* * * * *
I had just sat down in my new leather club chair that now adorned my new office. If I was being honest, the chair wasn't bought, and it really wasn't new. It was a gift from Mike Miller. And that was odd. Not odd because we didn't get along. We did. Quite swimmingly. It was odd because he thought, really believed, that I would want any sort of memento from the opulent offices of Baxter, Miller & Clarke when he finally closed it down.
I had refused. Objected. Told him to take it, and burn it. But he insisted and actually had it delivered the day that I moved into this joint. Which, coincidentally, was today. I told the movers to toss it in the alley. But they didn't seem to believe me or care and had just stood there staring at me, asking repeatedly where to put the thing until I relented and told them where to shove, I mean, put it.
I opted to place it in front of my desk and off to the side of the couch that sat directly across from me where I would be seated doing work. I now had a little potential client meeting area—a couch, small cocktail table, and now a giant brown leather club chair, complete with ottoman that was pushed off to the side, rounding out the look. In the corner of the office I had a bar. A glorious, beautiful bar. It was made of stained birch, handcrafted in the early 1920s, sporting brass accents with gold inlay. It was very art deco, stocked with a bunch of scotch and made me feel like Daddy Warbucks as I'd poured myself a glass just moments ago.
Jabber, my black lab, was here with me, as was Imogen, who was already sitting on the couch sipping a scotch and soda. Ready to relax. And why not? It was almost four. And we'd accomplished a lot today. We had moved our stuff in here. Here being the new offices of Slade Investigations located in beautiful Manors, NY, just down the street from my, I mean, our house. We had decided that we didn't want very much of a commute if we were going to really do this.
"Now what, Dutch?" Imogen asked.
"First thing, I'm trying to focus on taking a sip. That is, if you don't mind."
She rolled her eyes at me, playfully annoyed but still very much attracted to me and my sparkling personality. Well, at least I hoped that she was still attracted to me. We hadn't been married all that long. Still in the honeymoon stage. That is, if you weren't counting the five years that we dated. I was pretty sure she counted.
"Funny," she said, crossing her legs. "While you take your first sip, think about what we should do next. My office is done, and so is yours."
"Exactly. That's why I'm treating myself to a drink," I said, taking a sip of my Glenfiddich 18, neat.
"What about reception?" Ginny asked.
I chuckled. "We need a phone line first. We haven't set that up yet."
"We also need a receptionist."
"How about Jabber?"
"I'm being serious, Max," she said.
"OK, my love. I'm putting on my serious hat," I said.
"If you have one of those, I've yet to see it,"
"Good point. OK, let's give this a go. Any ideas on the receptionist?"
"None," she said.
"Male or female, my love?"
"Don't know. I haven't thought about it."
"Well, that's one to ponder on. Our phones aren't exactly ringing off the hook yet."
"Dutch, no office line, remember?"
"I'll work on that."
We needed to hire a receptionist and hook up a phone line. Two important items on the agenda for tomorrow. Today, I was happy just to finish unpacking our stuff and setting this place up. I wasn't thinking about getting any actual work done. Not that there was any work to be done. We didn't have any clients. All we had was this space, my bar, and a drink in each of our respective hands.
It was quite a leap to finally open our own private investigation firm. Take on a new challenge. One that would go hand in hand with our new life together. It had sounded laughable when we'd stood on the steps of the local police station six months ago after helping Detective John Carrington solve the murder of Ted Baxter. A case that I had been dragged into when I'd almost been locked up for murder. He had suggested that we would make great private investigators. He could use our help. And, if I remembered correctly, he'd said, and I was paraphrasing here, that others could use our help as well.
We'd laughed, and then I had an epiphany. We could do this. We could help John and the police, but more importantly, we could help people. People who were in trouble. People who had problems. People who needed someone to fight for them.
When we'd finally discussed it in detail, Imogen had agreed. We would leave our jobs running my venture capital firm, sell it, and "retire." Open up a private investigation firm. We didn't need the money. We had both done very well over the years. Despite my modest upbringing, I had managed to sell a technology company during the dot-com boom for a couple of million bucks. I was one of the lucky ones. And I knew it. Right time, right place. Dumb luck with a little ingenuity sprinkled in.
I'd used the money to start a venture capital firm, and from there I'd done well for myself. Imogen, on the other hand, was a diligent worker. She'd made her money the hard way. She'd inherited it. Her family was loaded. Old English money. But Imogen didn't rest on her trust fund. She'd been an investment banker at a prestigious bank in London and made herself a small fortune. She'd retired at thirty-five and moved to the United States and the sleepy town of Manors, NY, next door to me. For excitement, she'd said. A new place, new people, and a new way of life. Well, she'd certainly found that and more, I would argue.
I leaned back in the club chair and took a long sip of my scotch. Music. We needed some music in this office. I'd make sure to hook up some speakers in here so that I could stream a constant flow of tunes. I needed music to think. To reason. To live. Anyone who didn't like music was suspect in my book.
I gave a head rub to Jabber, who was sitting next to me, while Imogen sipped her drink, staring into space with her head leaned back against the top of the couch when my cell phone rang.
"Max," the voice said.
"Yes," I said.
I was trying to figure out who was on the line.
"Max, it's—"
John Carrington.
"John," he said.
Sergeant John Carrington of the Manors Police Department. This was the first time we had chatted in months. The last time we spoke he had congratulated me on my engagement to Imogen. And I had reciprocated by congratulating him on his promotion to sergeant.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. How are you?"
"I'm well, Max. Listen, I've got something here that I think you would be able to help with."
"What kind of something?"
"A dead kind of something. Recent. Could you get over to the station?"
"I don't see why not. And what about Imogen?"
Imogen looked over at me when I said her name. It must have roused her from her daydream. She mouthed a question asking me who was on the line. I didn't bother answering.
"Bring her along. You're a pair, aren't you?"
A pair? Yes, I supposed we were a pair. Partners.
"Partners," I answered.
"Good, get here as soon as you can. I'll explain in the car."
"Where are we going? The crime scene?"
"You're quick on the uptake, Max. See you in five."
He disconnected.