Temper

by Alex C. Hughes

  Temper

  A Mindspace Investigations

  Novella (Book #4.7)

  Alex Hughes

  I stared straight forward, over the mess on my desk, out into the lobby of our new PI firm. I stared so I didn’t have to look at the bills we couldn’t pay, or the empty spot on my hip that used to hold a police-issue holster before they fired me. I stared so I wouldn’t think about what I’d lost. The charges were trumped up; I’d been set up by some person or persons I didn’t know. Had to be. I hadn’t done more than give the guy a few bruises—and even that, after he’d started it. I certainly hadn’t killed him, and I would prove that innocence if it was the last thing I ever did. Which it might be, at this rate.

  I sighed.

  “You okay?” Adam asked me, from a few feet away at his own desk. “You seem…”

  “I seem what?” I asked, defensive. He was a telepath, and a good one, one of the few working outside of the exclusive and expensive Telepaths’ Guild. He was also an ex-addict, a friend, and until a few weeks ago, somebody I’d been dating. He probably already knew everything in my head, which made me resentful. “What?”

  He looked at me, cautious. “You seem off.”

  “It’s been a hell of a week, and we need more clients,” I said. I couldn’t pay the bills at this point, not even with the papers I’d served. I got testy when I couldn’t pay the bills. It wasn’t fair to him for me to be testy, not after he’d come out and founded this PI firm with me, so I was trying to shut up.

  “We’ll get more clients,” Adam said, with the reassuring faith of the blind. It made me hate him a little, just then.

  The office phone rang, and Adam picked it up. “Mindspace Investigations,” he said, that stupid name I’d let him pick. Then he sat up a little straighter. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, unable to help myself. Maybe it was a client. Maybe it was the ice cream man in the middle of February, I told myself. Don’t get too excited.

  “Branen,” he mouthed and turned back to his desk, looking for paper and a pencil on its too-clean surface.

  I was angry in a burst then, and then sad. Left out. Lieutenant Branen had been my boss at the police station until recently, and I’d thought, until lately, a friend. He didn’t take my calls anymore.

  I looked down while Adam continued the phone call. “It’s not a good day for you to go in,” I said—words from that panicky feeling, out of that sadness. I knew as soon as I said it that it was wrong.

  Adam put his hand over the receiver. “I’m going in. We need the money.”

  He was right, but I didn’t like it. He spent another minute on the phone, and when he was done, I was back to that careful blankness. If I couldn’t be calm and supportive and practical about the money, I could at least be blank. “Just go,” I said.

  Adam stood up, and as the winter sunlight from the window hit his face, I saw all over again why I’d be willing to date him. He was handsome, sometimes—and utterly unreliable, I told myself.

  “We need the money, and Freeman’s going to be pissed if I’m late,” Adam said, tentatively. Like he was looking for permission. But he didn’t need my permission; that was the problem.

  When I was silent for a while longer, he finally said, “I can’t give you your job back. I’ve done everything in my power twice over, and I can’t. You know that. We need the money, Cherabino. Me sitting around here won’t make you feel better anyway. I need to go.”

  “I know,” I said, trying again for that blank, nothing feeling. “I know. Just go.”

  He looked like a beaten puppy for a moment, and that made me feel worse, but in the end, he grabbed his coat and went.

  This had to get better. Didn’t it?

  About ten minutes later, I looked up as a man in a long coat walked by the huge windows in front of the office and paused in front of the door. Mindspace Investigations, the sign on the door read. I wished I’d pushed Adam harder to pick a less combative name. At the time, I’d thought he’d be around more. I’d thought that maybe people would want a telepath investigating for them. But now he was busy working with the department I couldn’t work for anymore, bringing in the only major money we made. I had nothing in the way of superpowers, telepathy, telekinesis, whatever. I’d only met the Guild twice, and both times had been because Adam was in trouble with them. I was just a cop—or I had been. I didn’t know what I was now.

  I sat up as the man opened our front door, the bell ringing above his head, the cold air from the outside rushing in. “Hello?” he called out in a velvety voice that touched me in all the right places.

  I stood up and crossed the twenty feet from the office area to the reception part of the office. We couldn’t afford a receptionist, but without customers, we probably didn’t need one. I shivered as the winter cold from outside filled the reception area.

  “You looking for a private investigator?” I asked. I smiled and didn’t cross my arms. I’d rather interrogate him than be friendly, but no matter how many years I’d been a cop, some guys saw a smile from a woman and relaxed. Relaxed people hired PIs. Presumably.

  I got closer, and the man came into focus. He took off his coat, revealing a well-cut suit that clung to a narrow waist and the kind of sculpted arms you got from serious time at a gym. He had a strong jaw, a full head of perfectly groomed hair, and piercing blue eyes that cut through me. Handsome as sin, and as he met my eyes, I realized he knew it. Which ruined the effect.

  His gaze swiped me up and down, and that mouth widened in an appreciative smile. “Hello, beautiful. Your reputation didn’t say a thing about good looks.”

  “Charmer,” I said, in a tone that made it clear I was flattered but unmoved. “And what does this so-called reputation say?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

  His smile changed to something more dangerous. “Only that you’re someone who’s not afraid of a good fight. That’s exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I said. I held out a hand to take his coat and hung it up on a peg in the reception area. “Why don’t you follow me to my desk and we’ll talk more,” I said.

  “Sure thing.”

  I felt his attention on me as I walked to the desk. For once, I had put on a skirt, albeit a practical wool one with boots and a wrap top. Apparently, the effort had paid off. Chills ran up my spine; this client had some serious attraction going for him, and it had been a long time since a stranger paid me attention. But I had been a cop too long to trust this sudden charm, especially right out of the gate, on first meeting—this guy wanted something, and he wasn’t above using sexuality to get it.

  I pulled over a chair from Adam’s desk and set it in front of mine, pointing for the client to have a seat.

  “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m Isabella Cherabino. I’m one of the two partners here at the PI firm. May I ask your name?” I started, as I settled into my own office chair and folded my hands on the desk in front of me.

  He smiled again, a lady-killer smile heavy on the charm. Again, too strong. “Of course. I’m James Collins. My family owns Collins Steel & Manufactory on the south side of DeKalb. I’d like to hire you.”

  I waited.

  The smile slipped just a little, and I saw his frustration. He glanced down at the hands he’d folded on his lap. “I’m being blackmailed, and I need you to find out who’s doing it.”

  I crossed my legs under the desk. After a moment, I asked, “Why are you being blackmailed?”

  “Why do you need to know?” His eyes met mine in what felt like a challenge.

  I shifted, both feet now on the floor, annoyed. I took a breath and forced myself to relax. This was a client. We needed the money. “If I’m going to find the person doing this,
having all the information will make it a great deal easier on both of us.” I then added, “Once we’ve signed the contract, whatever you say to me is covered by privilege, the same as it would be with a lawyer. Legally, I have the right to not testify against you regarding any of our conversations.” Adam had looked up the laws around that, and the phrase came surprisingly easily from memory. In practice, I’d probably be thrown in jail if it really came up, but we’d agreed it probably wouldn’t come up.

  Collins frowned and looked to the side. “Well. Um. The plant has been using materials that aren’t quite up to code. They’re plenty good enough—the steel beams will carry their loads to full safety specs under normal temperature ranges. And we advertise the ranges to our customers. But in the last ten years, the regulatory bodies have wanted very expensive supermaterials incorporated into the core of certain beams. Our customers won’t pay more for them, and they literally cost more than our profit margin. The old way is fine. The problem is that there was an accident. A building collapsed, and people died. This was overseas, in the middle of a very hot desert, outside the temperature range. And it wasn’t even our product. Doesn’t matter. If the truth comes out right now, it’s a PR nightmare, and the regulatory bodies can and will shut us down. It would cost eight hundred people their jobs.” He looked back up at me. If he had smiled again then, I think I would have hated him, but he just looked at me, frustrated. “Anyway, you need to find this guy and shut him down. I’m sick of dealing with him.”

  “So you want me to find the blackmailer who’s holding your business accountable to the regulators?”

  “No. I want you to stop the guy who’s bleeding me for all he thinks he can get away with. He’s raised his prices three times now, and frankly, I’m pissed. Can you do it or not?”

  I thought about it, and about the fact that his family owned a factory—which meant they owned plenty of money, too. “It’s not a problem,” I said slowly, “but it is going to cost you a higher rate than my standard.” He could afford it, and I wasn’t wading into the deep end on a morally questionable issue without being able to pay a good portion of the bills that had been piling up. Even if the blackmailer did seem like a scumbag. I’d been a cop way too long to feel quite comfortable with people evading the law just because it was convenient—that was a slippery slope that ended with the cops involved and me investigating murders. Or at least it had. But we did need the money, and this was the job that was here. And he had said the materials were safe within range, though I’d confirm that. If they were labeled correctly, he wasn’t actually hurting anyone.

  He smiled then, the charmer grin mixed with something that may have even been sincere. “I can afford it.”

  “I’m counting on that,” I said and leaned forward. “Tell me about the blackmail. I assume he or she is sending notes?”

  “He or she?”

  I smiled a tight smile. “What can I say, I’m a feminist at heart. Blackmail notes don’t seem to be the kind of thing that requires a Y chromosome, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Well, of course,” he said, laying on the charm again, but clearly lying even so.

  I found myself liking him, despite myself, and pulled things back to the case. “The notes?”

  He shrugged. “They’re cut out of the newspaper and glued to notebook paper, nothing special. I brought one here. My lawyer has the rest.” He put a plain piece of paper with cutout soya-newspaper letters pasted on it—like a bad movie prop—on the desk in front of me. The letter was in a clear-fiber sleeve to protect it, and the text was unimaginative. Give me money or I’ll tell. Nothing of interest.

  “Has this been tested for fingerprints or DNA?” I asked him.

  He frowned, hard. “Yeah. Nothing there—three labs have looked already.”

  I didn’t know which labs he was using, but after three different labs, the actual paper was pretty useless to me. Nothing left. Which, of course, made my job harder. “How old is this letter?” I asked him. “How long have similar letters been arriving, and where do you get them?”

  “They started a year ago. I’m getting them at the office—which is a publicly listed address. Anybody can get it. Anyway, I paid the guy. I paid him every month. Left the money at the drop he said. Now he wants more from me or he’ll go to the police. This is the third time he’s escalated the price since the accident a month ago, and it’s starting to get insulting. Plus, I don’t think he’s going to keep his end of the bargain. I’m not paying another red cent.”

  “And going to the police would be bad because…?”

  That made him angry; his body language tensed up. “Police would mean press. Negative press would mean a stock plummet. Eight hundred jobs, Ms. Cherabino. Eight hundred jobs.”

  “Why not just improve your materials? Wouldn’t it be cheaper than paying blackmail money and then hiring me?”

  “I told you, that will kill our profit margins,” he spat. “If I’m not making money, there’s not any point in having a steel mill in the first place.”

  I waited, but he said nothing else. His priorities were clear here.

  Finally, he smiled again and turned the charm back on. My instincts told me he was hiding something deeper than the priorities. I’d find out what, one way or the other. Yeah, Collins had gotten me interested. If it wasn’t a cut and dry justice case, well, at least it was a mystery. Something to figure out. And that—and our money situation—was enough to make me take the case.

  I asked a few more questions, getting more information to start tracking down leads, including his list of enemies, and then pulled out the contract from another drawer and started to walk him through the payment plan. “There’s a thirty percent surcharge, like I said.”

  He nodded, smiling that charming smile. It left me cold, but I played along. Men were a lot easier to read if they thought you were attracted to them.

  Information received, and Collins safely gone, I rummaged through my papers until I found the number I wanted. I picked up the phone and called. It rang four times.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice said, deep and comforting.

  “Hi, Tyler, it’s Isabella. Cherabino. You still working the Manufacturing District south of the Air and Spaceport?”

  “That’s right,” he said. The chatter of the police department’s cubicle pool all around him came through the phone. I missed that chatter. “What’s this about?”

  “I need some help on a case. Guy by the name of James Collins, owns the Collins steel company.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” Tyler’s tone was unexpectedly cautious.

  “What’s going on? You working a current case with him or something?”

  “No,” he said and left it there.

  For a second, I wondered if he knew I’d been fired, but then I told myself he worked at a different precinct, in a different specialty department. There was no reason he’d know, and I wasn’t about to bring it up. “Feels like he’s keeping some kind of secret. What can you tell me about him?”

  Tyler let out a long breath. I could almost see him sitting back in his office chair in the cubicle. “Well. His family’s loaded, but it’s all related to real estate and steel, and the real estate’s not worth much since the fallout from the Tech Wars bombs contaminated things.”

  “It’ll be another two decades at least before that fades,” I said. Pollution was bad enough, but radiation? Even low-level radiation was trouble. And if his family’s money was completely tied up in the steel mill, that gave him even more reason to want to keep things running smoothly. “Any accusations of criminal activity?”

  “Well, he’s not a fan of the union, I can tell you that much. His father got along okay with the union leaders ten years ago, but since your boy took over in the last five, the unions have gone on strike twice. Never lasted more than a month, but you have to wonder, anybody’s going to let it go that far…”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Stubborn and not afraid of the media. I hear you. Have any enemies that y
ou know about?”

  “Other than the unions? Well. He’s in the middle of mob territory there. Can’t say I’ve heard much of anything about him paying the tax, so to speak, but it wouldn’t surprise me. It’s getting more expensive to run a legitimate business down this way. And he’s rumored to have an ex-girlfriend who wants him dead. She set his garage on fire once, or so the story goes. Bad for her, he was home at the time, and the housekeeper got it out with a fire extinguisher. He caught the ex in the act, but it’s not like we have a corroborator. Housekeeper isn’t talking.”

  “You know this guy pretty well,” I said, curious now.

  He paused then finally said, “He’s running in the same circles as another case I’m working. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I thought for a minute. “Is there any way you can get me the name of his girlfriend? Maybe a background check or more information on the company?” Collins had given me some high-level information on his life, but my bullshit radar was pinging, and I’d rather know what I could about him going into this. Plus, if history had anything to say about it, his blackmailer was somebody close to him anyway. Figuring out his secrets was all part of the job as far as I was concerned.

  “I’m limited in what I can share,” he said, voice cautious again.

  “Look, I get that. But I’ve helped you out more than once here.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t you come over tonight, and I’ll bring what I can and see what I can help you talk through. Off the record.” His voice was warmer now.

  I was thrown off guard. We’d talked maybe once every few months, and I hadn’t seen him—much less his condo—in over a year. I settled for asking, “You’re just trying to get me to cook for you, aren’t you?”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Eight o’clock work for you?”

  “Eight o’clock is perfect.”

  The phone rang in the office, and I picked it up. “Cherabino and Ward, Private Investigators.”