What You Don't See

by Tracy Clark

  Allen lasered in. “I don’t accept it, as a rule, Detective. Neither do I give anything away for free nor respect people who do.”

  Ben rubbed his chin slowly, and I could hear the scratch of his stubble. “Yeah, well, I’d feel better if I gave it, anyway. The letters? The flowers? We’ve talked about this before, but I really wish you’d take my advice and not ignore what’s going on. Maybe it’s completely innocent, but maybe it’s not. I think it’d be better if you got out in front of it.”

  She let a few moments pass without responding, then did finally. “Advice noted.”

  Something small moved in a corner, and I turned to see a white long-haired cat wearing a diamond-studded collar slink out from under the chaise and head for Allen’s legs. Allen caught me watching.

  “That’s Blue, short for Blue Note. Ignore him. He’ll do the same to you.” She pressed a button on her desk, and the door opened instantaneously to a lanky young black man in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks. He looked to be around college age, fresh faced, short hair. He came in carrying a round silver tray with a linen napkin and a single cup of cappuccino on it, and it didn’t look like this was his first time doing it.

  He was used to the tray. Used to the walk from the door to Allen’s queenly perch with nary a rattle of fine china or silver. I watched every step of his journey. Whoever the kid was, Allen didn’t bother to look at him. She did flick a look at the tray, though.

  “Progress, Kendrick. This time you remembered the napkin.”

  He acknowledged her with a nod, put the tray down, and left as quietly as a ladybug.

  Her elbows on her desk now, Allen tented her fingers under her chin and stared at me. “There’s only you in your agency.” She’d obviously looked me up.

  I straightened up a bit. Showtime. “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  It seemed an odd question right off the bat. I took a second to answer. “I like it that way.”

  Her dark eyes did not waver. “I don’t see what preference has to do with running a business. You could take on more cases if you had more investigators.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I definitely could do that.”

  “So, why don’t you?”

  “I’d rather keep it simple.”

  Allen’s eyes really were piercing. What was her deal? “What does that mean?”

  She was like a four-year-old bombarding you with questions about sex, and I was the parent trying to avoid indelicacies by keeping the answers short and broad, hoping she’d lose interest and settle for a juice box and animal crackers.

  “I like working alone,” I said.

  “Why?”

  Our eyes held. My patience was waning. “I just do.”

  I could feel Ben squirm in the seat next to me.

  “You won’t tell me why.”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Allen didn’t blink. “You’re not sorry.”

  I thought about it for a half second. “I was being polite.”

  “I’d like an answer.”

  “Why?”

  She cocked her head. “Why do I want an answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm.” Allen pushed the button on her desk twice. I hoped she was buzzing Kendrick to see me out. Frankly, I was more than ready to go. How many times did she push that button in a day? I wondered. And was Kendrick compelled to answer every wordless summons? If so, poor kid.

  “You like being in control,” she said after a time. “So do I.”

  The door opened. No Kendrick. It was Chandler who walked in this time, but Allen’s eyes never left my face. Goody for me.

  “Kaye, I also need you to tell the studio I want to see the new set before Friday.”

  “We really need to get in there sometime today,” Chandler said. “That’d give us more of a cushion before mock run-throughs, in case we need to make changes.”

  Allen turned to Chandler, a sudden chill in the air. “Friday. Make the call.”

  Chandler, apparently startled by the rebuff, turned and walked out without so much as rippling the air.

  “Maybe you heard, but I’m about to launch my own show in a few months. National reach. It’s a long time coming.” Allen angled her head. “Well? Still waiting for that answer.”

  “Most people want control over the things that matter to them,” I said. “And they try getting it in a number of ways—working alone maybe, or by propping their desks up on platforms.”

  Ben cleared his throat; the gruff sound was followed by a clumsy stillness.

  “I’m wondering if you’re going to be a problem for me,” Allen said, condescension dripping from every word. “I’m picking up attitude. I don’t like attitude. I want team players. Are you a team player, Ms. Raines?”

  “If I like the team.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  I shrugged. “Then I take my ball and go home.”

  Allen looked to Ben. “This could be a problem.”

  Ben leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “Do you want good, or do you want easy?”

  The look on Allen’s face told me she was a woman not used to having to choose. She considered things for a moment more. “Fine. I’ll see how this goes. What I need isn’t complicated, as I’ve told you already. I don’t know who’s behind all this mess, and honestly, I don’t care. I have a magazine to run, a show to ramp up for, events, business. I don’t want any of that interrupted. Five thousand for the week. The week started the moment you walked in here.”

  Ben said, “Yeah, we got it.”

  I just nodded.

  Allen barreled on. “I start my day in the gym at seven. I’m here no later than eight thirty, unless I’ve got an early meeting scheduled, and I don’t this week. There’s security in this building, but I’d be a fool to rely on it, so both of you will be here during the day. I’ll need you both for my evening events. You can divvy up duties however you see fit. I won’t need you overnight. My building’s secure—doorman, full security staff. They know what they’re doing.” Allen sat back in her chair. “Unobtrusive protection is what I’m paying for. Questions?”

  Allen looked from Ben to me. Ben stayed quiet, so I stayed quiet. The man had a boat to pay for.

  “No problems working for someone else, Ms. Raines?” she asked pointedly.

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “I’m curious. Why take this at all? A PI who prefers working alone?”

  “Detective Mickerson asked, and I had the time.”

  She let a beat pass. “You two are friends, then?”

  I nodded.

  “And you apparently value that friendship.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t think I needed to. I asked a question instead. “Why do you think someone’s threatening you?”

  I had my theories, of course. I’d known the woman less than ten minutes, and working just on first impressions, I imagined she’d easily get on the wrong side of most anybody quickly. She was intrusive. She was rigid, and she didn’t strike me as being the kind of person who cut a lot of slack.

  Allen blinked and, for the first time, looked away. “I have no idea.”

  “Everybody knows at least one person who curses the air they breathe.” I studied her, but her painted face, her mask, gave nothing away. If Allen had a feeling, any feeling, it was buried bone deep. “For example, the gentleman leaving as we came in didn’t seem too happy with you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Philip?” She chuckled. “I’m not worried about Philip Hewitt. He’s a worker bee, a drone. I enjoy his little fits of pique. They give me a chance to cut him down to size.”

  “What do you know about him, other than that?” Ben asked.

  “I know he thinks he’s a much better writer than he is. And that he hates female authority figures, which is why I hired him and why I keep him on. It’s fun watching him wrestle with it.”

  I clocked the cat. “Anyone else you like messing with?”

  Allen didn’t answer.


  “Okay, how about this one?” I said. “Why haven’t you called the police?”

  Allen took a long, thoughtful sip from her little coffee cup before setting it down and taking a few moments more before she graced me with a reply. “Because they aren’t needed. This is a private matter, and I’m keeping it private. No hordes of gossip-greedy reporters waving microphones and cameras in my face. Have either of you ever seen my name linked to scandal?”

  Allen waited for an answer. I thought of the married senator she’d latched onto a few years ago. There’d been low gossip and covert whispers, but they’d been careful not to draw attention to the relationship. It had been the worst-kept secret in town, and none of my business. Ben shook his head no. I just sat there. She seemed satisfied.

  “That’s not by accident. Someone’s looking for attention, hoping to get it by aligning themselves with me. I won’t give them that satisfaction. In the meantime, until they realize they’re not going to get what they want, I have you two. You have your orders.”

  Our orders? I scanned the butterscotch room. “Obviously, money’s no object, so why go for a moonlighting cop and a one-woman PI shop instead of a full-scale security firm? There are a lot of them out there.”

  “For this, big isn’t necessary, is it? Or are you saying even this small job is too much for the two of you to handle?” She looked from Ben to me and back again.

  Sitting there watching her, I wondered what kind of life the woman lived. What made her so sure of herself and so inflexible and unfeeling toward those around her? Who loved her or didn’t? I couldn’t know, of course. I was meeting only the public Allen. She could be completely different out of her Prada than she was in it, but somehow I doubted it. Ben tapped the leg of my chair with his foot, and the subtle jolt instantly stopped my mind from wandering.

  “Well?” she was asking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked if we were on the same page.”

  I let that sit. This was my chance to bolt, and I would have in a New York minute if Ben and I weren’t tight and I hadn’t given my word.

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Ben breathed out heavily. Relief? What did he think I’d say?

  “Good. I can’t imagine you’d have any more questions.”

  I glanced at Ben, who seemed satisfied to let our meeting come to an end without a challenge, so I just nodded and smiled.

  Allen leaned back in her chair, her eyes holding mine again. “I can read people pretty well. Had to, growing up where I did.” She picked up a tiny spoon from the tray, pointed it at me. “Let me tell you about yourself.”

  I groaned inwardly. How could I make Ben pay for this? How would I go about sinking a fishing boat? Would I need power tools, or could I do it with just a handsaw and elbow grease? Acetylene torch? I slid Ben a sideways look, but he wisely avoided eye contact. Power tools. Definitely.

  “Cassandra,” Allen said, smiling condescendingly. Her familiarity pulled me up short. “Do you mind if I call you Cassie?”

  Some smiles are warm, friendly; some are cold, a warning, an opportunity given for somebody to rethink, proceed with caution. I gave Allen the latter. Nobody called me Cassie. It didn’t fit me. My own mother had never called me Cassie, and who knew me better than she had? I could practically feel Ben sweating through his blazer. My eyes met Allen’s; hers met mine and locked. There was a dark twinkle in her eye. She was messing with me, pushing, digging.

  “I do mind, actually. Unless, of course, you’d prefer that we all operate on a first-name basis? You call me Cass, I’ll call you Vonda, and he’s Ben. We can chuck the professionalism altogether and get real homey. You cool with that?”

  She recoiled, and the devilish smile melted away. She couldn’t marginalize me without taking herself down a peg, so what to do, what to do? How important was it that she be the Vonda Allen? I sat and waited for her to work it out.

  “Ms. Raines, then.”

  I was not surprised. Maybe reading people was fun only when you thought they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, read you back? Allen looked a little unsettled, or as unsettled as I imagined she got. She was definitely hiding something, I thought, but we all hid something. I wondered what Allen’s something might be.

  The room got quiet; the silence was so profound, I could almost hear Blue Note licking his privates under the desk.

  “Do you play poker, Ms. Raines?”

  I shook my head and ignored the impulse to check my watch for the time.

  “People would have a hard time reading you.”

  “I’m a pineapple,” I said.

  I’d confused her. “Yes, well, I’ll take Detective Mickerson at his word. Anything else you feel compelled to ask?”

  Ben spoke quickly. “No, I think that’ll just about cover it.”

  “Then I’ll be ready to go at six.” Allen picked up her phone, punched numbers.

  I interrupted the dismissal. “Do you like marigolds, Ms. Allen?”

  Her finger froze over the number pad, and she fixed me with flat eyes. “I prefer roses and orchids.”

  And then she turned away and ignored us. Ben and I eased out into the hall. As we stood there, our backs to Allen’s closed door, decompressing, I suddenly gave in to a perverse urge and elbowed Ben in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make me feel better. He let out a grunt.

  “You’ll pay for this one, Mickerson. Big-time. I’ll dig deep.”

  “Knew that when you gave her the poker face. Just do me a favor, huh? Keep it above the belt? I’d like to father children someday.”

  I glared at him. “No promises.”

  Chapter 3

  Nobody, not even me, tried to kill Allen the entire morning. Ben and I spent the time eyeballing the FedEx guy, the mailman, and a couple of office workers from down the hall who’d come to meet friends for lunch. Allen had a designer salad; Kendrick ordered in burgers for Ben and me. No letters. No marigolds. Just the two of us cooling our heels in rich lady chairs outside Allen’s door.

  I stood after a time, stretched out the kinks. “I’m taking a walk.”

  Ben shot me a sly look.

  “Bubble,” I said before he had a chance to remind me. “Got it.”

  I strolled down the hall, peeking into the offices, at the unhappy people, but stopped at a small room with a copier in it when I saw Kendrick hastily feeding envelopes through a metered stamp machine.

  “Kendrick?”

  He jumped, reeled around. I’d obviously caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. He eyed the doorway behind me. Checking for Chandler? He tried blocking the machine with his body, but it was too late for that. He wanted to bolt. I could tell.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He quickly gathered up the envelopes, business size, I noticed, no company logo on them. He slipped them into a manila folder, looking guilty as hell. It had to be personal mail, but what twentysomething these days wrote letters and mailed them? Unless they were addressed to Dear Bitch. I looked closely at Kendrick, sizing him up, but you couldn’t peg a sociopath by looking.

  “I thought you were . . . Never mind. You didn’t scare me.” He rambled on, shaken, caught out. “Excuse me. I gotta go.” He tried slipping past me, but I gently blocked his exit.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Me? Why?”

  “For a couple questions.”

  He gripped the folder tighter, flicked a look over my shoulder, where escape lingered just beyond his reach. “If it’s about the office, I can’t. NDA, or did you forget?”

  I stepped back, checked the hall. Ben was still sitting in the chair, like an observant lump. No sign of Allen or Chandler. “No, I remember. But we both know something’s going on around here. I’d like to get your take. Five minutes, and whatever you say doesn’t get back to either one of them. Deal?”

  He eyed the stamp machine, then me, as though this was some kind of trap. He narrowed his eyes. “Not even about the
stamps I’m borrowing?”

  Borrowing? Could you return used metered postage? “What are you mailing, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  He looked uneasy. “It’s personal, okay? I figure she owes me. I worked fifty hours last week, but I’ll get paid for only forty. It’s always like that.”

  Maybe it was the truth; maybe it wasn’t. “Can I see?”

  Kendrick scowled. “And if I say no, you’ll tell them about all of this, right?”

  I let his question hang for a second. “It’s not my postage machine.”

  If he wouldn’t show me what he had in the folder, I couldn’t force him, but that didn’t stop me from wondering about it.

  Kendrick stood there thinking things over, then nodded. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “What’s been going on around here?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure, but Ms. Allen’s definitely spooked. Chandler too. I know it’s got something to do with the flowers Chandler’s been throwing out, and I heard she’s been getting love notes, too. It’s got to be a stalker. Somebody messin’ with her.” He lowered his voice even more. “There’s word going around, too, that maybe she’s having a thing with Phil Hewitt and that her riding him is just for show.”

  “Is there a lot of word going around?”

  “We’re not supposed to talk, but we do. People are people. Maybe she dumped him, or he dumped her. The first could explain the flowers, and the second would explain her bitchier than usual mood lately.”

  Allen and Hewitt? Huh. I didn’t see that coming, but what did I know? The exchange I’d witnessed earlier had certainly looked genuine enough. If it had been a put-on, the two of them had given Oscar-worthy performances. Also, how much could I trust the office scuttlebutt when Allen’s threatening letters had been mischaracterized as love notes? The staffers were like players in a bad game of slumber-party telephone. There was no telling what other distorted information was flying around. So much for the NDA, though. Like Kendrick had said, people were people.

  “Tell me about the phone calls.”

  The request surprised him. “They told you?”

  I nodded, lying. “Sure. I’m just looking for your perspective.”