After my late night activities, I celebrated by sleeping in past 7:30. With no alarm clock shrieking for my attention, I enjoyed a few extra, luxurious moments in bed. I considered texting my client for a meeting, but decided to hold off until I’d gotten myself fully awake. Heading to the kitchen, I turned on my coffee pot and contemplated Kendra Hallings. Dealing with angry wives can be a lot of work, but it beat dealing with angry husbands. I don’t take on angry husbands as clients. I did that once when I first started out on my own, but after receiving incontrovertible proof that his wife had cheated on him, the fathead tried to kill her.
That kind of took the fun out of things for me.
I decided right then and there to stick to female clients when it involved cheating spouses. They were less likely to go postal on their wayward hubbies. They went for the jugular, but usually not in a literal sense, more in a financial one.
After fortifying myself with coffee and cornflakes, I decided it was time to face the music. Kendra had already proven herself to be a crier—she could turn on the waterworks quicker than a soap opera diva—so I wasn’t looking forward to delivering her the news her wifely instincts were correct. I stripped off my nightshirt and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, layering it with a plaid, flannel shirt from the Cabela’s Sporting Goods catalog and a North Face jacket. I tried to buy all my clothes online or from Costco. It cut down on trips to malls, boutique stores, and other places that gave me hives.
Sufficiently bundled for the weather, I grabbed my camera and laptop and headed over to my home away from home. My office was in a free-standing building between the historic Fairhaven neighborhood and downtown to the north. With a population of just over 80,000, Bellingham—or B’ham as we abbreviate it around here—wasn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis. Driving across town didn’t produce the headache it might in places like Seattle or Tokyo or Syracuse, so when I bought my house, I hadn’t worried too much about the commute.
Buying a house without a view of Bellingham Bay also saved me a big chunk of change. I loved the water views much of my town afforded, but given my income, I had to settle for a view of the trees and bushes in my backyard. Lookout Mountain was visible from my driveway, so that counted for something. A tiny trickle of water also ran along the east side of my property. During spring rains and snowmelt it could probably be called a creek.
Which is almost as good as a waterfront view, right?
My office wasn’t much to look at either, but it was mine, and that counted for a lot in my book. It had easy access to the freeway, Fairhaven, and downtown, complete with the waterfront and multiple tattoo parlors. I’d never had call to use the services of the latter, but you never know, it could happen. I was also very close to Rocket Donuts, with their distinctive aluminum rocket ship in the parking lot. And who doesn’t love donuts and sci-fi mixed together under one roof?
One of the best things about my office was a small parking lot with a second entrance at the back of the building. My clients could come and go without being seen from the street. There was no big sign announcing my services—private investigators don’t usually get work from foot traffic. My office maintained a certain anonymity. When I first started out on my own, I thought about installing an espresso machine to get people in the door, but PI and Espresso sounded a little hokey. I’m not sure anyone else would have found it strange here in the coffee capitol of the United States but “Do you want extra foam with your background check?” seemed a bit much. Luckily, I managed to stay afloat without adding barista to my résumé.
Probably a good thing, given I drank too much coffee already and I would have sucked down most of my profits.
No other cars were in the parking lot this early in the morning. The business currently sharing the building with me was questionable. Their hours were even more erratic than mine, but at least they were quiet. The sign in the window read “Tarot,” but I had a feeling the young women who came and went there didn’t actually read cards so much as provide happy endings. I guess good fortune was all in how you thought about it. The “employees” might not be able to predict anyone’s future, but at least they provided an actual service.
The setup of the building created a lot of privacy for our respective clients. A hallway split the building in half, so we didn’t share any walls. From the street, my office was on the left and the “Fortune Tellers” were on the right. Both offices had small kitchenettes and private bathrooms attached, and given the reasonable rent, I didn’t care if they were making crack cocaine next door as long as they didn’t burn the building down.
I unlocked both outside doors, the one to the street in front and the parking lot in back, anticipating I’d be calling my client to come down. Then I unlocked and entered my own office. Pausing momentarily, I admired the EDDIE SHOES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR sign painted in black and gold lettering on the frosted glass of my interior office door before I slipped inside, just because it made me happy.
It was often the simple things in life that brightened my day, so I tried hard not to overlook them.
Sitting behind my desk, I pulled out a drawer, where my active files were easily accessible. They’d get archived in the locking filing cabinets behind my desk after I finished with them and stored for seven years before being converted to an ash pile. Or at least that was the plan. I hadn’t actually been in business long enough to permanently dispose of anything yet. Pulling out my file on Mrs. Kendra T. Hallings, I decided to make coffee before contacting her. I hadn’t had quite enough caffeine at home.
Before I could reach my coffee maker, my office phone rang. My cell could handle all my calls, but I also had a good, old-fashioned landline I couldn’t quite get myself to give up. I knew I didn’t have to pay for the cost of one, but something about that black, Bakelite antique perched on my desk symbolized that I had made it on my own. I had an office and a phone. Who could argue with success like that? Besides, I loved the little clicky sounds the rotary phone made when the dial spun. Sometimes, when I was bored, I practiced answering the phone in my best Humphrey Bogart imitation à la Philip Marlowe.
So far I hadn’t answered an actual call that way, but maybe next year for Halloween.
It was also the only thing I’d taken with me from the office I’d shared with my mentor, Benjamin Cooper. It comforted me that my hand now rested where his had for so many years, even though he’d died the way he had.
Picking up after the second ring, I answered in my professional voice. It was my client, sounding like she might be hyperventilating.
“Eddie? It’s me, Kendra. I tried your cellphone, but it went straight to voicemail, so I thought I’d try your office. I’m just wondering if you have anything for me yet.”
“Hi, Kendra, I was just about to call you.” Pulling out my cellphone, I realized I’d left it silenced from the night before. Clicking the button on the side, I turned my ringer back on. The little voicemail icon showed only the one call from Kendra.
“Good news or bad?” she asked.
Jeez, how should I answer that?
“Can you come over to my office?” I asked instead of answering her.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Was I right?” she said, her voice small and tremulous.
“I think we should talk through things in person,” I said, reminding myself she deserved sympathy for her situation, even if I did think she’d be better off dumping the lout.
“Really?” Kendra asked, or at least that’s what I thought she said between sobs.
“Do you think you can pull yourself together? You sound upset.”
“I’m …”—hiccup—“I’m …”—sob—“okay.”
I waited, listening to her breathe in and out a few times. Her deep breathing sounded like the kind you might be taught to do in meditation or yoga.
“Yes,” she said after much huffing and puffing, her voice stronger, “but I can’t be there until later this afternoon. I have some things I need to do. Will three o’clock work for you?”
I assured her it would and she hung up before I could give her a “You go, girl,” which was probably just as well. She might have heard it as sarcasm. I plugged in my computer to organize the latest photos, downloaded the night before. I’d already set up a slideshow to ease Kendra into the situation, starting with shots of her husband at the dealership with the office manager in the background. Nothing overt, but I wanted my client to have the woman’s face in her mind when she saw the photos from the hotel. I had known there would be a hotel.
There was always a hotel.
I finished the slideshow by adding the pictures of her husband pulling up in front and then him leaving a few hours later along with the shots of the mistress kissing him goodbye.
The guy really did have great hair.
Voices sounded in the hallway. I thought perhaps Kendra had arrived early and brought a friend for moral support. I opened the door before they knocked, surprising a man with his arm raised. He had turned away, so I was lucky he didn’t tap, tap, tap on my chest before he realized the door no longer stood in front of him. Even in profile, however, I would have recognized him. I’d last seen him almost two years ago, before I left Seattle after Coop died. In a panic, I did the only thing that made sense in the moment.
I slammed the door in his face.