That remained to be seen.
Michael leaned closer. “You didn’t, by chance, see anybody leave directly after they did? Maybe somebody who followed them out?”
The bartender paused from his neurotic drying of the glasses. “Now that you mention it, someone else did leave probably three or four minutes after Flash did. I didn’t think anything of it.”
A spark appeared in Michael’s gaze. “Do you have a name for this person?”
“I don’t, but I can find out.”
“If you would do that for us, we’d be grateful.”
The bartender leveled his gaze. “I won’t do it for you, but I’ll do it because I like Flash. Give me a second.”
I watched as the man sorted through some receipts. A moment later, he held up one. “The man’s name was Art Smith. That’s all I know about him. If you want any more information, you’re going to have to find him yourself.”
“What now?” I asked once Michael and I were back in the minivan. A strange thrill of excitement zinged through my blood. “Are we going to go chase down this Art guy?”
Michael glanced at the time on his console. “Unfortunately, not now. We need to head back, especially if you have to report to the cleaning service this evening.”
I bit back my disappointment. I’d forgotten about that. “You’re right.”
“We do have just enough time to grab a bite to eat, though. How about if we get a late lunch?”
“Some lunch sounds great.” I really shouldn’t spend the extra money, and I had packed a lunch, complete with a peanut butter sandwich and apple. But by the time I got back to the office to eat, I was going to be famished.
Michael pulled up to the harbor area in Storm River. This part of town was located on the edge of the tourist area, part of the original infrastructure of the area. It had a more raw feel than the polished retail area.
I didn’t come down here very often. I tried not to spend any money on things that were unnecessary—including eating out and most entertainment. It wasn’t that I was frugal or a saint. It was simply that money was tight.
But this area was, by far, my favorite over the other areas in town. Several seafood restaurants were right on the water where boats docked out front. A couple small stores were also located in the space and parking lots backed up to the area.
We climbed out, and Michael led me toward a building in the distance with a sign above it proclaiming The Board Room. I’d never heard of it before.
Several people called out hello to Michael as he entered. He appeared to be a regular.
We were able to be seated immediately at a table by the window overlooking the water. Bean bags slouched in the corner, shelves full of games lined the side walls, and oversized Scrabble tiles decorated the space in between.
“It’s a board game café,” Michael explained. “Who needs a plain old coffee shop when, instead, you can play Settlers of Catan for hours while drinking and eating?”
I loved board games. I especially loved ones that made you think and strategize. I already knew I was going to love it here.
“This is great,” I murmured.
Michael smiled. “It’s my favorite. Plus, I like supporting local businesses.”
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask about your shirt.” I pointed to the “Birds Aren’t Real” text across his chest. “Is that a joke?”
“Birds are a government conspiracy. They’re actually robotic, flying spies.”
I stared at him, trying to interpret whether or not he was serious. He didn’t laugh.
Before we could talk anymore, Michael’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen before excusing himself and answering. “Hey there! How’s my girl?”
His girl? No doubt Michael had a girlfriend. He seemed like the fun-loving kind of guy who’d turn a lot of heads. I also felt like he had stories buried deep inside him—stories I was anxious to hear.
I tried to tune out their conversation by glancing around, but I was unsuccessful.
“I know,” Michael continued. “I can’t wait to see you later either. I love you, and thanks for calling, sweetie. I’ll see you at home.”
Something about the way he said the words caused a flash of jealousy in me. It was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t that I wanted to hear Michael talk to me like that. But it would be nice to have someone who might talk to me like that.
My fiancé . . . well, to say the least, he’d been a bust. We’d talked about running off and starting a life together. Forgetting about a big wedding. Forgetting custom and tradition.
Then, one day, he’d ghosted me. It was almost like he disappeared off the face of the earth never to be seen again. After twenty-four hours of him ignoring my phone calls, I got a text stating that he’d had a great awakening and realized we’d never work.
Cold feet? Maybe.
All I knew was that it had hurt. Sometimes, it still did.
“Sorry about that.” Michael put his phone on the table and turned back to me.
“It’s no problem.”
Without missing a beat, he picked up his menu. “So, aside from board games, this place is also known for their charcuterie boards. They have all kinds.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“My favorite, especially at lunch time, is the hot dog board. It comes with every topping you could want, two different kinds of chips, fruit, and macaroni salad. Interested in splitting something?”
“Now I am.” I just hoped it wasn’t too expensive. I was definitely on a budget.
“Great. And, by the way, this is on Oscar,” Michael said, as if reading my mind. “We are on the clock.”
“Really?” I wasn’t used to my employers paying for my lunches.
“Yeah, of course. Just like he’s paying for my gas. Oscar makes enough money that he can afford to do this. Especially considering that he doesn’t really do anything.”
I shifted in my seat. “That’s the second time you’ve alluded to that. What do you mean he doesn’t do anything? He was esteemed after solving the Ernesto case.”
“All he does is bark out orders and fund the operations—and that is a big part of it. I’m not saying the man isn’t brilliant. Or maybe I should say that he was, at one time in his life, brilliant. But now, all he does is drink most of the day, leer at women, and watch TV. He’s pretty much good for nothing.”
Michael’s words did something strange to my heart. I’d been wanting to work with the best. And it turned out I was working for a louse instead? I didn’t even know what to say. I needed to figure out what was important to me before I invested too much into this job.
The waitress came, and we ordered. Then Michael grabbed Jenga from the shelf and set in on the table. “Until our food gets here.”
“Sounds fun.” I hadn’t played in years.
He pulled the first wooden block out from the tower. “Your turn.”
I played it safe and grabbed an outer piece from the middle. The uneven edges drove me crazy, but I choose to ignore it. I would have totally straightened them before we started, but I didn’t know Michael well enough and didn’t want to seem too psycho.
Michael turned to me as he made his next play. He flipped an extra Jenga piece in the air.
This man needed a fidget spinner. Yes, the device had even made its way down to Yerba.
“So, Elliot, huh? That’s a unique name for a girl. What’s the story behind it?”
It wasn’t often that people asked me that question, but it just so happened to be one of my favorite stories to tell.
“Actually, my mom was a missionary from the United States to Yerba. Her favorite author was someone named Elisabeth Elliot. She actually named me after her.”
Michael stared at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Elisabeth Elliot was a missionary too, right?”
My eyebrows shot up. “Yes, that’s correct. Not many people know that.”
“Not many people know this either, but I actual
ly went to a Christian high school. I’ve read her books before.”
Surprise washed through me. As I glanced down, I saw that one of the tattoos on Michael’s finger was a cross with the word “Jesus” on either side. Now it made more sense.
My curiosity grew. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up working for Oscar?”
Michael shrugged and leaned back. “I needed a stable job. He hired me initially so I could run background checks and stuff on the computer. But as he’s started to do less and less on his cases, he’s been assigning me to do more and more. That’s why I’m hoping he’ll actually hire someone who’s going to last for more than two days. I can’t do it all.”
“I take it you like working for him. I mean, you haven’t quit.” I watched his reaction carefully so I wouldn’t miss the truth.
Michael shrugged again. “I love investigating and finding the bad guys. This pays better than I would be getting paid at the police station. I don’t really want to work for the government up in DC. So this works for now. Plus, it keeps me close to Chloe.”
I heard the affection in his voice and, for a moment, felt another surge of jealousy. “That’s really sweet that you want to be close.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Of course I want to be close to my daughter.”
Had he said his daughter? So much for my astute skills of assumption. Was there even such a thing? “That was your daughter you were talking to?”
“Yeah, did you think . . . ?” He narrowed his eyes.
I raised a shoulder, ready to defend my position. “I just assumed it was a girlfriend.”
“No, that was just my Chloe.” He beamed as he said her name.
“And how old is she?” I asked, more curious than ever about my new coworker.
“Seven. She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.” He made another move in Jenga, and the tower wobbled before finding balance.
“You don’t look old enough to have a seven-year-old.”
He really didn’t. I assumed he either had a girlfriend or liked to date around. He had an edgy, tough guy swagger. He wasn’t scary tough, but he seemed like the type who could handle a gun, who liked to spit sunflower seeds, and who protected those in his circle—maybe all at once.
“I get that a lot. That’s a story for another day.”
The waitress set our food in front of us. The board was huge and artistically arranged. I started to salivate just looking at it.
Before I could grab a hot dog, a loud crash sounded outside.
As it did, the building shook, and our Jenga tower collapsed onto the table and floor.
Michael ran to the door and peered outside. I followed after him.
My mouth dropped open when I saw his minivan had been hit by another vehicle. The other driver sped away down the road.
What was going on?
Chapter Nine
Five minutes later, the cops had been called. Michael and I stood outside the restaurant along with a handful of other people and stared at his wrecked minivan. At least the weather was nice and sunny as we waited. The scent of the river floated around us, and the sound of boaters talking too loudly in the distance filled the air.
Why would someone ram a vehicle into Michael’s? It made no sense.
“Did you see the vehicle that fled?” Michael asked me, turning away from the glaring sun.
I’d seen the vehicle, but it had been too far away for me to get a license plate or the make and model. “All I know is that it was a black sedan.”
His gaze darkened as he shook his head. “That’s all I could see too.”
“Have you made anyone mad lately?” Wasn’t that the only reason something like this would have happened? It seemed obvious to me that the act had been purposeful and out of vengeance. Michael had been targeted.
“I investigate people for a living, so I’m afraid my list is a little too long to narrow down right now.” He rubbed his brow and looked away.
There was more to his story. I was certain of it.
“Could this be related to our investigation into Flash? Maybe we got a little closer to answers today than we thought.”
Michael tilted his head, almost looking impressed. “Now you’re thinking like an investigator. Maybe we did get a little too close and somebody wanted to send a message.”
“If that camera we found offered a live feed . . . the person responsible for the crime could have been watching us. They could know we found it.”
“And we could become targets,” Michael finished.
Just then, an unmarked police car pulled into the lot. My eyes widened when I saw Detective Hunter step from the vehicle. I turned before he spotted me and I blew my cover.
“It’s Hunter,” I muttered. “I can’t let him see me.”
“Go inside. I can handle this.”
Since I didn’t witness the crime, hopefully the detective wouldn’t need to talk to me.
Because that would be highly problematic.
I slipped inside the restaurant and stood near a window at the entrance, peering out.
I watched as Detective Hunter approached Michael with pen and paper in hand. From what I could tell, the detective appeared to be asking Michael for his version of the events. Then Hunter circled the vehicle several times and took some pictures.
Certainly, Michael knew that I couldn’t be seen in this situation. Or did he? How much exactly did he know about this investigation and my secret undercover mission to find more answers?
I didn’t know.
“Is everything okay, ma’am?” someone said behind me.
I turned and flashed my brightest smile to the blonde college-aged hostess standing behind the desk. “Just fine. Don’t really like cops. I know it’s weird.”
That was my third lie. The first was when I told my mom about this job. The second was the lie of omission when I’d worked for the cleaning crew last night. How many lies was I going to have to tell in order to do this job?
“No, that’s not weird at all. Plenty of people don’t like cops. Was that your minivan that got smashed up?”
“Not mine but a colleague’s.”
“You mean Michael?”
“I guess you know him.”
Her face darkened. “He doesn’t need any more bad luck, does he?”
What did that mean? I supposed Michael would tell me if he wanted me to know. But I was more curious now than ever.
The hostess shook her head and sprayed the wooden stand in front of her with some Windex. “Man, is that a bummer.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I feel like I’ve seen that car before.” She grabbed a paper towel and began wiping the area down. The woman wore a black T-shirt that proclaimed, “Old School Gamer.” She had a nose ring, shaved hair at the sides of her head and longer on top, and some of the biggest plastic-framed glassed I’d ever seen.
My pulse quickened. “Say again?”
She nodded and continued sanitizing her station. “That’s right.”
I stepped closer to make sure I heard her correctly. “Did you see the driver?”
“Not really.” She shrugged. “Sorry. There’s a group that comes in to play Exploding Kittens about the same time every week. Their game is much more interesting.”
“If you remember anything, can you call me? You’ll probably need to tell the police that information also.”
“Sure thing. Whatever I can do.”
I wrote my name and number on the back of a business card—the restaurant’s card, not mine. I wasn’t that advanced yet.
As I glanced outside, I saw Detective Hunter get back into his car, and Michael started back this way.
I released my breath.
I’d just scraped by on this one. But living in a smaller town was going to have its challenges. I needed to keep that in mind if I wanted to survive this new job.
Michael and I sat on the steps outside The Board Room waiting for the tow truck—that was forty-five minute
s late—to come and for a rental car to pull up. The waitress had packaged up our charcuterie board and brought it out to us.
The hot dogs, even slightly cold, had been tasty.
I reminded myself not to adopt the American diet—not if I wanted to maintain my boyish figure. Food was so convenient here—and the more convenient it was, the less healthy. In Yerba, I’d gone to the market every day to get fresh fruits, vegetables, and bread.
It was already four o’clock, and I had to report to my new job by six. Not that I thought it would be a problem. But since I needed to take public transportation to get to these places . . . time was a consideration. I didn’t want to blow this already.
“What a day, huh?” Michael pulled his hat off, ran a hand over his dark hair, and then returned the cap atop his head.
“You can say that again. I’m sorry about your minivan. You obviously get a lot of use out of it.” That was my nice way of saying it was a pigsty.
“I’d like to say I hope the police catch this guy, but I don’t have much hope of that.”
“Maybe a traffic camera somewhere recorded his image. You never know.”
“You’re an optimist, aren’t you?” Michael glanced at me, and I almost thought he felt sorry for me.
I’d have to examine that another time.
My gaze traveled across the gravel parking lot as a Bentley pulled up. A man stepped from the car and strode toward one of the boats in the distance.
My breath caught. It was the man who’d stopped and helped me yesterday. The one who had muttered what sounded like “mantente alerta.” What was he doing here?
“Would you look at who that is?” Michael muttered, his gaze on Armani man. He didn’t bother to hide the dislike in his voice.
“Should I know him?”
Michael glanced at me. “I forgot, you’re new to this area. That, my friend, is Jono Harris. That’s John-O, spelled J-o-n-o. Not the name he was born with, which was John Osborne. He thought Jono sounded more hip.”
The Art of Eavesdropping Page 6
