Just to clarify, that means you haven’t found any info???
I quickly typed out the words and hit send. My fingers hadn’t even moved from the phone’s keyboard when another message popped up.
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, okay then. Hadley was about to lose BFF status if she didn’t hurry with some information that could quickly be followed up with some action. Getting my butt dragged down to Hell might put a strain on our friendship.
Hellhound whined.
“We have to go in, don’t we?” I asked him.
His tail thumped faster, creating sparks of fire that bounced off the cement. Note to self: purchase portable fire extinguisher. It’d probably be put to good use one day.
“Fine, but first I have some rules,” I said to the beast. “If there’s a ghost inside that’s supposed to go to Hell, you get to drag him there. Second, you don’t drag me to Hell. Ever. For any reason. When I leave this earth, I want to go somewhere with harps, fluffy clouds, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate—and there better be no calories in that chocolate. Capisce?”
Hellhound tilted his head, and a calculated gleam appeared in his eyes.
“I’m serious.” I hefted my purse onto my shoulder and looked back down. “Oh, and rule number three: you don’t get to drag Logan anywhere until I’ve finished asking my questions.” I took off, not waiting to see what Hellhound thought of the newly established rules, but I was going to pretend a beast the size of a miniature pony was perfectly fine with them. Because if he wasn’t, something told me I’d have a major problem, and I wasn’t keen on having complications with something that could eat me.
A receptionist sat behind a stainless steel table in suite 823. I wouldn’t even call what the woman sat at as being a desk. Stainless steel letters clung to the wall above her head, forming the words Health-Tech Systems.
The woman’s short hair was matted down by a black headset, and she held a magazine open. Add in a wad of bubble gum, a tight blouse, subtract thirty years off her age, and she’d be a typical college kid trying to scrape by.
But she wasn’t thirty years younger, or a college kid, and her appearance remained hard as I approached. Even though she was getting on up in years, not a single wrinkle blemished her face. Solid proof that smiling really was bad for your skin.
“May I help you?” Her tone was no-nonsense. Friendliness apparently was not a prerequisite for the job. I wondered how that clause could be slipped into my employment contract with Maude.
I scanned the meager furnishings in the reception area. The concept the company went for was modern industrial, except it was more of a horrid clash between the two instead of an actual design scheme. I braced myself for more of the same since Logan wasn’t hanging out on the cube-shaped chairs lining the far wall, awaiting my visit. Why were my tasks in life never simple? I needed to snag a free pass for a looks-see around the office. My attention zoomed in on the new prey, wondering how I could weasel this one.
The magazine in the receptionist’s hands was a Hollywood gossip rag, and I was surprised to see that type of publication. I’d grown up believing age restrictions for trendy magazines started at age fifty. By the time a woman reached that number, she was old enough to realize only five percent of the gossip was true, there was no such thing as true love, and no matter how many flights of stairs climbed—or thigh workouts accomplished—a woman was long past the age of rocking the cute mini-skirts the A-list celebrities sported.
At least that logic was true according to Aunt Kate, my entire source of enlightenment as a child. Although, Aunt Kate still tried the skirt thing. I often had to trail behind her out in public, refraining from all acknowledgment that we were related. Although in her defense, she hadn’t quite reached fifty. Give it another year. I still had two decades to live through before I hit the magical number forcing me into the realization that Home and Garden was better suited for my daily reading requirements. Hopefully, by then I’d have a home, and perhaps even a garden. Checking Account was probably laughing straight from the bank at my lofty expectations. But he could just laugh because, fortunately, I was still plenty young to be checking out the cute skirt on the cover of the receptionist’s magazine despite the fact that it would set me back several Benjamins to purchase. I had no reason at this point in my life to stress out over home ownership… and inspiration struck. About damn time
“I would like to apply for an internship,” I said, standing up to my full height with shoulders thrown back. Achievement was in the attitude.
“We’re not hiring interns.”
Shoulders deflated. “Oh, well, that’s a problem. At school, they said I had to complete an internship before I could graduate.” I widened my eyes and leaned forward, hoping to pull off desperation, not constipation. Acting wasn’t my forte. “Is there anyone I can talk to?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring interns.”
“But the guy at the bar last week said you were.” I scrunched up my face and bit my lip. “I think he said his name was Luke, or Logan… That’s it. Logan. Logan Bradley.”
The woman set down her magazine, and her stern look softened. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Bradley is out of the office.”
“Do you know when he’ll return?”
“No, I’m not privy to his schedule.” Her telephone rang. “I’m afraid you’ll need to leave. We’re not hiring interns.”
She picked up the phone receiver, and I edged toward the front door. Hellhound gave a rumble of disapproval.
“Jane, hi.” Her voice sounded cheery behind me, which was surprising considering she’d been nothing but curt from the moment I’d entered. “I wrote down the information you need. It’s here somewhere, give me a second.”
The woman’s body had shifted to her side. I hovered at the entrance door, waiting for the moment I knew would soon come. She leaned down to dig in a small filing cabinet wedged underneath her table, and I made my move.
The reception area was rectangular shaped with two archways on the back wall behind the reception desk. One archway flanking each side of the table. I stepped through the opening to my left while Ms. We’re-Not-Hiring was bent in the opposite direction, and I entered into a much larger space. A row of offices lined the wall to my left. Drafting tables lined the wall to the right. An enclosed glass conference room was plopped dead center. Workspace stations peeped at me from the far back wall, located behind the conference room.
Logan was top management at the company. From what little I knew about Health-Tech, they invented medical equipment. Logan made lots of money playing around with gadgets he invented—at least according to the paperwork he’d filed with Maude.
With the small number of offices and workspace cubicles, the staffing at the company appeared limited. I crept alongside those offices as inconspicuously as possible, if inconspicuous consisted of tiptoeing while keeping my shoulders rigid as I fought to not make a sound. Along with that industrial-looking decor came hard concrete floors, and the heels of my shoes wanted to clack against it with triumphant sounds of joy. Considering all occupants I'd spotted in the room were men, I was pretty certain High Heels would make a grand entrance if I let her. No one had counseled my shoes on the word stealth.
“Are you going to Eric’s happy hour at Sullivan’s tomorrow? Man, I still can’t believe he’s getting married.”
The voice startled me, and I stepped back as two guys brushed past. Nice going with those observation skills, Missy. I’d been focused on looking for Logan’s name on office door nameplates, except I was down to the last two offices and his name had yet to appear.
“Yeah, I know. He finally found a woman who hadn’t heard about Cancun.” A tall guy whose tummy seemed to favor one too many donuts noticed me and smiled. “You looking for someone?”
“Logan Bradley?”
The man pointed toward the cubicles lining the back wall. “He sits over there, but he’s been missing—”
His coworker’s elbow strategically placed to ribs halted Mr. Donut’s words. “Logan’s not in today.”
“Yeah, he’s probably trying to get out of his date for Eric’s wed—ow! Stop that!”
“The wedding’s next month.” Co-Worker turned back to me. “Is there something we can help you with?”
“Oh, uh…” I looked around. Hellhound sat off to the side, and if the beast had eyebrows, I knew they’d be raised. Useless he was, so I was sticking to my college internship story. “I met Logan last week at a bar, and he told me if I’d stop by he’d show me what it’s like working here. He said you were hiring interns?”
“Internship, huh?” Co-Worker raised a brow. “What school are you at?”
“Uh…” Crap. Here was hoping that my alma mater had an engineering program. That was a common enough degree, so it should have one. But what if it didn’t? My feet had never strayed from the psychology lab long enough to check out the other departments, and the guys I dated back then were seeking degrees in either kinesiology or business. In other words, my college boyfriends were either really hot, or the future Mr. Bill Gates. Aunt Kate set me straight on boyfriend material at the age of sixteen when she handed me The Boyfriend Rules. I’d faithfully followed her rules since, but none of the guys meeting the rule requirements had ever lasted. And neither had any boyfriend of Aunt Kate’s for that matter. Huh.
“Not a lot of women choose engineering degrees,” Co-Worker said, jolting me into the realization that he was obviously hung up over a female engineering student.
“You really need to talk to Kenneth Thornton,” Mr. Donut cut in. He pointed to the corner office, which was one office down from where I stood. Inside sat a fifty-something bald man. His face shined the color of beets as he leaned on the edge of his chair while screaming into the mouthpiece of a telephone. Wireframe glasses were clinging to the bottom of a sharp-edged nose.
Mr. Donut turned to me. “He’s the big boss around here so if you get on his good side, you’re in. He’d probably love to have a female on the team. Not a lot of women apply for a job like this.” His words echoed that of Co-Worker’s.
“Yeah, I noticed.” I eyed the irate man. “But I don’t think now’s a good time to speak with Mr. Thornton.”
Mr. Donut cringed. “You’re probably right. We got some bad news this morning. A competitor stole our design and has already put in for a patent—ouch!”
Co-Worker removed his pointy elbow from Mr. Donut’s side. “That kind of stuff happens,” Co-Worker said. “Learn to keep your work guarded until you’re ready to present it.”
“Good advice.” I nodded, wondering how to ditch the two. Nice, but hindering to my undercover investigation. A ghost still had to be found, and technical conversation topics to avoid. With everything I knew about engineering degrees and jobs, I was screwed if those two got anywhere near specific on the subject. I squirmed, the weight of my stance shifting on Legs as Eyes beseeched Co-Worker’s while plan number who-knows-what-at-this-point sprang into mind “I’m embarrassed to ask, but is there a restroom?”
“You’ll have to exit the suite,” Co-worker said. “The entire floor of this building shares a bathroom.”
And, crap. My plans sucked. No let’s show you around potential intern card, and no leave me alone so I can sneak a look around restroom to find. I forced a smile instead of issuing a frustrated growl. Might as well go for blunt. Nothing else worked. “Mind if I continue looking around on my way out?”
Mr. Donut shrugged. “Sure, go ahead. Let us know if you apply for a position.”
“I will.” I smiled until my face cramped, then had to rub the soreness from my cheeks after the men walked away. I found it rather shocking they’d left me to freely roam after confiding that their work had been stolen. I took another peek at Mr. Thornton. Big boss, huh? I’d been under the impression Logan was pretty much the top guy at the company, but Mr. Donut had pointed toward the workstations. Head honchos didn’t sit in cubicles.
I curved around the back wall and passed occupied desks until I stopped at an empty one. A crooked nameplate that read Logan Bradley was slapped up on the entrance of the cube. Mind whirled because, what the hell? I’d already been duped by Gina Welch, and now the hard rock wedged in the pit of my stomach informed I’d been duped by Logan Bradley, too. Where did these people get the extra cash flow for Maude’s outrageous fees? I didn’t even have the extra money for a weekly coffee splurge at Maude’s favorite, Java Addiction. Where did the cash come from for top designer clothes and expensive jewelry? Gina had carried a two-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton handbag that had left me drooling.
Maude was picky about her clientele. Image was everything, of course. She’d be furious to discover she could have matched both a hooker and fraud with her other wealthy clients instead of with each other. Maude catered only to the elite upper-class, which was why her fees alone sent the rest of us mere striving to be middle-class mortal souls to online dating instead of psychic Maude Taggart when desperate for love. The pit of my stomach dropped as a sudden question nagged. Were her other clients truly wealthy?
Legs gave, and I fell into Logan’s desk chair. It was more of a collapse really, and my butt bounced in the plush seat as it hit. Breaths rushed out of me in quick pants. I needed a paper bag. Didn’t people on television always use paper bags when hyperventilating? I bent forward and braced my arms on my knees. Mind refused to stray away from sick-inducing thoughts: How many times had I been duped? New background checks on all of Maude’s clients was shoved to the top of my to-do list.
“Who are you?”
My head jerked up at the sound of the voice, and I found myself staring at thin build, dark hair, and a receding hairline. It was the guy Detective Wilcox had followed at the mall. I was certain of it.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Which question did he want answered first? The design drafts scattered on Logan’s desk didn't provide sudden inspiration for the answer I sought. I sucked in a deep breath, fighting to calm my racing pulse, and said, “I’m looking for Logan Bradley.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not here.”
“I can see that. When do you think he’ll be back?”
His weight shifted, drawing my notice to his clenched fists as he asked, “Who are you?”
“I met Logan last week at a bar. He told me to stop by and apply for an internship.”
“No, he didn’t. You’ve got two seconds to explain who you are before I call the police.”
“Hey, Eric?”
Saved by a voice, my breath whooshed out in relief. A young guy appeared in my view as he stopped next to thin build guy, who apparently was the soon-to-be-married, Eric. Was the woman I spotted Eric with at Chester’s his doesn’t-know-about-Cancun fiancée?
My focus flipped back to Young Guy, whose vibe was intense. Stress lines marred his forehead, and he furiously clicked with his right hand at an ink pen clutched in a tight grip. “Thornton wants you. This is bad. That design’s expected to make waves, and Thornton needs the revenue. You don’t think Logan—”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Eric interrupted, flashing a pointed look in my direction.
Young Guy’s eyes followed Eric’s gaze until they landed on me. “Who are you?”
“Leaving,” I said. “I’d stopped by to speak with Logan because he said you guys had internships available. I guess he was lying, so I’ll leave.”
Eric’s mouth opened. Pure censure reflected in sharp eyes, that was one hundred percent directed at me. He knew I lied. I watched as his lips started to move, words starting to take form. He was going to call me out and—
“I don’t think it’s a good time to be hiring,” Young Guy said. “Come on, Eric. Thornton’s on a call and wants you in there now.”
Eric’s mouth closed, and he left. My heart thudded. I pushed to my feet and began retracing my steps. Eric appeared as agitated as Tho
rnton when I passed by the boss’s office. The two men were both staring at a telephone.
Eric also had an office. The discovery brought my quick steps to a sudden halt. Eric Kane. I stared hard at his nameplate, and my thoughts turned into a blur. Who exactly was Eric Kane, and why had he been the only person suspicious of me discussing internships with Logan? Most importantly, why had he been followed by Detective Wilcox?
Something was off about this guy. But unless he could lead me straight to Logan Bradley’s ghost, Eric Kane was not my problem. And with that determined resolution, I left.
Chapter Eleven
Maude’s ten o’clock appointment walked through the front doors of Fated Match five minutes early the next morning. I looked up at Benjamin Neely with dry eyes. One blink and my eyelids stuck together. Dang mascara.
“I’m here to see Maude Taggart.” Benjamin had a soft voice and a pudgy face. His squinty eyes were peering down at me when I finally pried my right eyelid open far enough to see him.
“Yes, Mr. Neely. Maude will be with you in a moment,” I said and reached for the keyboard to inform Maude. She preferred instant messaging when a client arrived so she could walk out of her office without appearing notified. Psychics knew all, after all, yet we still made the client fill out questionnaires.
The computer screen was in a solid shade of black, and I touched at my right eye to ensure the lid remained apart. It was. The left eyelid was then pried open to being greeted by the same blackness welcoming the right. After minutes of hitting, kicking, and going all Office Space where Computer Screen played the lead role of Printer, I discovered the blasted machine was turned off. Apparently, I’d been staring at nothing for the past hour without even realizing it. Huh.
Reaping Havoc: Kiara Blake Book 1 Page 11