There were four messages on my answering machine when I arrived at the office the next morning. One was from Liam Pratt, the pesky reporter.
His message said: "Ms. Delaney, I'm still interested in following up on the allegations that Carter Delaney hired you to spy on his second wife...and what that might mean, if anything, regarding his untimely death. If you'd like to meet with me and talk about it you can reach me at..."
This guy doesn't know when to give up, I thought, irritably. Who the hell was his source? I didn't recall reading anything about Darlene's affair coming to light. What did he really want?
Though the better part of me wanted to stay as far away from Liam Pratt as possible, my curiosity got the better of me. Maybe he could shed some light on how he found out about my investigation of Darlene and who else was privy to this information.
I gave Liam Pratt a call, but got his voicemail. "This is Skye Delaney, returning your call. I'd like to talk to you—"
He returned my call almost immediately, as if waiting by the phone, and we agreed to meet for lunch at the Whaler's Club on South King Street. I've never gotten along very well with reporters, dating back to my days on the force. Probably because too often they are rude, arrogant, insensitive, aggressive, prying assholes—a lot like some private investigators I know.
The reporter was already seated when I entered the restaurant and lounge, a half-filled mug of beer in front of him as though a prop on display for my benefit.
"Ms. Delaney—" he said, and stood.
He seemed taller and somewhat heavier than our previous close encounter.
"Glad you could make it," he said.
"Let's just say you aroused my curiosity," I told him, which was only partly true.
"Ditto," he said.
"Look, Mr. Pratt—" I began, intending to set some ground rules.
"Call me Liam," he insisted. "Mind if I call you Skye?"
"Suit yourself," I responded, and glanced at my watch. This wouldn't last any longer than necessary, I decided, and the clock was ticking.
We sat across from each other in a booth. "What would you like to drink?" Liam asked, and put the mug of beer to his mouth.
"Coffee," I told him laconically, and watched the surprised look on his face, as though he expected me to share his beer with him.
I called the waitress over. She filled my cup and left menus for us.
Peeking over his menu, Liam asked point-blank: "So, is it true Carter Delaney hired his ex-wife to follow his second wife around town?"
I noted a small recorder on the table, which was on. I took the liberty of shutting it off. "I'll decide what's on the record," I told him.
He cracked a smile and nodded. "Okay, fair enough."
I gazed at the oddly attractive face across from me and said: "Maybe you should tell me where you got your information before I confirm or deny it."
He seemed prepared for this and responded smoothly: "Straight from the horse's mouth, as they say. It was Carter Delaney himself."
My eyes hit him with skepticism. "I don't mean to sound flippant, but why in hell would Carter tell a reporter anything about his personal life? Especially if he knew it could potentially be used against him and his family." I sipped my coffee while maintaining a steady gaze at him.
Liam kept a placid look on his face. "People talk a lot when they've had too much to drink." He gulped down more beer as if for effect. "It was one of those days when Delaney apparently had a hell of a bad day. I happened to be a listening ear at the bar as he droned on about the pressures of being a big shot in Honolulu...and his growing frustrations with his wife. I got the distinct impression that she wasn't putting out in the bedroom—at least not for him..."
The waitress returned and we ordered.
I was disturbed by what I'd heard so far. Had Carter been careless enough to have actually aired his dirty laundry in public to, of all people, an overzealous reporter who seemed to be looking for his own fifteen and a half minutes of fame?
"I guess we all have a weakness for something," Liam continued. "Darlene Delaney's weakness seemed to be anything but her husband."
I wondered if Liam knew about her drug use apart from her infidelity.
"So what's your weakness, Skye?" he asked intently.
"Whips and chains," I responded cynically, "if it makes you feel better."
He grinned. "The real question is does it make you feel better?"
Time to change the subject, I thought. "Let's just stick to Carter and what he told you, okay?"
"All right," Liam said. "Delaney mentioned that you were his ex and a security consultant/private eye. It was almost as if he was bragging about both. He said he was thinking about hiring you to check out his wife to see if she was being faithful to him." Liam paused. "Did he hire you?"
I was pretty good at lying, and certainly wasn't going to give him a juicy story he could use to draw inferences and possibly ruin people's lives. Least of all Carter's, though he was no longer around to feel the rippling effects.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but you've wasted your time—and mine," I said with a straight face. "Carter hired me as a consultant to do some background checks on people he was thinking about hiring. Nothing more—"
Liam regarded me thoughtfully. "Too bad. Not exactly the stuff movies of the week are made of."
"Maybe you should try writing fiction for a living," I suggested unapologetically. "That way you can create any trashy tale you want."
He reacted as though I'd punched him. "I'll keep that in mind."
The food arrived at the same time my appetite left. I tried eating anyway for the sake of my health, nibbling on grilled mahi-mahi and stir-fried vegetables.
Liam took a bite of his sautéed shrimp and said: "When I heard Carter Delaney was found dead in your Jacuzzi, I figured he must have followed through on his threat to see what his wife was up to and paid the ultimate price for it."
My fork lifted as if it had a mind of its own and pointed threateningly at him. "Get a grip on reality," I scoffed. "You're a reporter. Even though Carter may have spouted off to you in a drunken state, there's no proof it had anything to do with his death." On the other hand, I thought, it was still too early to rule out a connection. And too early to rule out Darlene being involved in Carter's death.
Liam seemed to agree with my stated observation. "Okay, so maybe I'm just grasping at straws here..." He bit off another piece of shrimp, then said: "But aren't you the least bit curious to know if the second Mrs. Delaney was really getting it from another man?"
I looked at him and said convincingly: "Why should I be? That was between Carter and her." I hoped my downplaying it might be enough to convince him to leave well enough alone, though I wasn't sure why I cared. Perhaps it was because I was overly sensitive where it concerned Carter and adultery, even if he happened to be on the other end of it this time around. It occurred to me that Darlene had accused him of fooling around on her as well. I didn't doubt it, all things considered.
"I guess it's a dead story then—figuratively speaking." Liam chuckled at his own sick sense of humor and watched for my reaction. There was none.
I forked a piece of broccoli and told him: "As far as I'm concerned, the story was never really alive—"
Liam wiped his mouth. "Too bad the same can't be said for the late Carter Delaney." He stared at me lasciviously. "So I was thinking that maybe we could get together sometime for a drink, the theater, or whatever. You name it."
Now the conversation had gone beyond the boundaries I always set when dealing with people who were supposed to be professionals.
I tasted some water and said: "I don't think so." Then I added for the record: "To tell you the truth, you're not my type." Not that I had a problem dating snoopy reporters, per se, only those who rubbed me the wrong way.
He shrugged. "That's cool. No harm in trying."
I took out my wallet and removed some bills, setting them on the table. "That should cover us both."
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I know I don't," I finished. "It's no big deal. I'm taking it as a business deduction. Good-bye, Liam—"
I walked away without looking back, hoping he got the message that there was no reason for us to see each other again. That said, something told me we would.