by Gerri Hill
Eighty-two years old and he still managed to make the trek to the bay, four blocks away. She doubted anyone would guess his age. He was still spry and walked with a youthful grace, his shoulders square, not hunched. She’d told him more than once that he was her inspiration for growing old. He’d then told her that she needed to start taking better care of herself. Then he’d smiled impishly. Or get some cute young woman to take care of her, he’d said. She’d been surprised. They’d never once discussed her personal life. She’d never mentioned to him that she was gay. Why would she? The last ten years, the few times she’d slept with someone…there was never any need to tell Sammy about it. Certainly not the last time—the woman from the bar.
She opened her desk drawer and pulled out the key. The key. The key that had been in the safe deposit box…the unmarked, unclaimed key. She twirled it around in her fingers, wondering how many hundreds—thousands—of times she’d done that in the last ten years. She’d racked her brain trying to think of things it might go to. There were no markings on it. It was a copy of a key. She assumed the original had either been in his office or home. Had her mother even bothered keeping his things?
Why had he left the key in the safe deposit box? Why had he left three keys in the envelope and not all four? Well, the likely reason was because this fourth key had been in the safe deposit box at the time of him writing the note and the other three keys had already been in his possession.
The final key in the envelope had been to the front door of this old building. She never knew why her father had bought it or why he’d purchased it in her name twenty-odd years ago when she’d first started college. It wasn’t exactly in the part of town where a prestigious law firm would be located, so that wasn’t it. And of course, at the time, she had no aspirations of having her own office. Three months after she’d received the envelope, she realized she was too young—and too bored—to not have a job. Law enforcement was her only skill, so she did the next best thing—she got a job as a security guard. That had lasted all of six months. Another four months went by before she decided to open her own agency. An agency with one private investigator—her—and no receptionist or assistant. Moonlight Avenue Investigations.
She’d almost taken her father’s idea—Knight and Knight. Or simply Finley Knight Investigations. But in the end, she chose to keep it more ambiguous. Whether it was the prospect of her mother finding out or not, she wasn’t sure. To this day, she still didn’t know if her mother knew of her profession or not.
She downed the last of the scotch, pausing to savor it before swallowing. She’d already heard Sammy creeping down the stairs and she didn’t want to put him behind on his cleaning. She opened her office door just as he pulled the vacuum out of the hall closet.
“That burger won’t hold you all night,” he said. “Best stop for something on your way home.”
“What makes you think there’s nothing at my house to eat?”
He laughed. “Oh, Finn, I’ve seen your fridge. You’re getting too damn skinny.” He shook his finger at her. “I told you, you need to start taking better care of yourself. You’re not a spring chicken anymore, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.” She touched his shoulder affectionately. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good Lord willing,” he murmured with a smile.
The breeze off the bay made the air damp and cold. It wasn’t unpleasant though. She paused at her car, looking up into the dark sky, seeing a few stars twinkling overhead. The feel of the breeze, the salty scent of the air…both familiar. She’d been born and raised in Corpus. After her father was killed, she’d thought about moving. College was over. She had her degree. She could go anywhere and start over. But this was home.
Out of habit, she glanced into the backseat of her car, then got inside. Was she sorry she hadn’t moved? If she had to do it over again, would she? She started up the car. She had no friends. She had no lover. She had no family. She took a deep breath, then stared out onto the dark street of Moonlight Avenue. There was Sammy. He was her friend. He was her family. A ghost of a smile lit her face, then disappeared quickly.
With a sigh, she drove off. Sammy was right. There was nothing in her fridge except a few bottles of beer and perhaps a couple of bottles of water and a butter dish that was empty. Her freezer contained a handful of tasteless frozen dinners that had been in there for more months than she could recall. Grocery shopping—cooking—wasn’t really her thing. Instead of taking Ocean Drive to her house, she headed into the city. It seemed like a nice night for seafood.
Chapter Six
Mr. Frazier was a small man. She stood at five seven. He was at least two inches shorter than she was. He read through the report silently. Finn watched his expression, his brows drawing together occasionally, a quick nod here and there. Then he scratched the side of his head absently, his eyes no longer on the pages she’d given him.
“So it’s true? She’s having an affair? With this guy?”
“Appears that way. I wasn’t actually in the room with them.”
He looked her square in the eyes. “I’m paying you a handsome fee. Is she sleeping with this guy or not?”
She blew out a breath. Why did they always want her to confirm what the pictures showed? “I’ve been in the business long enough…yeah, she’s having an affair. But then again, he could be teaching her to do the tango or something.”
“Yeah, right. At a massage parlor? At a hotel?”
“Unless you put a camera in the room or catch them in the act, this is all I got. They’re being careful, that’s for sure. Maybe this is new. Maybe that’s why they’re being so cautious. A couple of weeks from now, maybe they’ll slip up. Or maybe she’ll invite him to your house, to your bed.”
He stared at one of the photos she’d included, then held it up. “This guy?”
She motioned to the pages he held. “Drake. Michael R. Drake.”
“Drake, huh?”
“That’s all I got.”
“That’s it?”
“You didn’t pay me to find out about him. You paid me to do surveillance on your wife.”
“So I did.”
He paced in front of her desk, an odd expression on his face. It wasn’t anger, which is what she would have expected. And it wasn’t shock. But why would it be? He’d already suspected an affair.
“So he hasn’t been to my house yet?”
“No. At least not since I’ve been on the job. I would assume if he’s been to your house, there’d be no need for the Best Western.”
He folded up the pages that he held. “These are mine, right?”
“Yes. I also have an electronic copy for you.”
“I don’t need it. What do I owe you, Ms. Knight?”
“With the five hundred dollar retaining fee applied, fifteen hundred and ten.”
He was muttering to himself as he signed his check. She remained silent. After all these years, she still didn’t know how—or if—to console them.
He handed the check over and she took it from him. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Frazier. May I offer some advice?”
He stared at her questioningly.
“Take a day or two to cool off. You might do something you’re going to regret.”
His smile was forced. “Oh, you have no idea.”
He left quickly and she tried not to think about what lay in store for Connie Frazier. She always hated this part of the job…having to tell someone their spouse was cheating on them. When it was women, they’d sit across from her and cry and she’d have to offer meaningless soothing words to them as she handed over the box of tissue. Men? Quite the opposite. Never tears. Always anger, with revenge on the brain. She wasn’t sure which she hated more.
But then again, it wasn’t anger that she’d seen on Daniel Frazier’s face.
Chapter Seven
Dee Woodard covered her mouth as she yawned, taking a quick glance up into the dreary gray sky. The breeze off the bay was cold
and she barely resisted turning up the collar of her jacket to ward off the chill.
“Man, I hate these early morning calls,” complained her partner, Joel Yearwood. “I didn’t even get coffee.”
“I did. And it’s not that early.” She looked at her watch. Seven thirty. She’d been up since five. Another sleepless night—she was actually thankful for the call.
“There won’t be any evidence, you know. Even if the body wasn’t washed up with the tide, it’ll still be contaminated. On top of that, it’s going to rain like any second now.”
“Quit complaining,” she said as they trudged through the sand toward the pier.
“It’s just…Jordie was over. Still sleeping when I left.”
“Oh, yeah? I thought she dumped your ass,” she teased as she nudged his shoulder.
“So did I. She said she missed me. Go figure.”
“She doesn’t miss the hours you keep. Wasn’t that the source of contention between you?”
“Yeah, she hates my job. Afraid I’m going to get shot.”
The body was lying face down in the sand. Dark hair was matted with blood. Dee nodded at the two officers who stood watch.
“Detectives,” one greeted. “Hard to tell if the tide washed him up or if he was dumped right here.”
She squatted down beside the body, already putting on her gloves. “There’s still blood. I don’t imagine he was out in the gulf.”
Joel put on gloves too and bent over, moving the hair aside. “Single shot looks like.”
“Small caliber, not much damage,” she murmured. She looked up at the officers. “Who found him?”
“An older couple doing a little shell hunting,” one said. “Found him at first light. We got their information, then sent them on their way.”
She nodded as she patted the tops of his pockets, looking for a wallet or a phone. His pockets appeared empty, but the jeans were soaked and the denim was heavy. She reached inside the front right pocket and pulled out a business card. She glanced at it, then handed it to Joel. “Nothing else.”
“Moonlight Avenue Investigations,” he read. “Private eye?”
She shrugged and took the card from him. “I’ll check it out. You can wait for the ME.”
“Oh, come on, Dee. I don’t want to sit out here any more than you do.”
She gave him a fake smile and touched his cheek, slapping it gently. “But you’re the man. Isn’t that what you always tell me? You’re the man.”
He grinned. “Yeah. When it suits me.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Typical. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
* * *
The buzzer rang, signaling that someone was at the front door. Finn pushed away from her desk and stood, wondering again why she’d never bothered to hire a receptionist. She walked out into the entryway, seeing the fuzzy shadow of a person through the tinted glass.
She opened the door, coming face-to-face with a woman perhaps a few years older than she was, light brown hair just brushing the top of her shoulders. Finn wouldn’t swear on it, but the woman’s demeanor screamed “cop” loud and clear.
“I’m Finley Knight. May I help you?”
The woman opened her jacket a little at the waist, showing Finn her shield and duty gun. It appeared to be a Glock, much like the one she carried. Finn nodded, flicking her gaze back to the woman’s face.
“I’m Detective Woodard. Just need to ask you a few questions.”
Finn raised her eyebrows. “About?”
Detective Woodard looked past her. “May we go inside?”
With a sigh, Finn stepped aside and let the detective in. She closed the door, then headed back to her office, Detective Woodard following close behind.
Finn motioned to one of the chairs, then sat down behind her desk. “What can I do for you?”
The detective placed an evidence bag on her desk. Inside the clear plastic was a business card. Her card. It was quite rumpled and appeared to be wet. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“That’s yours, I’m assuming?”
“Seeing as how the sign on my door says Moonlight Avenue Investigations…”
“I guess what I’m asking is, are there other investigators here beside yourself, Ms. Knight?”
She shook her head. “Just me.” She glanced pointedly at the card. “Is it significant?”
“There was a body found under the Packery Channel Pier this morning. No ID. Nothing found except your business card.”
“I see.” Finn tried to keep her expression even as Detective Woodard stared at her. She gave her business card out all the time. It could be from anyone. Although she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Daniel Frazier actually killed Michael Drake. But why leave her card on the body? No. It made no sense.
“Do you have any idea whose this was?”
Finn shook her head. “It could be anyone. Do you have a description?”
“Dark hair, middle-aged man. Fifties. Five six or so.”
Not Michael Drake, Finn thought. He was mid-forties, at least five ten, maybe closer to six-foot tall. The detective’s cell phone rang and she pulled it off a clip that was attached to her belt.
“Excuse me.”
Finn watched her as she listened, nodding slightly at whoever was talking in her ear.
“Got it. Thanks.” She clipped the phone back without looking. “Do you know a Mr. Daniel Frazier?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“He’s a client? He hired you, I’m assuming.”
“He did.”
“In what capacity?”
Finn shook her head. “I’m sorry, Detective. That’s private and confidential.”
“He had a single gunshot wound to the head. Small caliber. Either killed right there at Packery Channel Pier or dumped there. A couple found him on the beach at daybreak.”
At that, Finn was certain she did show surprise on her face. “Daniel Frazier was the body you found on the beach?” Michael Drake, sure. She even wouldn’t have been shocked to learn that Connie Frazier was dead. But Daniel? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Detective Woodard raised her eyebrows. “That’s it?”
She leaned forward slightly. “Look, we both know how this is going to play out. You’re going to have to get a subpoena and then I’ll have to hand over my file. No need to waste time arguing about it.”
“Subpoenas take time, Ms. Knight. Murder cases grow cold very quickly.” Detective Woodard gave her a flirty smile. “Just a little help is all I’m asking.”
If there was one thing Finn prided herself on, it was sticking to her principles. Her clients expected privacy. That was something she never wavered on. She leaned back in her chair, meeting the light brown eyes of Detective Woodard. Yes, she was attractive. And there was no ring on her finger. But…
“I’m sorry, Detective. I have my reputation to think about.”
The flirty smile disappeared quickly. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday morning. He left here a few minutes before eleven.”
“How much contact had you had with him?”
“I met with him twice and spoke on the phone once.”
“So he wasn’t a regular client?”
“No.”
“And what is it that you specialize in, Ms. Knight?”
Finn smiled at her attempt to garner information. “I specialize in a lot of things, Detective Woodard. Perhaps if we got to know each other better, I could show you.”
The detective arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps if you played nice, that could be arranged.”
Finn laughed. “Come back with a subpoena, Detective. I’ll play nice then.”
But when Detective Woodard left her office, Finn’s smile faded. What in the world had Daniel Frazier done to get himself killed? Was she somehow to blame?
She shook her head. No. He hired her for a service. What he did with the information she gave him was not her concern. She assumed he would confront his wife, sure.
But what if he confronted Michael Drake instead? Again, she shook her head. How would he even find Michael Drake? Unless he followed his wife yesterday and found them together, he would have no way of locating him. Finn hadn’t given him Drake’s address.
She stared at the wall, remembering the look on Michael Drake’s face when Connie had left the motel room. A smile on his face that disappeared so quickly it was as if it was never there to begin with. What would a man like Michael Drake—a handsome, dashing man—be doing having an affair with the rather plain, somewhat plump, Connie Frazier?
Chapter Eight
Finn knew she should leave it alone. It wasn’t her deal. And when Detective Woodard came around with the subpoena, it really would be out of her hands. But until then…she felt like she owed Daniel Frazier something. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that he was killed only hours after receiving her report on his cheating wife. She was, of course, already blaming Michael Drake. The similarities between this case and her father’s murder were eerily alike…that wasn’t lost on her. Perhaps that was why she felt compelled to delve into Michael Drake’s business.
She was finding, however, that there wasn’t much business to delve into. Besides the car purchase—the red sports car—the only other hits on his name were a few sporadic credit card charges, all within the last two months. Which made her think that Michael R. Drake was created for the sole purpose of buying a flashy car to help seduce Connie Frazier.
But why?
She leaned back in her chair, again seeing the smile disappearing from Drake’s face when he closed the door to Room 113. So why an affair? What was Drake hoping to gain? Was the affair more about Daniel Frazier than it was his wife?