She came back with a wallet-size snapshot. I examined the picture. Caucasian. Mid-fifties. Graying brown hair. Brown eyes. No distinguishing features.
“The picture’s a bit old, but it’s his most recent one.” Bellanca sat back down and crossed her long legs again. “Collin’s been a little camera shy as of late.”
“Why’s that?”
She pushed a few strands of loose hair out of her face. “There was an incident several months ago. It left a scar on his right cheek.”
“What sort of incident?”
“He said he was mugged.”
Mugged. Right. I’d seen this a dozen times before. Guy cheats on wife with mistress. Mistress gets tired of being a mistress. Wants to marry guy. Tries to convince guy to leave his wife. Guy refuses. He and mistress argue. Mistress gets pissed and goes after guy with a butcher knife . . . And scene. Cut and print.
“That’s unfortunate.” I slipped the photograph into my wallet.
“Is there anything else I can do?” Bellanca asked.
“Yes. I need to know a little more about Collin. Where he works. What time he leaves for work. The names of places he likes to go. You know.”
“Of course.” She gave me the information, and I scribbled it down.
“Thanks.”
Bellanca let out a deep breath. Her hands trembled. Light reflected off her diamond ring, splintering into multicolored shards.
“You alright?” I asked.
She flashed me a nervous smile and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little nervous. That’s all.”
“Don’t be. The truth is nothing to be afraid of.”
Bellanca was quiet for a time. Then she said, “Mr. Jones . . .”
“Plato,” I corrected her.
“Plato. You said you do this all the time?”
I put the notepad and pen back into my pocket. “Yes.”
“Does it usually end badly?”
“Depends on your definition of badly.”
Bellanca’s smile died, and some of the light faded from her eyes. I should have said something, but I was terrible at cheering people up. Still, I couldn’t stand to see a woman look so sad, especially one with a pretty face, a tight bottom, and a great rack.
“Don’t worry about it too much,” I said. “This could all be a big misunderstanding. Happens all the time.”
Some of the light returned to her eyes. “Really?”
“Sure.”
She smiled at me. “I hope you’re right.”
For a long moment we sat in awkward silence, not looking at one another.
“I should probably get going,” I said.
“Of course.” Bellanca leapt to her feet.
I raised the half-full glass of Sprite. “Thanks for the soda.”
“You’re welcome.”
She walked me to the front door.
“I’ll call you when I find something,” I said, stepping across the threshold.
Bellanca nodded. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Jones.”
“Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.”
5
I waited in my car, across from the Stone residence. It was eight in the morning. I had been there since before sunrise.
Stakeouts are, without a doubt, my least favorite part of detective work. The long hours and boredom can drive me insane. A survival kit is essential. Today, mine included an assortment of magazines—Sports Illustrated, Gun Digest, Time—a six-pack of bottled water, a bag of premium beef jerky, and my trusty laptop.
I’ve met a lot of PIs who claim to enjoy stakeouts. They say the solitude gives them a chance to think, to be alone with their thoughts. Personally, I try not to spend too much time in my own head. A detective’s brain is his most important tool, but like any tool, it can be worn down by overuse. Being overly reflective can dull the senses, make a detective less aware of what’s going on around him. In my line of work, that can mean the difference between solving a case and getting dropped from it.
Collin came out of the house at 8:15, dressed for work in a charcoal suit and black loafers, and carrying a portfolio and a briefcase. He walked to the end of the driveway, with all the speed and rigidness of a corporate stooge, and climbed into his red BMW Z4. In my opinion, the car was too cool for him. I imagined he had bought it on a whim, in the midst of a midlife crisis. I’d probably do the same thing in a few years.
Bellanca appeared in the doorway behind him. She wore a short, white bathrobe. The partially open front revealed some nice cleavage. A matching towel wrapped her hair. She waved at Collin. He raised his index finger and pulled out of the driveway.
I started my engine and prepared to follow. He drove north out of the neighborhood, and then turned left onto Larken Street. With no police around, he leaned on the accelerator, but a red light at the intersection forced him to brake hard.
As we waited for the light to change, Collin answered his cell phone. I was betting his mistress was on the other end.
The light turned green and Collin sped forward. He took the first exit onto the highway, into bumper-to-bumper traffic. It took us over an hour to reach the downtown connecter. From there, I followed several cars behind him to Minos Advertising, housed in a fifty-story structure with brown-tinted windows. I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. Collin remained in his car for several minutes, still talking on the phone. Eventually, he ended the call and got out. He disappeared into the building.
More employees arrived. All wearing suits and dresses. All carrying briefcases and portfolios. They filed into the building like lemmings, one after the other. By ten o’clock, cars filled the quiet the parking lot. Now it was time to play the waiting game.
I read two magazines and then listened to the radio. At noon, Collin came outside and hopped into his car. I trailed him to a nearby café and parked in an adjacent lot.
I turned on my dashboard camera as he entered the café. He sat at a table near the window. The woman waiting for him sported a white tank top and blue jeans. A dark-green baseball cap and sunglasses shielded her face. As Collin sat down, she waved at him with a muscular arm, almost manly compared to Bellanca.
Collin and the mystery woman smiled at each other the whole time they talked. After about a minute, a waitress came to their table. As she took their orders, my cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed Hercules’s number.
Herc was the son of Zeus and stepson of Hera. He was also my best friend and an all-around swell guy—Demigod or not. We met twelve years ago, when I was still an OBI agent. One of the perks of being with the bureau was having access to their special training facility. As it happened, Herc used to work out there too. It was the only place adapted for his special fitness needs. I guess I bit off more than I could chew while doing chest presses. My arms gave out during a rep, and the bar landed on my chest. It knocked the wind out of me and pinned me to the bench.
Herc picked up the barbell as if it were made of paper-mache, and helped me to my feet. My chest throbbed and it hurt to breathe. When he asked if I was okay, I lied and told him I was fine, and thanked him for helping out. After he walked away, I gave myself a few minutes to recover, and then resumed working out.
I tried to do another set, but my ego was stronger than my arms. The bar fell yet again. Herc offered to spot me. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted, so I wised up and agreed. Afterward, we chatted about college football and instantly clicked. We’ve been pals ever since.
“Herc,” I said.
“Hey, Jones. You busy?”
“Spying on a mark. How about you?”
“Just sitting on the couch. Watching some TV. Trying not to have a mental breakdown.”
“Uh oh,” I said. “What is it this time?”
“Hebe. She wants to remodel the kitchen. Again.”
Hebe was Herc’s wife and the Goddess of Youth. Herc introduced me to her a couple months after the gym incident. At six-two, the blond-haired beauty had legs like a supermodel. Unfortunately, she had all the bearing of a 1980s valley girl. I never heard the word like spoken so many times in a single sentence.
“Oh no,” I gasped. “Not . . . the kitchen. I can understand the bathroom or the living room. But the kitchen? That wife of yours has gone too far this time.”
“Ha ha, very funny. This is serious. You know how much it costs to remodel a kitchen?”
“I never really considered it.”
“A lot, that’s how much. I don’t get it, Jonesy. Hebe just remodeled the kitchen two years ago. It looks fine. Looks great, in fact. Heck, the paint hasn’t even dried yet. That’s fifty-credits-per-gallon paint, mind you. Why can’t she ever leave well enough alone?” Herc went silent.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“Much. Anyway, I’m going to the Night Owl this weekend. You coming?”
“Of course. I’m always up for a little late-night revelry.”
“Great, great. Look, Jonesy, I gotta go. Gonna try to talk Hebe out of this remodeling nonsense. Call you later.”
“Alright. Try not to have a heart attack between now and then.”
“Shut up.”
I laughed. “Later, Herc.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
A few minutes later, Collin and the mystery woman finished their entrees. They talked until the check came. Collin handled it, and both of them stood up. They hugged. Collin’s hands didn’t wander, but the embrace was tight and lasted about twenty seconds. It struck me as being more than friendly.
The two of them stepped outside, hugged once more, and went their separate ways. I turned off the camera and started the engine as Collin got into his car. He went back to work and didn’t resurface until shortly after five o’ clock.
I was sure that Collin would lead me to a seedy motel on the edge of town, or to the mystery woman’s place, but he drove straight home. After he’d gone inside the house, I parked on the curb and waited to see if he was going to come out again. A half hour later, I assumed he was in for the night. I put my car in gear, did a U-turn, and headed out of the neighborhood.
The first day of the investigation had ended, and unfortunately, things didn’t go as well as I hoped. The footage of Collin and the mystery woman was only slightly incriminating. Not enough to expose him as a cheater.
I needed something a bit more concrete.
6
Apprehension knotted in my stomach at the thought of going to the office the next day. I just knew Hermes would pop in for another round of negotiations. Gods were nothing if not persistent. But to my surprise, he never showed.
The day was quiet—so quiet that I decided to leave thirty minutes early. I could avoid some of the evening rush. Traffic often turned what should be a ten-minute drive home into an hour-long journey. On the plus side, it gave me plenty of time to admire the city’s glossy veneer. New Olympia, Greece, was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, an amalgamation of new and old, where futuristic skyscrapers rose alongside ancient ruins. The city was a melting pot of races and cultures, a paradise on the surface. But it had a dark side. I had seen it firsthand.
My cramped one-bedroom apartment was on the west side of town. A uniform beige color covered the walls and carpet, and my living room window graced me with a breathtaking view of the parking lot. For the most part, the place was pretty sparse in terms of decorations. I wanted my home to look cool and unique, but I failed at interior design.
My mom once offered to spice up the place for me. Despite my apprehension, I’ve never been able to say no to my mother. I agreed to let her redo the kitchen. Big mistake. She ended up designing the entire space around a ceramic chicken wearing a chef’s hat.
As soon as I stepped inside the apartment, a sour odor invaded my nostrils. I flipped the light switch.
Liquid had soaked into a spot of the carpet near the coffee table. Shards of glass gleamed on the kitchen floor, the remnants of a fishbowl I had bought the previous week. My goldfish, Gills, was missing-in-action.
The neighbor’s cat lounged on the mantle above the fireplace, licking its chops. Its orange fur had splotches of brown and white. A red collar encircled its neck, from which hung a heart-shaped metal tag. The cat acknowledged me with a bland expression, as if to say, “What are you doing here?”
This wasn’t the first time the little creep had broken into my place. To save money during summer months, I opened my windows instead of running the air conditioner. Whenever I did this, I risked a fifty-fifty chance of a feline home invasion. Even if I opened it only a crack, the fur ball would squeeze through. That ended today. Today it was him or me.
I smiled and took slow, measured steps toward the fireplace. The cat stopped grooming itself and followed me with its eyes.
“Good kitty,” I said softly. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m just going to maim you a little.”
I walked around the coffee table and came to halt. The cat sat up. Our eyes locked. Then I charged.
The cat sprang off the mantle, barely avoiding my clutches, then took a bounding leap onto the windowsill. It narrowed its gaze, daring me to come after it.
I rose to the bait.
The cat waited until I was nice and close. Then it leapt through the window. It balanced on the ledge and vanished around the side of the building.
Damn pest.
Defeated, I slammed the window shut and grabbed a bottle of peroxide from the bathroom medicine cabinet. I poured some over the wet spot on the carpet—a urine stain, courtesy of my feline friend—and threw a towel over it. Then I grabbed a broom and dustpan from the closet and began cleaning up the shattered fishbowl. Alas, poor Gills. I knew thee well.
When I finally had a chance to sit down and relax, my cell phone rang. I considered ignoring it, but after the eighth ring, I gave in. “Hello?”
“Plato? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
It was my ex-wife. I suddenly regretted answering the phone. “Alexis. Isn’t this a wonderful surprise!” I got up and trudged to the kitchen to grab a beer. I was going to need it.
“Cut the act, Plato,” Alexis said. “You know why I’m calling.”
“I might have an idea,” I said, opening the fridge. No beer. Great.
“This is getting really old, Plato.”
I sank into the recliner and tried to get comfortable. Conversations with my ex tended to last longer than I’d like. Alexis had a habit of rephrasing the same arguments over and over.
“I agree,” I said. “That hairstyle of yours is so last Thursday.”
“Will you be serious for one minute?”
“I suppose I can do that.” I glanced at the clock. “You have exactly one minute. Go.”
“I need you to come by the house this weekend and pick up the rest of your things. They’re cluttering up the basement.”
I sucked air through my teeth. “Sorry, but I already have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“I’m hanging out with Herc this weekend, so I won’t be able to make it over there. Maybe next week.”
“That’s what you said last week. And the week before that. And the week before that. Enough is enough. Listen. Calais wants to the turn the basement into a game room. But he can’t do that with all your junk lying around.”
“Calais?” I smirked. “So that’s his name.”
“Yes, it is. What’s the matter? Are you jealous that I’ve moved on?”
It did bother me that Alexis had a new man, but I wouldn’t say that I was jealous. My biggest grievance was that her loser boyfriend lived in my house, the house I paid for.
“On the contrary, I couldn’t be happier,” I lied. “I hope you and Callus
have a wonderful life together.”
“His name is Calais. And I know you don’t mean any of that. You never let go of things easily. You know, you should really get out there and start dating.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it. The conversation was taking an uncomfortable turn. It was probably best to end it before things got awkward.
“Well, I’ve enjoyed our little talk, but now I have to go.”
“Not so fast,” Alexis said quickly, before I could hang up. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily. I still have something I want to ask you.”
I fought the urge to curse. “And what would that be?”
“Calais’s nephew just moved to town. He was wondering if you could set him up with a job at your agency. Maybe you could put him on as a personal assistant or something.”
I sat motionless for a moment, gazing at the ceiling. That beer would’ve come in handy right about now.
“I seem to remember you calling my agency a waste of time and money,” I reminded her.
“Hey, don’t bite my head off!” Alexis shot back. “This is Calais’s idea, not mine. I told him about the agency, and he thought you might be able to help his nephew. Will you at least consider it?”
“Sorry.”
Alexis sighed heavily into the phone. “I should have known better than to ask.”
She probably thought I refused out of spite, which was only partially true. It was more about money. Financially, my agency was teetering on the ropes, and I simply didn’t have the funds to hire more staff.
“It’s just business,” I said.
“Right.”
“Ask me again in a few months.” This was assuming I’d still be in business.
“Just forget it.”
“Okay.”
There was silence on the other end. I had the feeling Alexis’s anger was approaching critical mass.
“I tried to be cordial, Plato, I really did. But if you insist on acting like a child, I’ll treat you like one. If your junk isn’t out of here by Sunday, I’m putting it on the curb.”
Murder on Olympus Page 3