T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Sort of. Look, my Beamer’s a lot cooler than this tank. Why don’t we emigrate?”

“I’m fine where I am.”

“Sure. Great.” A flickering glance behind them, then, “Actually, I’m here because a client wants to hire you.”

“Tell him to come in through the agency’s front door.”

“Not the agency. You. And it’s a her.”

“Who?”

“The client. She asked for you specifically.” More than the heat beaded sweat on his forehead and upper lip. “This has to be on the sly. No paper trail, no notifying your bosses.”

“Then it can’t happen. I never sat for my license.” She’d been studying for her private investigator’s licence since Preston’s demise but had never taken the exam, mainly because she had gradually come to accept just how much she loathed the work. Talking about it now only revealed how little progress she’d made on any front.

“It doesn’t matter. My guess is, she already knows.”

“I’m not interested in taking on outside work. Sorry.”

“Just go see her, okay?” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “A thousand dollars if you’ll drive to Boca Raton and talk with her.”

“Get out of here.”

“Straight up. A thousand bucks. Just drive to the Boca Beach Club and hear what she has to say. Will you do it?”

The money was already spent before she reached for it. Forget the overdue bills. A thousand bucks was a third of the way to a next-generation wave jumper. “So who’s the client?”

“You’ll find out when you get there. Just give your name to the Boca gateman and go inside. She’ll find you.”

Jackie resisted the urge to tear open the envelope. She still had a shred of class left. “This is beyond weird.”

“Tell me.” The rapid swipe of his face almost masked his scouting to either side. “I’m pulled off a major case, given the most bizarre instructions of my life, sent out here to camp at your office and wait. No phone, no paper trail, and don’t be followed.”

“What can you tell me about-”

“Nothing. I don’t know a thing more.” Jeff pushed open his door, scanned for watchers, said, “See you around.”

THE BOCA BEACH CLUB was one of those Fantasy Island-type places, something everybody heard of but few ever saw. Certainly nobody in Jackie’s present circle. The club was a beachside palace of sandstone, mock coral, and six-hundred-dollar rooms. The three restaurants were off limits to all but club members and hotel guests. Jackie pulled up to the stone gatehouse and gave her name to the sharp-eyed guard. The inner drive was lined with frangipani and hibiscus. Beyond the emerald lawn, yachts rose higher than the emperor palms. The Z’s powerful rumble sounded blatantly rude as she halted by the colonnaded portico. The valet approached hesitantly, probably wondering why the guard had let a job applicant use the front entrance.

Jackie checked her reflection in the car window. She had stopped by home just long enough to don an outfit from happier times-gray silk slacks, Magli pumps, sleeveless cotton blouse one shade darker than the slacks, black linen jacket with the sleeves hiked to her elbows. Jackie handed the valet her keys and the requisite buck, and headed inside.

“Ms. Havilland?” An older woman in tennis whites and a cashmere cardigan rose from the settee by the entrance. “I’m Esther Hutchings. Thank you so much for coming.”

“You have a persuasive way of asking.”

“I’ve reserved us a table on the veranda.”

Jackie followed her across the reception hall, a vaulted chamber with fifty-foot domed ceilings interspersed by Gothic arches and chandeliers. “Some place.”

“Mizner designed it.” When Jackie did not respond as expected, she added, “He is the architect responsible for the Florida Spanish style. You find a lot of it here in Boca and in the older communities around Miami.”

Pearls. The woman should be wearing pearls, plus one of those frilly outfits made for tea and doilies and servants in dark suits. Esther Hutchings carried herself impossibly erect and spoke as though each vowel were individually polished. “My only regret is that our family didn’t hold on to its old Boca estate. Mizner’s heir designed it. My father sold it to a developer for a perfectly ridiculous sum. To his dying day he claimed he didn’t know the man intended to tear it down and build one of those atrocious beachside hotels.”

Jackie blinked as they entered the rear atrium, both from the sudden light and from the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The bay sparkled a million-dollar blue, the oleander blossoms offset a manicured lawn, and every moored yacht dwarfed her garage apartment. The veranda was enormous and empty, their table made intimate by mirrored pillars and man-size Oriental vases.

“I’ve ordered us tea, I hope that’s all right.” Esther Hutchings halted by a pair of chairs pointed dockside and a low table buried under linen and silver. “I believe that chair has the nicer view.”

The nearest vase held orchids in purple cascades. Through the royal growth Jackie caught sight of her reflection. Her hair, a rich blond streaked lighter by salt and sun, showed the three months and counting since her last cut. Hastily applied makeup did not mask the burn to her nose and forehead. Her eyes, always her best feature, held wide-open confusion.

“Shall I pour?”

Jackie slipped off her jacket and draped it over the chair back. “It’s your show, Mrs. Hutchings.”

“Yes. Very well. To the business at hand.” Esther Hutchings leaned back in her chair, the tea untouched. “My husband is a United States congressman. Or rather, he was. Recently he suffered a second stroke. A debilitating one. I’ve traveled down for a much needed rest. At least, that’s the reason I’m telling the rest of the world.”

Esther Hutchings paused as another couple entered the atrium. The woman was a pastel silk mirage, the man a product of surgical design. A waiter appeared as if by magic, informed the couple that the entire veranda had been reserved for a private party, then just as silently disappeared.

When they were alone once more, Esther Hutchings continued, “Before his stroke, my husband led a battle to set restraints upon Wall Street and the international banks. Now there is a smear campaign to destroy his name and all he stood for. I want you to track down whoever is behind this.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Do I appear comical to you, Ms. Havilland? Last week, my husband’s replacement won a special election. Wynn Bryant is his name. A truly despicable man. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he was behind this smear campaign.”

“Mrs. Hutchings, I’m sorry about your husband.” Jackie chose her words carefully. “But all this belongs to a totally different world from the one where I operate.”

Esther Hutchings revealed an ability to sneer with polite loftiness. “Perhaps there is something about your present employment that you find utterly captivating?”

“At least it’s real.”

“So is this.” Esther Hutchings belonged to a bygone era of grand dames and rigid authority and people who jumped at her behest. Jackie’s disregard for how things should be left her flashing fire. “I insisted on our meeting here because this club is private. There are few places where a public person can be both open to visitors and closed to prying eyes. I am being closely watched, Ms. Havilland. My husband’s foes are determined to ensure that every shred of his life’s work be turned to ashes.”

A thousand bucks, Jackie reminded herself. She reached for her cup, took a tepid sip. At least the view was nice.

“I have made very careful inquiries and am convinced you are ideal for this job. At age twenty-seven, when your brother could afford to support you both, you began graduate studies in international finance at the University of Florida. Then your brother, a hedge fund trader and high flier in the currency markets, became seriously ill. You dropped your studies, returned home, and nursed him through a year-long illness that stripped away all your combined savings before finally-”