Линвуд Баркли - Find You First

At which point he went back to reading something on his computer screen.

The weasel.

So today, Julie treated herself. At the Winslow Diner, a block from the ReproGold Clinic. She ordered an egg salad sandwich and a coffee. Seven dollars and thirty-five cents, not counting tip.

It was delicious.

But she found herself unable to enjoy it. She felt guilty. She could have brought her own lunch and been up five dollars. And somewhere around her fourth bite, Julie believed she might start crying.

Hold it together, she told herself.

She put down her sandwich, dabbed the corners of her eyes with her paper napkin, and took a sip of coffee from the chunky, ceramic mug. There were only half a dozen customers in the diner, although it could probably hold close to thirty. Julie had chosen to come shortly after eleven, before it became crowded, and when there were no appointments scheduled at the clinic. Rather than sit on a counter stool, Julie had taken a table for two and sat so that she could watch people walk past outside.

A woman entered the diner.

Fiftyish, Julie thought. A bit frumpy, plump, gray hair that she’d pulled back into a ponytail. Gave her a kind of aging-hippie look. She was wearing a jacket that was frayed at the edges and clutching a much-scuffed purse large enough to hold a sleeping bag. She had a somewhat distracted look, as though she was not quite sure why she’d come in here.

But then the woman scanned the restaurant and her gaze seemed to stop when it landed on Julie. Slowly, she worked her way through the tables until she reached Julie’s. She smiled and said, “May I join you?”

There were plenty of places to sit, Julie thought. Couldn’t she take one of the other tables? Maybe sit at the counter?

“Um,” Julie said, “I’m about to leave in a minute.”

“Okay,” the woman said, and flopped down into the seat across from her. She made it into something of a production, letting out a big sigh, adjusting her coat so it wasn’t bunched up under her, then lugging her large purse up into her lap. She glanced around, as if looking for a server.

“How’s the coffee here?” the woman asked.

“It’s... okay.”

“Looks like a good sandwich. Egg salad?”

Julie nodded. Was this woman homeless? Should she offer her the rest of her lunch?

“You’re Julie Harkin,” the woman said, smiling.

That got Julie’s attention. In a fraction of a second, she realized this was not a random event. This woman had sought her out.

“Yes. Have we — do I know you?”

The woman smiled. “No. My name is Heather.”

“Heather...?”

“Last name’s not important.”

Julie glanced about nervously. None of this felt right. Should she get up and walk out?

“It’s okay,” Heather said. “I’m not here to deliver bad news. I’m here to make a proposal.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes. I represent someone sympathetic to your current situation.”

“My current situation?” Julie leaned in closer. “What do you mean, you represent someone?”

“I have a client who believes you can help him. And he’s prepared to reward you for your efforts.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You make thirty-three thousand dollars a year. Your home has sustained damages that amount to more than that annual salary, and your insurance company is denying coverage. You have a daughter in college who needs financial help. Your car, a 1998 Civic, hasn’t been serviced in three years and three out of the four tires are bald. That’s not safe. You should do something about that.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Let me show you something,” Heather said. She dug down into her purse and came out with a plain, letter-sized envelope. She set it on the table, but rested her arm on top of it so it was barely visible. In the glimpse she’d had of it, Julie noticed that it was very thick, and sealed.

“This envelope contains fifty thousand dollars,” Heather said. “It’s for you.”

Julie could find no words. She wasn’t even sure this was really happening. She could not stop looking at the envelope under Heather’s arm.

“Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way to solving your current problems. You could get your house repaired, cover your daughter’s educational costs, and even have enough left over for some new tires.” Heather smiled. “I’m kind of partial to Michelins, but that’s totally up to you. I understand your daughter is interested in pursuing a career in the culinary arts. That’s wonderful. You must be very proud of her.”

Julie managed to get out a sentence. “I don’t understand.”

“I want to make it very clear that there is no threat here,” Heather said. “If you do not wish to help my client, I’ll leave, and take that envelope with me. You won’t hear from me again. This will be the end of it. But if you do wish to help my client, these funds constitute a thank-you. Simple as that.”

“What does your... client want?”

“Information.”

“What... does he want to know?”

Heather spelled it out.

New Haven, CT

Miles believed the time had come to bring his brother into the loop. He owed him that. Plus, he had a little something for him.

He wouldn’t have to go far to find Gilbert.

Gilbert was down the hall, in the accounting division of Cookson Tech. Miles had acquired this two-story industrial building five years ago. At one time, long ago, dog biscuits had been manufactured here. After that company went bankrupt, the building sat empty for nearly two decades and had fallen into disrepair. Squatters fought with rats and raccoons for territorial dominance.

Miles acquired the building, and the land it sat on, at a city auction. A steal. All he had to do was spend another $20 million to make the building usable. He’d taken a lead from other tech companies and done his best to make the workplace fun . Open spaces, pool tables, foosball, places to gather for coffee and conversation. A small theater.

Even the accounting department had pinball machines, ones that didn’t have to be fed coins to operate.

Miles found Gilbert taking a break at one of them. He was pushing the buttons furiously, making the paddles jump. He missed catching a pinball on the rebound and it dropped away back into the machine.

“Shit,” Gilbert said.

His brother had never been very good at video games, Miles mused. Back in the early nineties, Miles could whip his older brother’s ass at every Nintendo game.

“At least you didn’t have to put a quarter in,” Miles said.

“Hey,” Gilbert said. “What’s up?”

“When you finish your game.”

“One ball left,” Gilbert said. He managed to keep it in play for another minute before it slipped between the paddles and the game was finished.

“Nice,” Miles said.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

“Got a minute?”

Gilbert’s face fell. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem.”

“Because I was actually going to come and see you.”

“About?”

“The invoices from Excel Point Enterprises.”

“What about them?” Miles asked.

“I don’t remember seeing that company name before.”

Miles shrugged. “Probably something to do with the ardees.” His nickname for the people in research and development. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get some air.”

They descended a set of Lucite steps and exited the building. The neighborhood had been in decline when Miles first bought the building, but Cookson Tech had revitalized the area. There were other tech buildings, coffee shops, a Thai restaurant. Parked at the curb was Miles’s Porsche.