Where Danger Hides Page 4
Tempted to make excuses and leave, Miri knew she would see this one through. When an opportunity fell into your lap—or you happened to find it in someone’s pocket—it was fate, and you went where it took you. She extended her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Blackthorne. It was good to meet you.”
Mr. Blackthorne raised his head from the papers and took her hand. “I look forward to speaking with you again, Miss Chambers.” He shifted his gaze to Dalton, then back to her. “Good morning.”
Dalton held the door for her and they passed through the outer office. Mrs. Scott picked up her computer mouse and studied the monitor, but Miri caught the quickly suppressed grin.
She hurried down the hall as Dalton lengthened his stride and overtook her. He stopped at a door and flipped down a small sign that said, “Occupied.” He pulled the door open and gestured her inside. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He disappeared the way they’d come. Miri recalled a water fountain and restrooms along the way, and assumed that’s where he’d gone. It was clear enough he had no choice about the assignment—damn, she didn’t like being an assignment. Would he blow off the job, go through the motions and call it quits? For now, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt, but it was a good-sized doubt. Miri crossed to the large conference table and sank onto a padded leather chair, facing the window. In the distance, she could see the Golden Gate Bridge emerge through the fog.
She held her purse in her lap, clutching the leather strap in a stranglehold. Forcing a deep breath, she clasped her hands on the table. Dalton returned, the scent of commercial soap overlaying the sandalwood. He crossed the room to a wall unit and bent to open a drawer. Aware she was staring at him, Miri snapped her head back to the view out the window, but she wasn’t sure it was better than the one behind her.
Dalton tossed a file folder and a yellow lined tablet onto the table and took the seat across from her. From an inside coat pocket, he produced a pen and twisted the cap off. Miri got the impression he was thinking of her neck as he did it.
“All right, Miss Chambers. What is it you want from Blackthorne, Inc.?” He wrote the date, time, and “Mary Chambers” at the top of the page.
“It’s Miri, not Mary.”
Dalton raised his eyebrows in question.
She shrugged. “Yeah, so I can read upside down. No big deal.”
He drew a neat line through Mary. “Miri. Is that short for Miriam?”
“No. It’s not short for anything.” His gunmetal gray eyes rose from the page, and she felt the uncontrollable urge to explain. “It’s from Star Trek. The original series—with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock.”
Recognition flashed across his face. He nodded and wrote Miri on the pad. Without knowing why, she liked that he hadn’t simply scribbled out the a and replaced it with an i. Or started a fresh page. He was meticulous, but not extravagant.
“I remember that one,” he said. “The three-hundred-year-old kids, right? And the grups. Kim Darby.”
“Right.” She relaxed at his shift to a more conversational tone. After he noted her address and phone numbers, he set the pen down and leaned back in his chair.
“Okay, Miri,” he said. “I’ll overlook the wallet. How the hell did you find me?”
“I already explained that to Mr. Blackthorne.”
“Humor me, please.”
She inhaled, getting more sandalwood than soap this time. Thank goodness he’d dismissed the wallet-lifting, which avoided her having to lie, which also avoided the explanation of why she was in Patterson’s study, which was fine with her.
“I was really sorry about your wallet. I found your ID, but there was no address or anything, only HLB Imports and Exports. Like I said, I’d been reading some old Ian Fleming, and James Bond’s cover was Universal Exports. I thought about how you were sneaking around in the study and how funny it would be if you were really a spy like James Bond.”
Dalton said nothing, merely nodded, his eyes narrowing.
Her palms grew wet, apparently sucking all the moisture from her mouth. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?”
He shrugged, pushed back from the table and went to the wall unit. Miri watched as he bent to open a lower cabinet door. The man had a great ass, that was for sure. He returned with two bottles of water, screwed the lid off one and set it in front of her. She gulped half the contents. “Thanks.”
He took a quick sip of his water, then placed the bottle next to his tablet. “Go on.”
“Okay, so then I got a call from someone where I work—which is really why I’m here. Are you sure you don’t want me to get to that? They’re kind of connected.”
“I’m more interested in knowing how you got from James Bond to me.”
Because I’m a daydreaming idiot, that’s how.
“First, I called the number on your card. I got a recording saying to make an appointment. But that seemed weird, so I Googled HLB and found an address.”
Dalton took another sip of water.
“Anyway, I came by yesterday morning. I was going to drop the wallet into the HLB mail slot, but there wasn’t a mail slot. And then I saw the directory that showed Blackthorne, Inc. occupied a lot of office space in the same building.”
Dalton rubbed his fingers across his forehead, as if he had a headache.
“Is this making sense?” she asked.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Okay. So, I went home and Googled Blackthorne, Inc. because I was thinking about spy stuff and it was kind of fun trying to see what I could discover.
“I found out Blackthorne did security work and private investigations, which made me wonder—Horace Blackthorne, HLB—you know. Could they be related? And Mr. Blackthorne’s middle name is—”
“Langford. I know.” Dalton seemed less exasperated. She couldn’t be positive, but a smile might be peeking through his gruff demeanor.
“So, I had this fantasy that HLB and Blackthorne were part of some secret agency, which sounded stupid when I thought it through, but I had nothing to lose by coming back this morning—because I really did want to return your wallet.
“The HLB office was still closed, but the big, fancy second-floor office of Blackthorne, Inc. was open. I was trying to figure out what to say when I heard a man talking to the receptionist. I recognized his voice from Saturday night. The Aussie.”
“He didn’t recognize you?”
“You didn’t either, remember, and he didn’t get a clear look at me Saturday. Besides, there were five or six other people getting onto the elevator, so I followed him. When he pressed twelve, I got off at ten and waited a few minutes, then took the stairs the rest of the way. There aren’t a lot of offices on this floor. Blackthorne’s name was on a door, so I went in. I showed Mrs. Scott the wallet and asked if she could get it back to you.”
Dalton closed his eyes and grimaced. She’d obviously knocked his reputation down a couple of pegs. She didn’t care.
“Go on,” he said.
“I waited while Mrs. Scott talked to Mr. Blackthorne. Apparently, he was impressed with my detective skills, so he invited me into his office. We talked, and I mentioned something that concerned me at work. I didn’t come here asking for help, but he said he had an available investigator, and I accepted his offer. I had no idea it would be you.”
She inhaled, trying to replenish her supply of oxygen. Dalton didn’t say anything for a minute, and she braced herself for his wrath.
What she got was laughter, a warm, rolling sound that raised her temperature about five degrees.
* * * * *
Dalton’s irritation melted like ice cream on a summer day. Sometimes you were good, and sometimes you were just plain lucky. Miri’d been served a supersized portion of luck. He had a feeling Blackie would be making changes, possibly starting with HLB’s name. The fictitious import-export name gave a logical explanation for the international travel they did, but if this little filly br
oke his cover so easily, something would have to give.
Angry as he’d been, her husky voice while she’d told her tale shot right through him. To the other brain that insisted on distracting him. He swallowed some water while he composed himself, then picked up his pen.
“All right, Miri. Why do you think you need a private investigator?”
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t. Mr. Blackthorne did, Mr. Just Dalton. He’s the one who offered your services, remember?”
She was as feisty as she’d been in Patterson’s study Saturday night. Which was the real Miri? The thieving waitress or the elegant socialite. A mixture of both, undoubtedly. Studying her—the light brown eyes, her straight nose with a tiny upward tilt at the end, the dip in her chin that wasn’t quite a dimple—how had he thought her nondescript? A wide mouth, full lips. And when she smiled, which she hadn’t done nearly enough, she could burn off the fog enveloping the Golden Gate. He smiled, trying to coax one from her, and went hard when she returned it. Not good. He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry. Let me try again. What did you tell Mr. Blackthorne that made him think you needed a private investigator?”
“Three people are missing.”
His interest piqued. He sat back and cleared his throat again. “Why don’t you explain.”
She waited, her expression clearly screaming, Do you take me seriously yet?
He dug out a polite smile and leaned forward, getting a hint of her scent. Another dumb move. He shifted back. “I apologize for any misunderstanding. I’ll admit I was . . . irritated—”
“Pissed,” she said.
He nodded. “Okay, pissed. But I’ve been assigned your case, and I’m willing to put Saturday night behind me. I want to assure you, I’m good at my job and I take it seriously.” He raised his hands, palms outward. “Truce?”
She appeared to consider it. “Truce.”
“Let’s start over, from the beginning.” He extended his hand. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Dalton. Would you like some coffee?”
She gave a demure smile, which he knew mocked him, and placed her fingertips in his palm. “I’d love some, Dalton. I’m Miri.” She cocked her head and fluttered her eyelashes. “A smidge of cream, if y’all have it. Or milk. Or creamer. Of course, black will be fine. I wouldn’t want to be puttin’ y’all to any trouble on my account.”
The syrupy Southern accent she affected had him choking back a laugh. He thickened his drawl. “Not a lick of trouble, ma’am. You set tight and I’ll have it brewin’ before you know it.”
Dalton stepped over to the coffee maker and started a pot, using the simple mechanics of preparation to center himself. Their lighthearted banter hadn’t changed the facts. Miri read him too easily. She knew he was here under protest. No doubt he’d telegraphed his embarrassment at how she’d not only picked his pocket but revealed his shortcomings to his boss. He knew better than to drop his guard, even in civilized San Francisco.
He considered the possibility Miri’s case was a setup. That didn’t make sense. No matter how irritated Blackie might be, he wouldn’t waste the company’s time on a nonsense case with a fictitious client. Then again, Blackie’d made it damn clear he didn’t think Dalton was ready for serious work. Maybe this was Blackie’s way of making him feel useful instead of slapping him with mandatory leave.
Bullshit. Assigning him to what was probably a cut-and-dried investigation was just as demeaning.
He’d research Miri six ways from Sunday before he did anything else. From the way his internal jitters flattened, he knew he’d made the right decision. He hadn’t survived without learning to trust his gut.
Feeling more like a professional again, he faced the conference table while the coffee gurgled into the pot. The aroma built a craving for the first sip, pulling his mind away from Miri’s enticing scent. He held that thought as he returned to his seat.
“It’ll be done in a few minutes. Why don’t you start,” he said.
Miri nodded, apparently satisfied with their new beginning. “I work at Galloway House.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Have you heard of it?”
Dalton frowned. The name was familiar. “Some kind of shelter for runaway kids? Sorry, but most of my assignments are OCONUS, and I’m not in the city much.” At her lifted eyebrows, he explained. “Outside the continental US. I normally work on international cases.”
Her head tilted a few degrees. “Like with Interpol? Spy stuff?”
He shook his head. “Nothing that glamorous. Sometimes clients run into problems abroad and they’re more comfortable with someone from home.” The lies of omission came easily as he entered his comfort zone. He shoved aside a fleeting twinge of remorse that he was more at ease with lies than the truth. Those lies kept him alive. He toyed with the pen. “Let’s assume I know nothing. Tell me as much as you can.”
Miri fussed with her purse strap. “You’re partially right about Galloway House, but it’s more than a shelter. We cater to teens and moms with kids, but we’ll help anyone we can. We give people a fresh start. We provide training, help with job placement, give people confidence to move back into society. Make them productive citizens.”
Her eyes sparkled with pride.
“How many residents?”
“It varies—our goal is to move people out, but we provide beds for up to twenty-five. Then there are the daytimers—the ones who live on their own, but take classes or work at the House.”
“And your position there?” He wrote Galloway House on his tablet.
“I’m staff—you’d probably call me an administrator. We don’t really have positions. Except for things requiring specialized skills, like keeping the books, handling publicity, or teaching a particular class, everyone does what they can. I teach some computer classes, but I’ll work in the kitchen, or provide a friendly ear. I’ll push a mop around if I have to, and I’m not bad with a hammer.”
“Sounds like a good place.”
“It is. We’ve helped a lot of people get back on their feet. We have some basic rules—no alcohol, no drugs, and except for a couple of family rooms, the sexes are separated.” She gave a little shrug, as if she knew that didn’t mean people weren’t hooking up for a little action.
He nodded, indicating she should continue.
“Everyone has responsibilities to the House. It makes it seem less like they’re accepting charity if they see they’re contributing. And if they need more help than we can give—specialized professional counseling, medical care—we refer them to other agencies.”
The coffeemaker gave a final sputter. “Coffee’s done.” Dalton got up, poured two cups and set one in front of Miri along with a metal pitcher from the mini fridge. “I think it’s cream.”
Addicted to her scent, he hovered beside her while she tipped the pitcher over her cup. The thick white liquid swirled in the hot brew and she nodded. “Thanks.” While she stirred and sipped, he walked around the table and sat, letting his general impressions float freely. She definitely cared about her work and the people she worked with. His suspicion Blackie had fabricated the case lessened.
“Tell me what you can about your missing people,” he said. “Any reason to think they’re connected?”
She nibbled on her lower lip. He stared at the blue lines on his yellow paper, trying not to think about what he’d like to do to those lips.
“I don’t think so. But since Mr. Blackthorne offered, it seemed silly not to accept his help—just in case.”
Doubts niggled again. Had Blackthorne done more than offer? Had he talked her into accepting help? Made her some sort of deal? He could hear Blackie.
That’s a very interesting situation, Miss Chambers. I’m sure there’s a very simple explanation. However, as a precaution, I’ll be happy to assign an investigator. I have one who’s perfect for this kind of a task. He’s been under some stress of late, so you’ll actually be doing me a favor by letting him work with you. It shouldn’t take him more than a day or two.
“You should understand, people who come to Galloway House are free to leave at any time. We don’t have them sign contracts or make any commitments. Sometimes they’ll walk out too soon, thinking they’re ready to face life outside after a few days of decent food, hot showers, clean clothes. Especially the teens. Most of those come back in a couple of weeks, once they miss all the extras we offer. Sometimes, they come by for meals—we serve a couple hundred meals a day, no questions asked. Other times, they decide they’re happier where they were, or they reconcile with family and go home.”
“So what’s different about your missing people? What makes you think they didn’t decide to leave on their own?”
“It’s the way they left. Without saying anything. Or they were in the middle of training and seemed happy—it’s more a feeling they weren’t ready to leave. You pick up when someone’s looking at the big picture rather than marking time.”
His skeptical streak rose again. A feeling wasn’t enough. Then again, he usually trusted his gut. Maybe he should trust Miri’s.
“Anything missing when they left?”
She shook her head. “No. As a matter of fact, they took what they arrived with, nothing more, even though we offer things like clothes, toys for little kids, other basic creature comforts.”
He picked up his pen, poised to write. “I’ll need their names.”
She paused, giving him a defiant stare. He stared back.
“Luisa, Cissy and Robbie,” she said so rapid-fire they came out as a single word.
Irritation boiled. “Last names?”
Her face slammed shut. “No.”
“No?” He put the pen down. “It’s kind of hard to find someone if you don’t know who you’re looking for.”
“Our records are strictly confidential. And most of the residents aren’t using their full names, or their real names, anyway. We never demand it, and we promise to respect any wishes for anonymity.”