It hit me in the middle of the night. That's when my mind tends to cause the most mischief. I was lost in a deep sleep, wandering in my dreams through a lavish tree house that vaguely resembled the Emerson mansion, when something jolted me wide awake.
At first, I lay in bed, my ears straining for sounds coming from downstairs. My sleep-fogged brain decided that someone had broken down my front door. After a few seconds, I realized I had heard no actual sounds. The light on the burglar alarm keypad showed there was no intruder, and I realized that what had wakened me was an idea, not a noise.
A distressing piece of information I had heard earlier in the evening.
It had taken hours to burrow its way into my conscious mind, but there it was.
I sat up in bed. A glance at the luminous dial on my clock radio told me it was 3:11 a.m.
Far too early to call her.
I went over it in my mind, telling myself I was making a big deal out of nothing.
What was it she had said when she left my car? A man had called her, wanting to buy her father's business. She was going to meet him the following night.
Perfectly innocuous.
Wasn't it?
But how did he know the business was for sale?
There had been nothing in the papers about her father's death, other than the simple obituary.
My mind was suddenly brimming with questions. Why would anybody want to buy a detective business, especially a one-man shop whose owner was dead?
No. Who had been murdered.
What assets were there to sell? Client lists? Files? Accounts receivable? Not likely. Deacon worked on retainer. He got his money up front. Certainly the desk and chairs had no value. Deacon didn't even have his own office space. He worked out of his home.
And why were they meeting at night? Why not during the light of day, when there would be people around? What if someone--for example, whoever had thrown her father's unconscious body off a tenth floor balcony--was testing Jana Deacon, trying to find out if she knew something incriminating? For example, had her father told her about the appointment he must have made to meet his murderer? Or were they looking for something they might have overlooked the first time?
I glared at the digital face of the clock radio. Three-seventeen. Only six minutes had gone by. I tried to force myself back to sleep, but it was useless. I told myself there would be plenty of time to warn her in the morning. But my brain wouldn't let it go. What if this would-be buyer had merely called to find out where she lived? He might be breaking into her house at that very moment, planning to commit yet another murder.
My thoughts bounced back and forth, like the eyes of the spectators at a tennis match. Should I call her? Should I leave her alone? Would she think I was completely crazy? Things always seem more urgent in the gloom of night, I reminded myself--another one of my grandfather's many sayings. There was no doubt what Theo would have done under the circumstances. He would have shown up unannounced at her doorstep.
And, knowing him, he would have ended up staying the night.
By I wasn't my grandfather. I tried to dismiss my suspicions as absurd and totally impossible. After all, the most likely scenario was that the potential buyer was perfectly legitimate, someone who ran his own agency and saw a chance to expand his business.
But the doubts kept creeping in. There were two overriding certainties: Helen Emerson had been murdered. Max Deacon had been murdered a few hours later.
And there was almost certainly some connection between their deaths.
Finally, I surrendered and grabbed the telephone, touch-toning the number she had given me.
She answered on the third ring. "Hello?" she mumbled in a groggy voice.
"Jana? This is Adam Larsen. I apologize for bothering you at this ungodly hour, but--"
"No, no, that's all right. Is something wrong?"
"I hope not. I'm probably just being foolish. This man who wants to buy your father's business, what is his name?"
"He said it was Taylor. But that's confidential. He asked me not to tell anyone I was meeting with him. He doesn't want anyone to know that he's interested in the business."
"Have you Googled him to see if has an agency of his own?"
"No."
"Where are you supposed to meet him?"
"At a Mexican restaurant. On South Santa Fe. Tomorrow night. Actually, I guess it's tonight. At ten o'clock."
"On South Santa Fe" I said. "At ten o'clock at night? Why not meet at your father's office or--"
"I suggested that. But he said it wouldn't be convenient to meet during the day. He said he's working on a job and won't be done before then."
"This sure sounds peculiar to me."
"Me, too, now that you mention it. Especially with what I now know about my father's death. I'll call him in the morning and cancel the meeting."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I told her. "If he knows anything about who killed your father, your cancelling might scare him off."
"So what do you suggest?"
"Let me go with you. That way--"
"Would you mind?" The relief in her voice was almost palpable. "I'd feel much safer with you there."
"Sure. How about if I pick you up tomorrow night at nine fifteen? That should give us plenty of time to--"
"I'll be ready. You can pick me up at my house." She gave me the address, which was on Franklin Street. "If you'd like, you can come earlier for a drink"
"I'll have to let you know. I'm planning an errand of my own. Meanwhile, I noticed there was a computer in your father's office."
"Yeah. What about it?"
"I think you should get it out of there. There might be something significant on the hard drive."
"Good point. I'll get it out of there first thing in the morning."
"Perfect. Be careful, Jana. Regardless of whether this man is a bona fide buyer or a murderer, we know that there's someone out there who is very dangerous. I'd hate to see anything happen to you."
"Why, Adam Larsen," she accused, in a voice that sounded pleased, "I think you're starting to like me."