Fisher Joyce was big on maintaining client confidentiality. That meant everyone who worked for the company had undergone a background check and had signed a non-disclosure agreement when hired. To further insure that client info wasn’t inadvertently overheard or observed, everyone in the investigations department had a private office. Nothing grand—not for the techs, anyway—just a closet-size space with a desk, chair, visitor chair, and file cabinet. To prevent the techs from feeling as if they’d been relegated to solitary confinement—and so their supervisor could make sure they were, in fact, working—every office door had a window in it.
Other offices in the department were larger, but with no window. That’s where all the hot guys worked. They were the consultants, the P.I.s who did the leg work for the attorneys. Most of them were tall, built, and rugged looking—yet another reason for me to work in the investigations department. I’d seen them occasionally in the building, wearing everything from a Tom Ford tux to CAT boots and cargo pants.
Andy was the assistant to the department supervisor. Nobody seemed to know exactly what his duties were—including Andy himself which, I’m sure, was what he preferred.
He was standing outside his office, absorbed in his cell phone when I spotted him. I could have cut down another aisle and avoided talking to him but I didn’t want him to see me hurrying away and come after me. I didn’t want to have the missing-dog-case conversation in front of anyone.
“Hi, Andy,” I said, and stopped in front of him.
He stared at his phone for a few more seconds, then looked at me. His expression soured.
“Oh. Hollis. Hi,” he said, then started tapping on his phone again.
“I want to update you on what happened yesterday,” I said.
A few more seconds passed before he lifted his head.
“Yesterday?” he asked.
“Barbara Walker-Pierce,” I said.
Andy stared at me.
“Her missing dog,” I said.
He said nothing.
“I saw you in the parking garage and you told me about the new case you were going out on,” I said.
“Oh. Yes. That—”
Andy caught his reflection in the window of the door across the aisle. He turned his head left, then right, and smoothed his hair back over his ear.
“So, anyway,” I said, “I’m on it. Everything is under control. The case is progressing. In fact, I was just going to ask one of the techs to—”
“Fine. Whatever,” Andy said, and walked away.
Well, okay, that was easier than I’d imagined.
I headed down the aisle and stopped outside the office where my friend Meredith worked. Her door was closed, as per company policy, and through the window I could see that she was staring intently at her computer screen.
Meredith was about my age, with brown hair that she usually wore in a ponytail, and a curvy figure that she seldom knew how to shop for. Her envy of my fashion sense that had gotten me the job as a personal shopper, and my envy of her position doing investigative work, had brought us together in the best possible way.
I tapped on her door. She waved me inside.
“Hey, Hollis, what’s up?” she said.
“New client.” I sat down in her visitor’s chair and handed her the yellow legal-sized paper I’d brought with me. “How’s it going with Neil?”
“Great,” she said, and started inputting Carlotta Cain’s info into her computer. “A little too great, I’m afraid.”
Neil was Meredith’s boyfriend. He was a terrific guy. They’d met several weeks ago at a club, and were still going strong.
I was invested in their relationship a little more than usual because I’d played a part in their meeting. We’d gone to a club on Sunset with some friends and, of course, Meredith had no idea what to wear, and even if she’d known, it wouldn’t have been hanging in her closet—Meredith’s words, not mine.
I’d found the perfect little black dress among the dozens in the wardrobe department, and after explaining the situation to Moss she’d let me take it for the evening. Meredith had looked smokin’ hot in it. Neil hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her since that night.
“Trouble with you two?” I asked.
“No,” Meredith said and paused with her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Yes. Yes, there’s a problem. He wants me to meet his parents.”
“Already?” I asked. “It’s kind of soon, isn’t it?”
Meredith started typing again.
“It’s way too soon,” she said. “Really, I never want to meet them.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, and my own parents flashed in my head.
“They’re rich,” Meredith said, and gave the mouse one final click. “I’m talking mega rich.”
Meredith had told me she came from a middle-class, broken home in Riverside, a city about sixty miles east of Los Angeles. With my family situation being what it was—the major reason I’d left KCK—I understood her struggle to fit into the Los Angeles lifestyle.
“Neil’s dad is a major player at some movie studio,” Meredith said. “His mom is an attorney. They’re zillionaires.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that they were probably nice people because I knew that wasn’t the problem. Fitting in was the problem.
We both sat there for a minute listening to the printer run.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Meredith grabbed the stack of papers from the tray, punched holes in them, and fastened them into a new portfolio.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“If you decide to meet them, I’ll help you find the perfect thing to wear,” I offered.
Meredith smiled. “I wouldn’t attempt a meet without your help.”
“Just say the word,” I told her. “I’m there.”
She pointed to the portfolio I’d brought with me that I was clutching on my lap with both hands. “Need something else?”
“Just some follow-up info,” I said, and handed her the portfolio.
Meredith opened it and frowned.
“This is the missing dog case from yesterday,” she said. “Andy is supposed to be handling this.”
The thing about the techs in the investigations department was that they never stopped investigating. Details jumped out at them, dots connected. Seldom did anything get past them.
“Why do you have this?” she asked.
I hated to tell a big fat lie to Meredith, but I didn’t know of any other way to get the info I needed to investigate Edith Bagley’s possible murder.
“Andy gave it to me because I shop for the client,” I said.
Meredith had no way of knowing who I did, or didn’t, shop for, so she had no reason to doubt my story.
“I already have a working relationship with the client so it seemed less stressful for her if she worked with someone she already knew,” I said. “It’s such a simple case. A missing dog. Really, it’s no big deal.”
I stopped myself, afraid I might oversell it.
“I know you want to work here,” Meredith said. “It’s a good way to get your foot in the door—provided Andy gives you the credit for finding the dog.”
I knew that if this case blew up, Andy would distance himself from me in a heartbeat. But when I solved it? Andy would have no choice but to admit the truth.
“I think Andy will do the right thing,” I said.
Meredith’s frown deepened.
“Are you and Andy involved, or something?” she asked.
“Oh, God, no,” I said, and waved my hands trying to erase her words from the air. “No. No, no, no.”
She sighed. “Thank goodness.”
“Can you help me out?” I asked, and gestured to the portfolio. “I made a list of the info I need.”
Meredith spent a few minutes on the computer.
“Who’s this Bagley woman?” she asked.
The list I’d given her included my request for newspaper stories, public records, police and private security reports, but nothing about Barbara Walker-Pierce, the name under which the original file had been opened.
“Edith Bagley is our client’s aunt,” I said. “The dog went missing from her house.”
Another lie to one of my best friends. It didn’t feel so great, but what else could I do?
“This will take a while,” she said. “I’ll e-mail the report to you.”
“Great. But hang on to the hardcopy, will you? I’ll pick up it up from you later,” I said, because I didn’t want a confidential report on one of Fisher Joyce’s clients lying in my desk inbox for anyone to see—and, of course, question why I had it.
“It will be ready this afternoon,” Meredith said.
“Thanks,” I said and rose from my chair.
“What about the dog?” she asked, looking up at me. “Don’t you want me to check with the animal shelters?”
I didn’t like giving Meredith extra work that I knew would come to nothing, but I certainly couldn’t tell her I didn’t want her to check.
“Of course,” I said
Meredith changed screens on the computer and asked, “What kind of dog is it?”
Good question. I gave it a couple of seconds thought.
“It’s a Chihuahua and dachshund mix,” I said. “White with brown spots, and big brown ears. Tiny, maybe five pounds. Her name is Gizmo.”
“Sounds cute,” Meredith said, as she typed.
Gizmo had been a real cutie. She’d belonged to our neighbor back in KCK.
“Poor little thing,” Meredith said, shaking her head. “She’s probably lost and afraid, hungry and thirsty. I hope somebody nice finds her soon. Does she have a tag?”
“Yes,” I said, and because if you’re going to lie, why not go all the way, I added, “But no microchip.”
“I’ll stay on top of this,” Meredith said, as she rose from her chair and opened her office door.
“If you want to talk about this thing with Neil’s parents let me know,” I said, as we stepped into the corridor.
Meredith groaned. “I don’t know what—”
She gasped, grabbed my arm and tugged me back into her office.
“That’s him. That’s him,” she whispered.
“Who?” I asked, trying to see past her.
“No, don’t look,” she insisted. “Dan Kincaid. The guy I told you about the other day. The one who does God-knows-what for the A-list clients.”
I shook her off. “The fixer?”
“Don’t let him see you watching him,” she told me. “Don’t ever look directly into his eyes.”
Now, of course, I absolutely had to see him. I’d heard the talk about Dan Kincaid around the office, the man who “fixed” problems that nobody else could—or would—handle.
I watched as he moved along the corridor several yards away, past the row of supervisors’ offices. He was tall, maybe six-three, long arms and legs, with a solid build that was more Jaguar than Hummer. His brown hair was cut short, and a two-day stubble covered his jaws. I figured him for late twenties, maybe early thirties. He wore an Armani suit with no tie. His shirt collar stood open.
My mouth sagged.
“He’s killed people,” Meredith whispered. “That’s what everybody says. They say he’ll do anything to protect a client. And you never—ever—want to get on his bad side.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should say something, but all I could do was watch as he strode down the aisle, turned the corner, and disappeared.
“Yeah, I know,” Meredith said. “He’s hot.”
“Way hot,” I agreed.
The two of us stood there a bit longer, watching the spot where he’d walked out of the room.
“My day is totally going to suck after seeing him,” Meredith said.
“Mine, too,” I said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said, and tapped the portfolio in my hand.
I groaned. “Don’t tell me.”
“Carlotta Cain,” she said. “She’s a real sweetheart.”
Something told me she didn’t mean that.
“I wouldn’t put too much effort into shopping for whatever it is she wants,” Meredith said. “She’ll probably drop dead before you get through the check-out line.”
Great. Just what I needed.
I left the investigations department and went wardrobe. This morning when I’d turned in yesterday’s Michael Kors black business suit, I knew I wanted to talk to Barbara Walker-Pierce again and had to dress appropriately, so I’d told Moss I’d need a similar look for today. She had it ready for me when I got there.
“Smokin’,” Moss said when I stepped out of the changing room in the gray YSL pencil skirt and jacket she’d accessorized with classic black and white.
“You totally rock,” I told her.
“I know,” she said, and grinned.
I took the elevator to the parking garage. As I approached the valet a Porsche pulled away. It was a 911 Carrera, the model with a top speed of 185 that went for over a hundred grand. Behind the wheel was Dan Kincaid.
I watched, mesmerized, as he drove past me, took the corner a little too fast, and shot up the ramp to the street.
Wow.
I forced myself back to reality. Dan hadn’t gotten to be a fixer who wore Armani and drove a Porsche by getting lost in his own thoughts. If I was going to work my way into the investigations department I was going to have to focus on resolving the Bagley case.
While I waited for the valet to bring a car around for me, I phoned Barbara Walker-Pierce. She answered right away.
“Have you concluded your investigation?” she asked me.
It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.
“Things are moving forward,” I said, then rushed ahead before she could ask for details. “I need some information about your aunt. Did she have an appointment book I could see?”
Mrs. Walker-Pierce didn’t answer for a few seconds, then she exploded.
“Certainly not. How dare you ask for something so personal? I absolutely will not have you contacting her friends and business acquaintances, interfering with their day, and casting aspersions on her with your questions.”
She hung up.
Great. Now what?