told her. “I need to review the case with the agency before I can tell you if we'll take it. Agency policy,” I told her, trying to be gentle. How would I feel if my best friend, Lily, disappeared? Well, after appropriating some coveted items from her closet, I’d be very distraught.
I walked over to the cabinet, unlocked it with the small key on my key chain and extracted the missing persons form, with the Solomon Agency logo printed in the top right corner. It was four sheets long and asked for a litany of information, anything from the basics of name, date of birth, and address, to work history, friends, known disagreements, passport and bank details. I handed it to the woman and she flipped through it quickly. "I don't know the answers to some of these, but I can get them."
"Fill in what you know now," I said, "and bring in the rest whenever you can. As soon as possible. We talk over potential cases every day."
"So you'll take the case?" she asked, hopefully.
"I don't know yet. It depends on what my boss says."
It went like this. When a case came in, we got all the details from the prospective client, and, as a team, discussed its merits and what we thought we could do, as well as what resources were necessary to solve the case to the client’s satisfaction. I’d only worked on one missing person case so far, but I knew it was sometimes as simple as monitoring the missing person's financials, and just waiting for them to show up. Sometimes it took more effort, like in a custody case; and sometimes it was something we didn't want to touch, like a stalker who wanted more information about the person he was obsessing over. I sat in on a meeting like that with Solomon and it still gave me the heebie-jeebies. If we got a bad feeling, or suspected something of a serious criminal nature, we'd pass it on to the police. This was probably the only area where I trumped my colleagues; although each one of us had contacts with the local police. I had nineteen serving family members in the Montgomery Police Department. The retired ones pushed the count even higher.
"I don't have a lot of money," Elisabeth said, once she finished filling in all the details she knew and passed the form back to me. I scanned her neat writing. "But I need to know Marissa's okay."
"Understood," I said, passing her the client request sheet. "Write your details down here and someone will give you a call."
"I'll bring in everything else you need this afternoon."
"Thanks. Leave it with the guy behind the desk when you come in."
I opened the door for Elisabeth, and she paused, her eyes suddenly frightened. "Please take the case," she said, reaching for my hand. Waves of worry poured from her. "I don't have anywhere else to turn."
"I'll give it my best shot," I said,
which meant nothing, unless we took the case.
"Do you have a best friend?" Elisabeth asked me, stopping in the doorway. I only had a moment to steady myself to avoid crashing into her.
I smiled. "Yes, I do."
"If she disappeared and everyone told you not to bother looking, would you? Especially if you thought something bad might have happened to her?" The pain on her face, combined with the slight pressure of her hand on my arm, implored me to say no.
I thought about Lily. "I'd never stop looking," I said, which was true.
I spent the next hour at my desk, studying the forms Elisabeth Fong filled out. She knew most of the basics. Marissa Widmore was a twenty-eight-year-old college drop out. She didn't stay at any job longer than a year, according to Elisabeth, who had filled out six years of work history. It was mostly blue collar: waitressing, shop work, some office temping. Nothing that would say, “this salary is too big to turn my back on.” Marissa didn't have any next of kin listed; instead, Elisabeth had added her own details.
Marissa lived in Frederickstown, a poor, but nice neighborhood. You could leave your car parked on the street and come back to find it still had all its wheels, although you might think twice about walking around after dark. The population was predominantly lower-income families, young couples just starting out, singles who couldn't afford anywhere better, and retirees who'd never made much progress up the salary scale.
The deal was simple. You started out in Frederickstown, but you didn't want to end up in it for life. If you aimed really high, you'd choose a house in Bedford Hills, a neighborhood of large homes on spacious lots, with their own indoor gyms, pools and often, staff; or Chilton, if you preferred the old brownstone buildings. Mostly, families and couples moved to places like West Montgomery, (where I lived), a nice area made up of small, converted apartment buildings and single-family dwellings. Singles usually moved to Montgomery Central and bought neat, boxy apartments close to the restaurants, coffee shops and buildings where they worked. Harbridge was another decent residential neighborhood, if they could afford somewhere better, wanted more space, and didn’t work downtown. Frederickstown’s main problem was that the town planners forgot about transportation when they created the area and couldn’t keep up with Montgomery’s booming population. By the time they addressed it, the area had already ghettoized and was poor. It might be hard to abandon a really nice home that you'd made your own, but most people didn't have much of a problem leaving Frederickstown behind.
Who Glares Wins (Lexi Graves Mysteries) Page 1