by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 9
Something seemed odd about the restraining order. I’d seen a few of them over the years, both at Jones and Associates and since I’d been out on my own. Admittedly, I’d only glanced at the other orders, usually waved under my nose by agitated clients trying to underscore the danger they were in. But this order I had the joy (ha!) of examining more carefully.
I knew whose signature was at the bottom—Judge Stella Stephanopoulos. She was actually, one of the smartest judges in Criminal Court; I’d known her by professional reputation for a long time. But more importantly, I knew her secretary Rochelle. I’d known her for years, actually, and had even arranged some pro bono work (a rarity for Jones and the boys, I assure you) for her little sister years ago. Her sister’s husband was one hundred percent asshole with a pregnant girlfriend on the side, and exposing his assholic nature had been my pleasure. Rochelle’s sister had been heartbroken, of course. But like all women, she eventually did what she had to do. Cried herself out, dusted herself off, and made a better life without the jerk.
Rochelle and I had been friends ever since. She trusted me; I trusted her. At the very least, I thought she’d have given me a heads up to let me know the order was coming. Not so I could dodge it, necessarily; just so I wouldn’t be caught flat-footed. She’d been Johnny-on-the-spot (Jilly-on-the-spot?) on a number of things over the years, and, I was a little miffed that she hadn’t called me on this.
The feeling that my friends were abandoning ship niggled at me, and it took all the will I had to push it aside.
The order had been obtained by that scrawny little poop of a lawyer, Jeremy Poole. You’d think Ned Weatherby was his only client, the way he was hanging off of him. Well, okay, they were obviously friends as well as business associates, judging by the photos I’d taken during that week I’d bird-dogged Ned.
Then again, Ned had so much money, maybe he truly was Jeremy Poole’s only client.
Regardless, it was clearly the young lawyer’s doing to get Judge Stephanopoulos to sign the order. One hundred yards away from Weatherby, the home, the business.
Yeah, right!
All of this to say that as I sat in my car immediately outside the Weatherby offices waiting for my mark to come back from lunch, I was in full disguise. The last thing I needed was to find myself in jail for breaching the restraining order. I had enough of a jail threat hanging over my head as it was.
So my disguise had to be a doozie. Ah, but all my disguises are doozies!
During my surveillance of the Weatherby Industries when I was supposedly in the employ of Ned’s loving wife, I’d seen all kinds of workers entering and leaving. It was a twenty-story building, and it was fully occupied by Weatherby Industries. I’d memorized the faces of all the security guards first. That sorta came with the territory, noticing the ‘heat’ more than the others. But I’d managed to memorize a good chunk of the rest of the staff, too.
One thing I did notice was that the maintenance staff, a contracted service, wasn’t consistent. I was familiar with the traditional (and butt-ugly) uniform for Watership Building Cleaning & Maintenance. It was solid navy except for the big yellow Watership logo (which looks like a pirate ship loaded with mops for sails and brooms for oars) and the Watership name emblazoned on the back. There were pockets and loops on the pants for carrying a variety of tools and products. And I just so happened to have one of these outfits. It was bulky enough to conceal my figure as well as hide any small recording devices or other equipment I might need. Like a gun.
I tucked my hair up under the equally ugly Watership cap and pressed on a blond mustache to my make-up free face. I snorted and spit (albeit into a tissue) to work myself up into man-mode. And I checked myself out in the mirror.
Not bad.
One would have to look long and hard to tell that I wasn’t of the weaker (male) sex. But I didn’t really worry about it. Like I said, people see what they expect to see. Even me, it seemed. A glimpse of mustache, and they think guy. A dress equals female. (Damn, but it burned that I hadn’t looked harder at ‘Jennifer’.) What I’m saying is, as long as I didn’t stick around long enough for close investigation, I was safe. Sorta.
Shit, who was I kidding? Safe was the furthest thing from what I felt.
I crumpled the restraining order and stuck it in the glove compartment, and was just slamming it shut when I saw the reason for my trip to Weatherby Industries walking into the building. His head was bent and his strides scissored determinedly as he entered the front door. Two women stopped to talk to him, one going so far as to put a hand on his shoulder, but he just brushed past them and hurried away as if the devil himself were on his tail.
Nope, not the devil. Just me.
I got out of the car, and walked toward the building, determined to have a conversation with Mr. Billy Star.
And yes, as I walked toward the building, I checked for my gun, reassured by its cold weight. Even as I did it, I wondered if I was being overly paranoid.
On the other hand, someone had killed Jennifer Weatherby. The same someone had possibly set me up to take the fall. And I had no doubt that same someone wouldn’t think twice about seeing me dead, too, should I get in the way. And I was always getting in the way; it was my job.
Overly paranoid, my ass.
