CHAPTER 2

New Client

The cell phone in Stitch’s car buzzed. He was near his office and thought about not answering. Whoever was calling would leave a message. He could get it later with a coffee in his hand. Besides, you never wanted to take confidential information over a cell. They were too easy to listen in on, whether intentional or not.

The phone kept buzzing. Stitch sighed. Business hadn’t been that good lately. He couldn’t afford to lose a potential client. He pushed the answer button on his steering wheel. “Stitch Robinson,” he answered.

“Mr. Robinson?” It was a woman’s voice. A soft voice. Stitch figured she was about 32, 33.

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”

There was a hesitation at the other end. Stitch waited patiently. He had heard it a hundred times before. You didn’t call a private detective on a whim. Usually his clients were at the end of their rope. Worried sick. Desperate. Angry. But that first call was hard. How do you talk about a cheating husband? A missing daughter? Suspected theft by a trusted employee?

“I’m sorry to call you on your cell phone,” the woman stammered.

“No need to be sorry,” Stitch said. “If no one calls I’m out of a job.”

The woman gave a feeble laugh. “I guess I mean I’m sorry I have to call you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

Stitch wheeled his Rav 4 into the parking lot. He pulled into a parking place marked Robinson Investigations. He turned off the ignition and pulled out his BlackBerry from the holster on his belt.

“Are you still there?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I just pulled into the parking lot. Sorry about that. I’ll be in my office in five minutes. May I call you back when I get inside? Cell phones are not very secure.”

“Oh. Yes, I see. I’d never thought of that.” The woman seemed a little more confident. “Yes, that would be fine. About five minutes?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, goodbye then.”

“Ma’am?” Stitch said hurriedly. “Do you want me to call you at this number?”

“How silly of me,” the woman said. “I forgot to leave you my phone number. I’m just feeling, I don’t know…”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

“Flustered, I guess,” the woman continued.

“Yes, ma’am. So, should I call you at this number? I have it in my phone log.”

“Yes, that would be fine.” The woman paused. “No, actually. This is my cell phone.” She laughed again. “I guess I’m already learning a bit about detective work, Mr. Robinson.”

“Stitch. Please, call me Stitch. And how about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, ma’am. What is your name?”

“Oh, my,” the woman groaned. “I completely forgot to give you my name, didn’t I?”

“That’s fine. Maybe you don’t want to tell me right now. But I probably should have a first name if I’m going to phone.”

“Of course. My name is Molly, Molly Maxwell. But call me Molly.”

Stitch had walked into the hallway of his office building. He fumbled with his keys while balancing the phone between his chin and shoulder. “OK, Molly. Give me five minutes. What number do you want me to call you at?”

“905-649-7441,” Molly said quickly.

“Right. Talk to you soon. Stitch took the phone with his left hand. He pushed the red off button to be sure he was disconnected. Then he slipped it back into the holster on his belt. “905-649-7441,” he said aloud. “905-649-7441.” He took a pen and small leather notebook from his shirt pocket. He held the notebook against the door and wrote the number down. He finally found the right key and shoved it into the keyhole. He pushed the heavy wooden door open.

His office was a wreck. Every time Erin took a few days off things just seemed to go to hell. Three different coffee cups sat on his desk. He peered into one. A dark green scum was forming on some ancient coffee at the bottom. Huh, he thought. Stitch’s Bog. Thank God, Erin was back tomorrow, he thought. Otherwise the health department might shut the place down.

He pushed three files to the side and tried to clear a space where he could take notes. The phone was buried under 30 pages of a report he’d just finished. Some of the pages, he noted, had slid onto the floor. He hurriedly picked them up and stacked them on top of the others. He tossed the report into a basket already piled high with paper and books. He watched in dismay as the report slowly slid off the pile and fluttered back onto the floor. Damn, he thought. This is embarrassing. I’ve got to clean this mess up. Even if Erin is back tomorrow.

Stitch’s computer monitor glowed white at the back of his desk. He leaned forward and glanced at the screen and groaned. There were at least 30 new e-mails. He noted with some relief that most were spam. At least three were trying to sell him cut-rate Viagra.

He pulled the phone toward him. The red message light blinked steadily. He quickly checked the numbers. Two from Jill, his most recent girlfriend. She’d dumped him about a week ago. He couldn’t commit, she’d complained. So now she called on a daily basis to tell him what a creep he was. Great. Well, those could wait.

There were a couple of others from clients. Mrs. Dukeshire. Stitch had caught her husband on video tape in bed with not one but two prostitutes. Looked like he might have to show up in court for the divorce hearing. Carl Darling, still trying to find his young son. His wife had taken off with him nearly a year ago. By the time he’d come to Stitch the trail was pretty cold. Stitch still hoped he could track her down. So sad, he thought. How did once caring relationships end up in such bitterness?

And then there was Molly’s message. All of his cell calls were directed to his main number as well. He glanced at the number he had written in his notebook. He punched it into this keyboard. The number appeared in the phone’s tiny screen along with a name: Bob Maxwell.

Stitch sat back in his chair and looked at the picture of his cat on the bookcase against the far wall. Bob Maxwell. Councillor Bob Maxwell?