by Holly Rayner
TWO
Morgan strolled along the busy city streets, relishing being in the fresh air. Houston in springtime was pleasant—at least, when there weren’t any floods or thunderstorms. The tropical climate was perfect for her dry skin, and she enjoyed living in the heat.
She was pondering the distant clouds when her phone rang. Reaching for it, she didn’t recognize the phone number, though it was a Houston area code, and she tapped the answer key.
“Morgan Springfield,” she said, her usual professional greeting.
“Hello?” The accented male voice on the other end sounded confused. Maybe it was a wrong number. Morgan considered hanging up.
“Hello,” she said, waiting for the man to get to what he was calling about. It better not be some kind of telemarketing scam. Morgan had already had to put one man in his place today, and didn’t quite feel like doing it again.
“Hello, miss. My name is Ahmed. I’ve heard that you are a private detective, yes?”
Morgan’s heart gave a little leap. This could mean a job!
“That’s correct. Can you tell me your full name, sir?”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line.
“It’s best if I don’t tell you my full name on the phone. Miss Springfield, I found your website after an extensive internet search, and I think you are the best person to help me with a simple search job. Would you be willing to meet me later this evening?”
Morgan tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. She had been so bored after weeks of no new jobs, and, if she was being honest, so desperate to have funds coming in. She worked to keep her thoughts clear.
“Where would you like to meet?” she asked.
“There is a restaurant downtown, Abu Nawas. Have you heard of it?”
Morgan’s eyebrows rose. Had she heard of it? Abu Nawas was one of the most exclusive and expensive places in town, and she’d heard the food was exquisite—not that she’d ever been able to afford to visit. It was a Middle-Eastern place, which would explain the man’s accent.
“I have, and I would be happy to meet you there,” she said, hoping that he wasn’t expecting her to actually eat; she couldn’t afford the water there, never mind the food.
“Excellent! If you could meet us there at eleven tonight, that would be perfect.”
“I’ll be there, Ahmed,” she said.
“You will? Very good! Very good. We look forward to seeing you this evening, Miss Springfield. Goodbye.”
And the call was ended. It didn’t escape Morgan’s attention that Ahmed had originally said she would be meeting with him, but said “we” at the end of the call, implying that she would be meeting with a group. Eleven at night was late for a meet up, though Morgan assumed that it might perhaps be a cultural thing.
Regardless, the man had to be rich if he wanted to meet her at Abu Nawas, and Morgan was ready to watch her bank account grow again.