by Darcia Helle
Nico pulled a Marlboro pack from his pocket. He flipped open the box, took a cigarette, and stuck it between his lips. Taking his time as he continued to glare at Skeets, he slid his Zippo lighter from the same pocket and lit the cigarette. Smoke curled around his face. He inhaled deeply, blew a stream of smoke up at the ceiling.
A full minute passed. Nico smoked slowly, his gaze never leaving Skeet’s face. Finally he said, “You know what could happen if this information gets in the wrong hands.”
Skeets swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“You don’t want your new girlfriend to be a six-foot hairy motherfucker with bad breath. Sharing a room for the rest of your miserable life.”
“Christ no.”
“Then get the hell outta here and do your job.”
Skeets had to force himself to take slow steps and not bolt out the door. Showing fear would get him killed. So would fucking this up. Of course, death was preferable to prison any day. What terrified him was the way he’d die. And the time it would take death to rescue him.
Chapter 6
The house stunk. Ian grimaced as he pushed the door closed behind him. He reminded himself to water down all of his mother’s perfume. One of the many problems with her constant memory loss was that she’d repeat activities throughout the day that she didn’t remember doing earlier. Such as applying perfume.
Another smell mingled with the perfume. Something strong and pungent. Maybe ammonia? Definitely a cleaning agent.
“Ma? I’m home!” Ian called.
He stepped into the living room and the smell grew stronger. He pushed open the windows before moving down the hall. “Ma?”
“In here,” Corinne replied.
Ian rolled his eyes. Like he was supposed to know where “here” was. Thankfully the house was only a six-room ranch and not a twelve-room colonial. He followed the voice into his mother’s bedroom. While he didn’t immediately see her, he certainly did smell her.
Corinne stepped from her bathroom. “I’ve been cleaning,” she said. “I wanted my bathroom to sparkle.”
“That’s good, ma.” Ian’s first thought was that his mother had brushed her hair. Or conditioned it. Whatever it was that women did to calm the frizz down. It had been weeks since she’d done that.
“Do you remember how I used to love taking long baths?” Corinne asked. She wiped her hands on her jeans. “I still have some bubble bath left, you know. I thought I’d use it tonight.”
Ian smiled and kissed his mother’s cheek. “You look beautiful today.”
“Thank you.”
“Go ahead and finish what you were doing,” Ian said. “I’ll make dinner.”
“That’s sweet, Ian. After dinner I’m going to get myself a book to read and I might just soak in that tub for hours. I might even have a glass of wine while…”
Corinne’s eyes grew wide and her focus seemed to fade away. Ian watched her, waiting, hoping that she had simply forgotten what she was going to say. She had seemed so normal. So much like the mother he’d known all of his life.
He noticed her hands were trembling. He reached out to touch her but she shook her head, backing away. She said, “I can’t do that. Can’t do that because then they’d come. He’d come. He’d come.”
The transformation left Ian feeling as helpless as always. He swallowed the dry lump that had quickly formed in his throat. “Who’d come, ma?” Ian said. “Who is he?”
Corinne shook her head almost violently. She kept backing away until she bumped into the bed. Then she sort of sat, sort of flopped onto the mattress. She continued to stare, continued to shake her head. “He’d come. He would.”
The chant persisted with perfect rhythm. Ian’s head threatened to shatter. Experience told him there was nothing he could do. She wouldn’t let him close. She wouldn’t respond. She was lost to him. For now.
He swiped at the tear that escaped his eye. What had set her off this time? The chanting crept under his skin. He wanted to scream for her to shut up but that would do no good. So he turned and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.
In the living room, he pulled the phone book from the end table drawer. The yellow pages were full of listings for private investigators. For some reason he hadn’t expected that many.
How was he supposed to decide? Was he supposed to call each one and ask how the investigator felt about working for a guy with a crazy mother? Or maybe he could ask for credentials. See if any of them had experience solving riddles and finding mysterious “they” people who dwelled in the minds of the mentally ill.
“Christ,” he muttered. How was he even going to explain this situation? What private investigator with a shred of sanity would even take this case?
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he mumbled. He glanced through the listings, looking for something, anything, that stood out. Some of the ads were too glitzy. He decided against all of those. Some had only a listing and no information. Those he skimmed over.
One ad about the size of a business card caught his eye. It was simple, direct. And the address was right down the street from Rob’s home, where their office was. Couldn’t get much more convenient than that.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number for Martel Investigations.
***
Lucianna shoved the stack of files to the far corner of her desk, almost knocking the electric pencil sharpener to the floor in the process. As she swiveled to grab the report she needed to finish, she smacked her elbow against the computer monitor. She chewed her lip to keep from swearing. Then, remembering she was alone in the office, she let loose an array of curses aimed at the inadequacy of her desk space.
No doubt about it. She needed a separate desk for the computer. How was she supposed to work all cramped up like this?
The phone came to life, increasing her irritation. She glanced at the clock and considered letting the answering machine pick up. After all, she should have been gone an hour ago. But she was still here. And the ringing was getting on her nerves.
“Martel Investigations,” Lucianna said in her most professional voice.
“Hi. I, ahh, I need to set up an appointment to meet with one of your investigators.”
Lucianna clicked the mouse, bringing the appointment book up on her computer monitor. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“I’d rather talk to someone in person. Not that I think it’s some top-secret mission. It’s just that, well, it would be easier in person.”
“That’s fine,” Lucianna said. She balanced the phone between her chin and her shoulder. While she shoved objects out of the way of the mouse, she asked, “What’s a good day for you?”
“The soonest you’ve got. I’ll arrange my schedule around it.”
Lucianna idly wondered about the detached voice and his not really top-secret mission. He was sounding a little desperate, which was common in this business. Just the same, his voice was quite sexy.
She rolled her eyes at her own ludicrous train of thought. “How about this coming Monday at eleven o’clock?” she asked.
“I’ll be there.”
“Your name?”
“Ian McCormick.”
“Okay Mr. McCormick, we’ll see you at the office on Monday at eleven.”
Lucianna forgot about the sexy voice on the other end of the phone almost as soon as she’d replaced the receiver. The report loomed in front of her with all the intrigue of a box of toothpicks. But procrastinating was obviously doing her no good. Magical elves weren’t about to spring out from another dimension and do it for her.
She allowed herself one deep sigh filled with self-pity, then pulled up the menu on her computer. With some luck, she would have the report finished and all the data transferred onto the computer within an hour. Then she could go home and curl up on the couch with Dylan.
Chapter 7
Rob’s 4-year-old twins were running through the house with pans on their heads, pretending to be aliens. Or maybe they w
ere warriors now. Ian had lost track. He listened to their wild giggles and, not for the first time, wondered when he’d be hearing those sounds in his own house.
He supposed he should start that process with a wife. Which meant finding a woman who meant more to him than a sexual distraction. He didn’t seem to be having much luck with the whole soulmate thing.
Then came the question of his mother. Exactly when was it appropriate to bring up the fact that he lived with and took care of a crazy woman? He was reasonably sure that Miss Manners didn’t have anything on that in her rulebook.
“Did you come here to work or to study the oil painting?” Rob asked.
“They are nice paintings,” Ian said as he turned toward his partner. “Alison should be selling them.”
“I tell her that all the time,” Rob said. “She tells me that would make it work, which would then ruin the fun.”
“I guess she has a point there.” Ian grabbed the corner of the estimate Rob had been working on and pulled it toward him. “I don’t even know how she finds the time to paint. Between taking care of four kids and the house, and playing secretary for us, I’m surprised she’s not a raving lunatic.”
“Everything should be on there,” Rob said, referring to the estimate. “Look it over, though, in case I missed something.” He grabbed his coffee mug, swallowed a mouthful. “Alison is amazing,” he said. “I don’t know how she does it all.”
Clattering in the hallway was followed by the twins’ infectious giggles. Rob shook his head. “One more year and they’ll be the problem of some unsuspecting kindergarten teacher for at least part of the day.”
“The estimate looks good,” Ian said. He pushed the paper back across the desk. “That house is a mess but at least it’s all cosmetic. You figure about two months?”
Rob nodded. “Maybe three, tops.”
“Are you going to drop this off today?”
“I’ll do it while you’re at your appointment. That’s at eleven, right?”
“Yeah.” Ian checked his watch. Only 9:30. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll probably get laughed right out of the office.”
“I’m sure they’ve heard crazier stories than yours.”
“I wonder if that’s possible,” Ian said. “At any rate, the receptionist there has the most incredibly sexy voice. I’m really curious to see if the rest of her lives up to the promise.”
“Don’t count on it. You know most phone sex operators have sexy voices. But they’re usually two hundred pounds and butt ugly. No Victoria’s Secret models there.”
“Thanks a lot for bursting my bubble.”
“Hey, anytime,” Rob replied. “That’s my job. Besides, what would Cindy say if she heard you talking like that?”
“I broke up with Cindy last week.”
“Ahh. You didn’t tell me. It’s about time.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“So maybe you’ll get lucky and this receptionist will have a body to match the voice. And she’ll be single.”
Ian drained the last of the coffee from his mug. “What do you think the odds are of that happening?”
“Probably not good.”
“You’re such an inspiration.”
“I work hard at it.”
Ian stood up, stretched. “I’m going to check through our supplies, make a list of what we need. I’ll go to Home Depot after lunch. You want to come?”
“Sure. Meet me here when you’re finished with your meeting. You can tell me if it was worth lusting over that disembodied voice.”
***
Twice during the five minute drive from Rob’s house to the office of Martel Investigations, Ian grabbed his cell phone, ready to cancel the appointment. Then he thought of his mother, pictured her cowering beneath the table, and tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat.
How could he possibly make it sound rational that he was willing to pay someone to search for what was very likely a phantom creation of his mother’s warped mind? And the idea of trying to retrace her steps on that day she’d stepped over the edge made sense when Rob had first suggested it. Now, however, it seemed ludicrous. Without his mother’s cooperation, how was this detective supposed to figure out where his mother had been on one particular day three months ago?
That familiar feeling of helplessness hovered over him like a dark storm cloud. Maybe it would be better to put his mother in a hospital. At least she’d have 24-hour care. And an entire team of doctors, rather than one ineffectual, over-priced pompous ass who treated her more like a unique specimen than a patient.
Ian shook the thoughts off. Unless his mother became a danger to herself, he would never, could never, lock her away on some psyche ward.
Bold black numbers on a large white sign, along with the words Professional Building, announced the address he’d been looking for. Ian swung his truck into the parking lot and pulled into a spot up front. A nondescript, two-story white building stood before him. For some reason he had been expecting something with more of a cloak and dagger theme. His imagination apparently had too much freedom to roam these days.
He found the building directory posted just inside the double glass doors. Martel Investigations was located in suite 2C. He bypassed the elevator and pushed open the door to the staircase. He walked slowly while rehearsing various ways of presenting his story. He’d yet to find a short version that made sense. Hell, the long version made no sense.
Outside the door to suite 2C Ian drew a deep breath, then strode through into the reception area. The room was average in most respects. Four chairs lined one wall, along with a small table covered by a pile of magazines. On the other side, beneath a large window shielded by vertical blinds, was a glossy black desk and matching filing cabinet.
What Ian wasn’t prepared for was the person seated behind that desk. Not at all what he’d envisioned.
“Can I help you?”
Ian stepped toward the desk and the man seated there. The guy looked to be in his fifties, was balding, tanned, and surprisingly muscular. Certainly not the receptionist he’d spoken to a few days ago.
“I have an appointment at eleven,” Ian said. The man watched him, his gaze penetrating. Ian shifted uncomfortably. “My name is Ian McCormick.”
The man smiled, instantly transforming his whole persona from cobra to teddy bear. He motioned toward the chairs across from him. “Have a seat. Lu will be right with you.”
The name sparked an image of a heavy-set, cigar-smoking New Yorker. Ian raked his hand through his hair. He must be watching far too much television.
He had just sat down and was stretching out his long legs when the door to the inner office popped open. As the woman stepped out, his first thought was accompanied by images straight out of a porn movie. She crossed to the reception desk and he snapped his jaw shut before he started drooling.
Her back to him, he took in her perfect shape, her long dark hair, the way her jeans clung to her. He couldn’t see her left hand, wondered if there was a wedding band there.
Her voice was hushed. The man behind the desk laughed at something she said. Ian leaned forward, wanting to hear her voice, maybe even catch her name before the mysterious Lu appeared.
She turned, her eyes catching and holding his. Ian felt the stirring of arousal. Had he not been so transfixed, he may have laughed at his own adolescent reaction.
Her eyes were a sparkling green, surrounded by long dark lashes. Her silky smooth skin was the color of caramel. For the few seconds that their eyes locked, Ian didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.
Then she smiled. Not just a simple smile with her lips. But one of those rare smiles that seemed to radiate from somewhere deep within. He was quite sure that one smile held the key to world peace.
“Mr. McCormick?”
Ian sat up straighter. The voice registered immediately. That sexy voice from the phone. The voice he’d assumed belonged to the receptionist. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m Lu
cianna Martel,” she said. “You can come on into the office.”
Ian somehow managed to get his legs underneath him and even walked to the door without tripping over his jaw. For some reason he had never considered the possibility of a female detective. He had certainly not anticipated that one could be so incredibly sexy.
Lucianna stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing Ian to pass into her office. He caught a whiff of her perfume. Soft and exotic.
She motioned him to one of the burgundy leather chairs that stood opposite her desk. Cherry wood. Nearly the entire surface covered by folders, papers, a phone, and a computer monitor.
He sank into the chair, took in the corner bookcase, the open vertical blinds covering the large window behind her desk. He noticed the champagne-colored Berber carpet, the cherry filing cabinets by the bookcase. Two paintings hung on the wall, one of Venice, the other of the French Rivera.
Ian sat straight in the chair, looking everywhere except at Lucianna. Not because he didn’t want to gaze into those extraordinarily sexy green eyes. More because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to think if he did.
***
Lucianna slid into the chair behind her desk. She watched Ian with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. His discomfort was obvious, as was his good looks. Tanned arms, with biceps that bulged against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. A strong jaw. Killer blue eyes, deep blue, like liquid sapphire.
She was somewhat unnerved at the recent sexual twist to her thoughts. Six years at this job and suddenly she was having trouble with the whole professionalism aspect. Apparently she was sorely lacking something in her life. Like sex, for instance. An issue she would have to examine more closely at another time. For now, however, she needed to switch off her feminine reaction to this man and do her job.
