Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

He pointed to the necessity for a licensee to have a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice or the alternative of three years working either as a private detective in another state, three years as a police officer, or three years as an investigative employee of a licensed private-detective agency. I was sure he also didn’t have the required ten-thousand-dollar bond, but first things first.

“You think there’s a detective agency around here anywhere?” he asked. “With my experience, I bet I can get a job with them, easy. Get my three years, then I can go out on my own.”

“Um . . .”

He’d nodded to himself. “Yeah, that’ll work. Thanks, Min!”

For two weeks, Mitchell didn’t darken the door of the library. When he returned, he’d changed his business cards to NORTHERN INQUIRIES. PROBLEMS SOLVED BY MITCHELL KOYNE.

I’d breathed a sigh of relief. While there was no telling what kind of messes he might get himself into, at least he wouldn’t get into trouble with the licensing authorities. And Stephen had checked Mitchell off Minnie’s to-do list, because whatever Mitchell was doing with his time these days, he wasn’t spending as many hours at the library.

However, things just weren’t the same without a daily dose of Mitchellness. Josh said it wasn’t the same—it was better—but Josh was a guy and therefore couldn’t be counted on to be truthful regarding matters about another guy.

So now I looked at Mitchell, trying to guess what was going on inside his head. But that was an exercise doomed to failure, so I gave up and smiled at him. “Hey. What’s up?”

Grinning, he scratched at his stubbly face and hefted a bulging plastic bag. “Look what I scored from the sale upstairs.”

“That’s a lot of books.”

“Yeah. I’d heard there were a bunch of donations last week, so I wanted to get in here before anyone else.”

Because clearly there was such a rush at the Friends of the Library book sales in November. “What did you get?” I asked.

He dumped the contents of the bag across the reference desk. “I got The Anansi Boys , The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy , and a whole bunch of books by Dean Koontz. What I really wanted was George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones books—you know, the ones on TV. They said a boxed set came in a week ago, but what’s-her-name got to it right away, that Allison who married a Korthase. You know.”

Not really. Mitchell was forever talking about people he knew that I didn’t, so I did as per usual and just nodded.

“And,” he said proudly, “I got four of Dan Brown’s books. Say, do you know which one comes first?” He pulled out The Da Vinci Code , The Lost Symbol , Angels & Demons , and Inferno.

As I sorted them into chronological order, Mitchell craned his neck around to see my computer screen. “What you working on, anyway? Hey, that looks like—”

My hand moved as fast as if Stephen had been approaching when I’d been checking my Facebook page. I minimized the Web site I’d been reading and said, “Never mind what I’m doing.”

Mitchell half winked at me and nodded slowly, then leaned forward. “I won’t tell,” he whispered. “I can see why you’d want a gun after what happened Saturday.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not—” But then I stopped, because there was no need for Mitchell to know what I was really doing.

“Yeah?” He adjusted his baseball hat to what looked like the exact same position it had been preadjustment. “Hey, I bet I know! You’re trying to figure out what kind of gun someone used to . . . well, you know.”

The idea that Mitchell was trying to be considerate of my feelings made my heart go a teensy bit mushy. “Sort of,” I said. What I was actually doing was looking up the specifications for the typical hunting rifle, trying to figure out how careless a hunter would have needed to be to hit Roger. I was quickly learning, however, that there was no such thing as a typical hunting rifle, so I might as well have spent my time trying to guess what Mitchell’s question of the day might be.

“Sure, I get it,” Mitchell said. I wasn’t sure how he could, since I hadn’t told him anything, but it wasn’t wise to get between Mitchell and his conclusions. You’d end up spending far too much time trying to correct him, and he’d still walk away with the wrong idea. “Say, now that I’m a detective, or training to be one, I can help you, you know. Just say the word, okay?”

The idea of straight-on Mitchell assistance was more than a little frightening. “Thanks,” I said. “I was just doing some research on guns for someone, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Mitchell deflated. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He looked so disappointed that I took pity on him. “Say, you’re a hockey fan, right? Can you explain what icing is?”

He puffed right up again and launched into what was undoubtedly going to be not only an explanation that wouldn’t made sense to me but also one that I wouldn’t remember.

I was okay with that, though. A distracted Mitchell was better than a helpful Mitchell any day of the week.

* * *

On the other hand, when Holly was helpful, she was helpful with a capital H . If you asked Holly to do something, you never had to follow up to make sure it got done. Most times she’d probably finish the job before you remembered to ask her how it was going. This made her a tremendous employee, a dependable friend, and a mother to be reckoned with.

So when she approached me that afternoon in a stealthlike manner, I steeled myself to hear what I’d titled in my head as the Eddie Report. Maybe it would be good news, but I had to be ready to deal with the fallout if Stephen had heard anything about Eddie.

What that fallout might be, I wasn’t sure, other than my being fired. I supposed I could take an extended trip to Florida, and though I could shuttle between my brother’s house in Orlando and Kristen’s apartment in Key West for a while, neither Eddie nor I would care for summers in Florida.

“Sorry, Minnie,” Holly said shaking her head, “but I can’t find him anywhere.”

I yanked myself back from the heat and humidity. “Can’t find who?” I was pretty sure my cat was, at this moment, making a big, Eddie-sized dent in my pillow.

“Stephen. Remember?” Her eyebrows went up. “On Facebook.”

Oh. Right. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but maybe not. I checked every variations of the name Stephen Rangel I could think of. Stevie, Steve—all that—but I didn’t find anything. But he could be using a different name, an avatar, you know?”

“If he’s using a different name, how are you going to find him?”

“Through his connections,” she said promptly. “Even if he’s calling himself the Northern Star, he’ll still have some of the same Facebook friends I do, some of the same links to the same public groups. Restaurants, nonprofits.” She snapped her fingers. “I should be checking the library’s own Facebook page. There’s no way he could keep from liking that one.”

I squinted at her. “So you think Stephen is on Facebook? In spite of what he’s said about it being a waste of time.”

Holly looked left and right, then leaned forward. “I figure Josh is probably right. There are advantages to Stephen for being on Facebook, and even more if he can be on there incognito. All I have to do is figure out what name he’s using.”

“But won’t his privacy controls keep you from seeing his posts?”

She grinned. “On his own page, sure, if he’s set them that way, but I bet he’s leaving comments on pages that don’t have the same settings.”

It sounded like a lot of work. “Thanks for going to all this trouble,” I said.