by Mike Knowles
“You’re late,” she said.
Jones started up the stairs without bothering to check the time on his phone; he was sure that she was right. He stopped shy of the landing because his client refused to relinquish the high ground. She was older than him by ten years—more if the work that had been done on her face was really good. She was wearing thigh-high boots over a pair of jeans that were mostly concealed by an oversized blanket scarf. Her hair was too blonde to be natural, but the state of her hair didn’t give that away. Her colourist must have cost a fortune.
“You’re late,” she said again.
“You already said that.”
“When someone is late, it is customary to apologize.”
“The same could be said for someone who is rude.”
Jones lifted the keys out of his pocket and showed them to his nine a.m. She looked at the keys and then stared at him a bit longer before taking a step back.
Jones stepped up and turned toward the door. The surface was steel and the words Jones Investigations had been stencilled in white at eye level. In between the two words was a wide dent that Jones had used a man’s head to create. He had never gotten around to getting the door fixed.
Jones turned the key and left the door open behind him. The woman didn’t step inside the office until he had turned all the lights on. She crossed the threshold and gave the office a long look while Jones disabled the alarm system.
“This is . . . nice.”
Jones let his gaze drift across the space as his finger glided to the enter key. When Jones had bought the building, he renovated the office space upstairs. The upper floor was part of the original structure while the lower floor had expanded in spurts throughout the decades. Jones had preserved the limited parking that remained behind the building, and as much of the original material as he could upstairs. The dark grey walls of his office were contrasted by the white trim. The contractor had wanted to tear out the thin uneven floorboards and start over, but Jones wouldn’t let her. She reluctantly stripped them and stained them dark enough to hide all their sins. The furniture was old, but all of it was quality. Jones took special pride in his desk. He had found it on the curb and nursed it back to health with his own hand.
“Thanks,” Jones said, nodding.
He circled the desk and shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed the coat on top of his file cabinet and pulled the chair back from the desk. He glanced at the woman and saw her eyes on his arm. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they looked at something that was different. The missing hand made her uncomfortable and she quickly averted her eyes so she wouldn’t be caught staring. Jones let the chair catch his weight; the impact of his body against the leather seat generated a metallic screech that made the woman wince. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk and waited for his prospective client to sit down. She looked around the room one more time before coming closer. She ignored the invitation to sit and stepped to the window that overlooked the street.
“I didn’t even know there was a Koreatown.”
“I would imagine that they haven’t heard of you either.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said. “I don’t like that. Especially, when I’m paying you money.”
Jones grinned. “You haven’t paid me anything at all. I haven’t even agreed to take your case.”
Her eyebrow dove like a predatory bird, creating a faint crease in her smooth skin. “But isn’t that how this works? I pay you and you solve my case.”
Jones grinned again. “That’s how it works if I take the case.”
“Why wouldn’t you take my case?”
“I don’t know what you want yet,” Jones said.
“My father is missing, and I need you to find him.”
5
“My name is Irene Hogarth.” She paused and watched Jones to see if he was impressed. The name was familiar, but not impressive.
“Sam Jones,” he said, but she already knew his name. “How long has your father been missing?”
“Three days.” Irene paused again and seemed disappointed by the lack of effect the answer had on Jones. “He’s eighty years old.”
Jones nodded.
“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?” she said, as she took the seat across from him.
Jones leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his fist. “So far I have two numbers to remember. I think I can manage. Have you contacted the police?”
Irene nodded. “Two days ago. They told me I could come down and file a report. I did that and when I finished, do you know what they said?”
Jones shook his head.
“They said they would look into it. That’s what they told me. I said that wasn’t good enough, and do you know what the police officer said to me? He said I should give it a few days. He said that these types of situations often resolve themselves in a couple of days.” She blew out a short breath. “My tax dollars at work.”
Irene got up from her chair and walked back to the window.
Jones swivelled the chair and tracked her movement. “The police—”
She crossed her arms and examined the street below. “The police are useless.”
“The police are busy,” Jones countered. “They see a lot of missing person reports and they know that many people return home just fine.”
Irene fixed a stare at Jones. “Well, it’s been three days and my father has not returned just fine.”
“Is it possible he just took a trip that he forgot to tell you about?”
“My father did not go on vacation. He is missing. Something happened to him.”
“What makes you so sure that something happened to him?”
Irene pivoted and stepped to the desk. She gripped the corners of the desk and leaned in close enough for Jones to pick up her perfume. “Because he is eighty years old and has been gone for three days.”
“Is he in ill health?”
Irene let go of the desk. “You sound just like the police. No, he doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or dementia, but that doesn’t mean that nothing happened.”
“You are right,” Jones conceded. “But, it doesn’t mean that something did. Plenty of octogenarians go on trips. Just look at a cruise ship brochure.”
“Octogenarian?”
“A person between eighty and eighty-nine.”
“I know what it means,” Irene said.
“So you also know it isn’t a terminal condition.”
Irene sat down and crossed her legs before she answered. “What I know is that he is missing.”
Jones nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Jones said.
Irene sighed and reached for her purse. “Can I smoke in here?”
“Nope.”
Irene sighed again and dropped the bag. “God, I could use a cigarette.”
Jones waited.
“Fine,” she said. “My father’s name is William Greene. He is—”
“Eighty,” Jones said.
Irene’s perfectly defined eyebrow arched in displeasure. “Yes. My father lives in a retirement community called Pacific Heights.”
“I know it,” Jones said. It had been far too pricey for his father.
“The staff provides meals and cleaning services, but my father is not under any type of supervised care. He can come and go as he pleases. That’s my fault. He wouldn’t agree to supervision, and I caved. I should have insisted.”
“Not really your call,” Jones said.
“It should be when I’m the one paying the bills.”
Jones grunted.
“You disapprove?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“No,” Irene said. “It doesn’t.”
“Does he have
any other children?”
Irene shook her head. “I am the only family he has.”
“So, no other family. How about friends?”
Irene thought about it. “He plays cards with a few of the other residents in his building.”
“Hobbies?”
Irene bit her lower lip. “Just playing cards.”
Jones nodded and brought the chair out of its lean. “I’ll need to see his place. ”
“Does that mean you’ll take the case?”
“I have some time to look into it.”
Irene bent and began going through her purse. She raised her voice. “Just tell me what you want to know and I’ll answer it.” She straightened up and placed four photos on Jones’ desk. “I have pictures you can use—for flyers.”
Jones slid the pictures across the desk. The first photo was a shot of William’s upper body. Jones picked the picture up and leaned back in the chair while he examined it.
“I think one of the others would be better.”
Jones lifted the remaining photos off the desk and examined each of them; William was close to the same age in all of them. The man in the pictures looked like Irene and didn’t. The physical features were similar—the sharp nose was dead-on—but there was a glint in the man’s eyes that Irene didn’t have; it was a look of youth that her doctors couldn’t replicate. Jones took out his phone and took a photo of one of the pictures. He looked the image over to make sure that it had turned out and then put his phone away. He reached across the table and placed the pictures in front of Irene. She didn’t move to take them back.
“I think you should hold on to those. I can get them back later. You’ll need them for the posters.”
“I think we should start with the apartment,” Jones said.
“I told you, he’s missing. He isn’t at his apartment. You need to start putting up posters and canvassing the neighbourhood.”
“That’s how you find a lost dog, not a person. I need to see his place first.”
“Why?”
Jones sighed and pushed the photos closer to Irene. “I get the impression that there is a lot you don’t know about your father.”
Irene opened her mouth to say something; it didn’t look like it was going to be something friendly.
“I’m not judging,” Jones said, “but if you want me to find your father, I need to know more about him than his name and his address.”
Irene stared into Jones’ eyes. There was a hard centre inside her that had been forged by crashing through whatever was in her way. Jones could tell that her first instinct was to push back and walk out, but she hesitated.
“Do you promise that you will find him?”
“No.”
The word smashed into that hard centre like a sledgehammer, and Jones saw Irene’s lip quiver. “I thought that is what you do.”
“I look for people, and I find many of them, but not everyone. I will do everything I can to find your father, and I won’t ever lie to you. That’s what your money gets you here.”
“I haven’t paid you anything yet.”
“Step one,” Jones said.
“How much do you charge?”
Jones told her.
Irene picked up her purse and removed her chequebook without looking inside. “For that much money, I should have my father back this afternoon.” There was a hint of a smile on her face, and Jones could tell that the hard centre hadn’t been cracked—it hadn’t even been chipped. He liked that.
6
Jones parked the Jeep and checked his phone to see if any of the newspapers had updated the story on the bodies found in the basement while Irene took two shots at adjusting her Land Rover so that it was between the lines of the parking spot. Jones got out after Irene killed the engine and he stood waiting while she used the rear-view to check her make-up. The cars in the lot of Pacific Heights Retirement Community were a mixture of old and new. Jones saw a few Town Cars and Cadillacs that remembered the ’90s and figured that they belonged to the residents. When Irene finally got out of her car, he said, “One of those belong to your father?”
Irene snorted. “My father doesn’t have a car.”
“Why?”
Irene had already started walking toward the door. She paused and gave Jones a look that told him she wasn’t happy about having to stand around in the parking lot. “What?”
“Why doesn’t he have a car?”
“It’s not necessary here. Everything he could ever need is within walking distance.” She made a show of adjusting her blanket scarf before setting her eyes on the Jeep. Jones watched as her lips puckered. “How do you know Daniel Adams?”
“Is that who gave you my name?”
“He attended a benefit I organized for the Hogarth Foundation.”
Irene puckered her lips again when her words failed to produce a reaction.
“I established the Hogarth Foundation in memory of my husband, Aaron. Aaron loved sports. I thought it fitting that the Hogarth Foundation worked to provide others with the opportunity to be able to play them.”
“No one should have to sit on the bench,” Jones said.
Irene smiled. “That is our motto.”
“Dan would like that,” Jones said. “He tried to buy the Leafs not too long ago.”
“You haven’t explained exactly how you know Daniel Adams.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jones said.
Irene frowned. “Well, he spoke very highly of you. But, I have to admit, you aren’t what I expected.”
Jones glanced at the Jeep. “Really, I’m surprised. Dan loves the Jeep.”
Irene, realizing Jones wasn’t going to engage her attempt to gossip, sighed and turned her back. “It’s freezing out here. I’m going inside.”
She didn’t wait for Jones to catch up, and she didn’t hold the door. Her lead gave Jones a unique vantage point. He watched from a distance as the staff of Pacific Heights reacted to Irene Hogarth’s presence. Irene’s heels pounded a steady aggressive beat that was too fast to be melodious. The sound drew eyes her way and Jones watched as the staff began pivoting their bodies to reduce the chance of any possible interaction. Irene ignored the employees as she deftly extracted a pen from her purse without breaking stride. She signed in without saying hello to the woman working at the desk next to the sign-in book.
She finished writing her name and looked over her shoulder to see that Jones had just caught up. “You have to sign in to be admitted.” She didn’t offer her pen.
Jones signed in and noticed the woman behind the desk looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Jones glanced right, saw that Irene had already moved toward the elevators, and stepped left.
“Can I ask you a question?”
The receptionist was younger than Jones and seemed apprehensive about the results of her eye contact with him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m scared of her too.”
The receptionist smiled.
“Does everyone have to sign in?”
She nodded her head and pushed a braid that fell out of place behind her ear. “Every visitor must sign in, and they’re supposed to sign themselves out.” The receptionist glanced at Irene. “Not everyone does that.”
“How about the residents? Do they have to sign out when they leave?”
The receptionist shook her head and Jones glanced to his right and saw Irene staring at him from inside one of the elevators. When she saw that he noticed her, she let go of the hold button, took a step back from the panel, and began looking inside her purse.
“I should run away, shouldn’t I?”
The receptionist glanced at Irene and laughed before she nodded.
Jones managed to get a hand between the doors before they closed. “We are going to the fifteenth floor,” Irene said. She was rubbing a gen
erous amount of hand sanitizer into her palms and showed no indication that she was going to hit the button.
The button for the fifteenth floor had a greasy film that muted the light it gave off after Jones touched it. He wiped his finger on his pant leg and took a step back to stand beside Irene.
“What is she smiling at?” Irene asked, peering out the elevator doors.
Jones saw the receptionist look away when she noticed Irene looking at her. “A handsome detective,” Jones said.
“You are on the clock, Mr. Jones. I am not paying you to flirt.”
Jones saluted and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“And I’m not paying you for your sarcasm either.”
“I throw it in for free. Most people find it charming.”
“I’m not most people,” Irene said.
“On that we can agree.”
Irene adjusted her scarf and examined her hair in the cloudy reflection cast by the stainless-steel button panel. She pushed her hair from her face and checked it one more time before looking at Jones. “This elevator is far too slow.”
Jones had the impression that she wasn’t trying to start a conversation. The relationship had changed when the cheque left her fingers. Jones was on the payroll now—an employee.
When the doors opened, Irene went right and Jones followed. She used a set of keys to open apartment 1502. Calling the space an apartment was being generous. There was a living room large enough to accommodate an oversized leather recliner and a television mounted above a slim cabinet deep enough to hold a Blu-ray player. On the right was an open door leading to a bathroom that just managed to fit a sink, toilet, and tub shower. Jones wondered if it were possible to use any one item without touching another. He backed out of the room and moved along the wall to the next door. The bedroom was blessed with enough space to fit a double mattress and a bedside table; fitting a person too was the difficult part. Jones had to constantly adjust his body to navigate his way to the closet. He knew sliding open the door would depress him, but he did it anyway; he was right.
