Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

The sun came out in his eyes again, and I really wanted to see the smile he hid. I guessed it was a heart-stopper. “Good. You’ll have something to chew on for a while. Thanks for the coffee, but now I must be going.” He stood.

I jumped to my feet. Questions still seethed in my head. “You can’t just walk out.”

“Whyever not?”

“I...I need information. The mother. What about Mira?” Keep him talking, keep him engaged.

“What about her?”

“She was in on it somehow.”

Thomas raised one of those incongruous white eyebrows. “Oh?” Amusement danced in his eyes.

“Yes. Something about her responses was off. And if it was me, my kid, I would have called the cops the next day, when she found out the heist hadn’t happened. Only she didn’t find out, because she only talked to the monitoring center for about five seconds, not long enough to really check to see if someone had opened the drug warehouse with her stolen identity like she claimed.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” I could tell he was grinning at me beneath that scarf.

“Five grand.”

“Come again?”

“Mira said ‘five grand.’ Most people would have said ‘five thousand dollars.’ Who uses words like that?” I paused for his answer.

“People who watch cop shows, thrillers, and organized crime dramas?”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but I don’t buy it. I think she was part of it somehow.”

Thomas cocked his head in apparent disbelief. “A mother using her own child like that?”

“A few years back a mother strapped her two kids into her Mazda and rolled it into a lake because her new boyfriend didn’t want a family.”

“Not this mother. She loves Talley, whatever her faults.” Thomas’s calm demeanor stirred slightly. “I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t, but you have to promise me you’ll leave well enough alone.”

I snorted. “A promise made at gunpoint is meaningless.”

“Do you see a gun? Mine was just to make sure you put yours aside. You can walk out of here any time and you’ll never see me again.” He paused, then made a shooing motion. “Go on. Run along. Take your phone with you. Call the coppers.”

I pressed my lips together. “No thanks.”

“I figured. You want all the answers, but I’m not going to provide them. I’ll give you this, though, because I’d rather you didn’t press further. You’re right. The plan did go wrong. The girl was never supposed to be part of it, but the crew wanted more leverage than they had on the mother. She was going to get a cut for selling them the way in to the warehouse, and then deny all knowledge, but they wanted insurance, so they took the girl.”

I leaned back against the doorframe, mind spinning. “Right. That fits. But if Mira needs money, and there was no heist...”

Thomas shrugged. “The check’s worthless.”

“Crap.” The epithet thudded flatly.

“Indeed. C’est la vie .” He sidled toward the stairway, keeping me in sight. I suppose it was a trained habit; I had no intention of lunging for my guns. Who knew whether they would even fire properly after sitting in the freezer?

“Wait, Thomas, or whatever. Why did you do this? Why even come to me? I could make a report.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

His mouth twitched. “Because you appreciate justice. Even if it’s imperfect.”

“Is that what this was?”

Thomas shrugged, backing down the steps. “You decide. Toodle-oo.” Then he was gone, down the stairs and undoubtedly out the unlocked lower level door.

“Cheerio, guv’ner,” I breathed, and took the guns out of the freezer. Setting them on the table to warm, I shut the upstairs against the threat of further rain, and then put the two mugs in the sink and rinsed them, the ritual helping to calm me as excess adrenaline bled off.

He’d never taken his gloves off, so fingerprints were out. Opening a cupboard, I brought out a bottle of wine, not even looking at the label. Though not much of a drinker, I grew up in California with Napa on my tongue, and felt in need right now.

Setting a wine glass on the table, I poured it full and then stared at the empty surface.

The check. The card. The bastard. He had filched both of them.

Taking a drink, I sat down again and pulled out the photocopy of Mira’s business card I had made. Read it again. Cole said you can help—PLEASE CALL RIGHT AWAY. And what had Mira said at her house? “Cole Sage was the only one who had connections to people like you. ” Which was silly. Mira didn’t need any special connections to hire a PI. And who would call a middle-class professional like me “people like you”?

I stared at the copy of the card.

“I suppose in your business...” Mira had also said. As if the PI trade was unsavory.

But what if that wasn’t what she had meant?

All the little clues added up suddenly. It had been staring me in the face the whole time. The card had not been meant for me at all.

People in your business. People like you. Thought you would be a man.

The card had been for Thomas. Thomas, who in his line of work wouldn’t want direct contact with a client. Who wouldn’t keep a phone number for long. Who might have a dead drop somewhere that Cole would know about, maybe activated by an anonymous web address. That’s how she would do it. And Mira hadn’t written any words on the card. Just the number.

Instead of calling Mira, Thomas had added the plea for help and the reference to Cole, to really pique my interest. Then he had put the card in my office night drop, directing me onto the case. He must have deliberately let himself be seen in the Audi, provoked me into following him, and to the girl.

I shook my head to clear it and gulped more wine. Too many loose ends. Too many questions. I hated both, but unless I somehow found Thomas again, I wasn’t likely to get any.

I can always call Cole, I thought. It’s a good excuse to see what he knows about it, or how Mira knows him—another of his conquests? No, Cole’s not really like that...I don’t think. I can ask how he’s acquainted with Thomas, why he trusts him...meet Cole over coffee, maybe a light dinner. I’ll put on a dress. God, I hate dresses but I do have nice legs, and oh, I’m doing it again. Forget him. Just forget him. He’s as inaccessible as...

As Thomas?

Just my luck. I meet two really interesting guys in the past few months and both are out of reach.

Glass in hand and half-empty bottle in the crook of my elbow, guns snugly back in their holsters, I descended the stairs to the main floor and my spacious office. Intending to throw back the curtains, I placed the bottle and the glass on the desk and then stopped, startled.

A neat, half-inch pile of hundred-dollar bills sat in the exact middle of the desk calendar, bound with a rubber band. They did not have the fresh-printed look of a bank stack. Before I even picked up the bundle I knew what it would contain.

Five thousand dollars.

I sat down in the dimness, forgetting the curtains, and stared at the pile for a moment before picking it up and riffling it. Well, I had earned it...though Thomas might be setting me up for the future. Taking his money might give him some kind of leverage. But I had bills to pay.

Feeling generous, I pulled five Benjamins out of the pile for Mickey, slipped the rest into the floor safe, and refilled my glass.

Looking at the phone, I contemplated calling the cops, one of my old friends perhaps. I had enough on Thomas to cause him trouble, with a physical description and that accent to identify him, but he was right.

I wouldn’t.

Why not? Not because of the money, or his charm, or even because of a dozen loose ends I hoped he might someday tie up.