C.J. Carmichael - Receptionist Under Cover

Lindsay, Nathan and their third partner, Kate Cooper, had originally all worked at the Twentieth Precinct of the New York Police Department. “I’ve asked around. There are plenty of excellent P.I.’s in this city who didn’t start out with the force.”

“That’s true.” Lindsay ran her fingers through her delicately colored, blond hair. The blunt style ended at her jawline, emphasizing her determined chin. “I’m just not sure you’re ready.”

“But we’re drowning in work,” Nadine pointed out. “And Kate will be taking maternity leave soon.” She and her commercial pilot husband, Jay Savage, were expecting their first baby in four weeks.

“We’ve been gradually increasing your investigative responsibilities,” Nathan said.

“Yes. And I’m glad for everything you’ve thrown my way.” She knew how to do background checks now, and she was often asked to do research for the others. “But I’m always in the office. Always behind my desk.”

“But who would deal with the calls and the clients if you weren’t there?” Lindsay asked.

Nadine swallowed. She wasn’t quite brave enough to suggest that one of them could man the lines if she was out.

Nathan glanced at his watch. “We’ve got to get going. Let’s talk about this later when we have more time, okay?”

Same old story. Nadine sighed as they left. She had no illusions about what would happen later. More lip service to the notion of allowing her more responsibility. Then, in a couple of weeks, they would hire someone new, someone to cover for Kate, and Nadine’d be back to the same administrative jobs she always handled.

Nadine sank into her chair, frustrated. She loved working at Fox & Fisher. Lindsay, Nathan and Kate were friends, not just coworkers.

She didn’t want to leave.

But at the same time, she had a dream, and she was ready. She might not be a rabble-rouser like Lindsay, or steely minded like Kate, but she had talents, too.

Nadine went to the coffee station to rinse out the pot and start a fresh brew. Making coffee, answering phones, checking stuff on the Internet and writing up reports—yeah, she was great at that stuff. She wanted more, though. And she knew she could do it.

But no one here was going to believe it because they all thought of her as a receptionist. Worse than that, their opinions were colored by her background—her rich family and privileged upbringing.

She knew they all wondered why she bothered to work at a “real” job. But Nadine had never been comfortable with her family’s wealthy status. Far from giving her added confidence, the money had only made her less secure. She wanted to be valued as an individual, not as an heiress. That was why she used her mother’s maiden surname at work, and why she rarely spoke about her Waverly family connections.

She was determined to prove—to others and to herself—that she could handle the job. But how could she do that if they never let her try?

Nadine studied the calendar on her computer, where she kept track of everyone’s schedules. Knowing Nathan and Lindsay, it would take a while to find something they could agree on. Meanwhile, Kate had gone with Jay for her eight-month doctor checkup.

She would be alone in the office for a couple of hours.

Supposing, just supposing, a client should walk in the door during that time?

They didn’t get drop-in business very often, but it did happen. Usually, if the others were out, Nadine would book an appointment and ask the potential client to come back later.

But what if, this time, she didn’t?

Nadine put a hand to her chest. Her fingertips tingled with a rush of adrenaline, and her heart raced.

Dared she do it?

She had to. There was no other way. The next client who walked in the door was going to be hers.

PATRICK O’NEIL COULDN’T BE bothered with umbrellas. He just pulled his coat tighter against the cool November rain. Not to protect himself—he didn’t mind the damp and he wasn’t cold. Compared to Alaska, where he’d researched and written his last book, this weather was balmy. No, it wasn’t his body he was trying to protect, but the letters.

He’d been watching the addresses of the brownstones as he walked along, and now he stopped. The sign was discreet, but it seemed he had arrived.

Feeling oddly self-conscious, he glanced left, then right. No one even noticed him. Most of the passersby were huddled under umbrellas. And, anyway, New Yorkers always minded their own business.

He climbed six steps to a door that led to a small vestibule. The Fox & Fisher Detective Agency wasn’t the only business housed in this building. He checked the signs, then climbed more stairs, up to the next story.

A semitranslucent door had The Fox & Fisher Detective Agency lettered over the glass. He checked the hours, confirmed that it was open. Well, of course it was. What business wouldn’t be at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday?

He went in.

A woman was sitting at a reception desk. She was petite, with dark hair, darker eyes and pretty red lips. Her smile was meant to be welcoming, but she seemed slightly nervous about something.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he said. “Is that okay?” Up until three seconds ago, he hadn’t been sure he would go through with this. He wasn’t the kind of guy who hired other people to solve his problems.

Then again, he’d never had a problem quite like this one before.

“That’s fine. I can fit you in without an appointment.”

“Good. I’m in luck then.” She had a beautiful, refined way of speaking. Well educated, he could tell.

He wasn’t. He’d learned about life the old-fashioned way, through work and experience, and the lack of a college education had never stood in his way. He slipped his fingers inside his jacket, reached past the book he’d just received in the mail, to the manila envelope. Still dry. Good.

He removed his coat and folded it carefully over one arm, so the envelope wouldn’t fall out.

“Would you like to hang that in the closet?”

He shook his head, the muscles in his arms tightening reflexively. “I’d rather keep it with me.”

“Fine.” The dark-haired woman picked up a stack of files, and for no reason that he could tell, moved them to a different corner of her desk. “How can I help you?”

He was standing there like a dolt, trying not to feel absurd, yet the situation was so surreal. He’d certainly never dreamed that he would have reason to seek out the services of a private investigator.

Yet here he was.

“I’m Patrick O’Neil. I’d like to speak with one of your investigators. I—I need to find someone.”

“Locating missing persons is one of our specialties. And I’d be glad to help you. My name is Nadine Kimble.”

“You? But—I assumed you were the receptionist.”

Those pretty dark eyes blinked. “She’s on a break. I was just filling in for a few moments. We can continue our discussion in the boardroom. Would you like a coffee?”

He nodded. This situation was just getting stranger and stranger. Coffee would help. He let her pour him a cup, then added his own cream before following her down a short hall to a room on the left.

Like the reception area, the conference room was decorated in a modern, minimalistic style. He squinted at the odd black-and-white photos on the wall.

“Close-ups of paper clips,” the woman explained, which really explained nothing, as far as Patrick was concerned. Why put paper clips on your wall when you could have something truly beautiful, like a photograph of mountains, or the ocean or even one graceful tree?

“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Nadine Kimble opened a notebook and pulled out a pen. “Now—who would you like us to find?”