by P. N. Elrod
She shoved the book in her coat pocket and scooped up her shoulder bag. Tarrant left cash on the table and led the way out of the restaurant, holding the door for her. The Texas sun was bright with the promise of a brutal summer to come, but the early spring air tempered things for the present.
“We’re still in the lion part of March, dammit,” Caitlin grumbled, shrinking into her coat against the chill wind.
They got into Tarrant’s car, a non-descript American product, neutral in color. He drove fast, the pint of beer he’d had with his burger and fries not showing in his reflexes. He felt as mellow as he would ever allow himself to be while more or less “on duty.” Taking Caitlin to lunch (for him it was breakfast) had served to settle him into the right mindset for working. He was now fully awake and professionally curious about the interview ahead.
“What’s this job you’re on?” she asked, struggling with her seat belt, trying to get it around her bulging shoulder bag.
“I’m not on it yet, but it’s a Highland Park address, so I can probably charge more.”
Caitlin snorted. “Rich people don’t get rich by spending it like the rest of us think they do.” She finally snapped the belt into place.
“We’ll size her up first.”
“You’ll size her up. I’m not sure what my role is.”
“You’re along to provide reassurance in case she’s skittish. Another gal in the room will do that, and she’s into astrology.”
“So?”
“You are, too.”
“Not that much. I just read what’s on the ’Net when I bother to remember.”
“That’s why I got you the book.” He referred to the one in her pocket. The cover featured a stylized moon and sun combination favored by New Age shops and garden centers.
“I’d wondered. If this client is really into astrology she’ll know a ringer. I only look when it’s flattering or funny. Casting horoscopes is too damn complicated. Tarot cards are better, more focused.”
Tarrant nodded once, respecting her eccentricity, which wasn’t as annoying as some he’d dealt with. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If the topic comes up all you do is look interested. The book’s just background research. Half the work for landing a commission is knowing what makes the client tick. Before she set the appointment she wanted to know my sign. I think the answer was important to her.”
“But all that stuff on the stars has been debunked.” Caitlin had won the fight with her seat belt and pulled out the book again. “The rules were set down back in ancient times; they’re all a month out of sync these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“I read somewhere that they’re a month late or early, I forget which. So instead of me being an Aquarius, I’m really either a Capricorn or a Pisces. Instead of being Aries, you’re either a Pisces or a Taurus.”
“Now that’s funny.”
“The problem is. . .” Caitlin peered at the pages. “You act like an Aries, and I seem to act like an Aquarian. Some of the personality traits for the signs are so general as to apply to anyone, though. On the other hand, maybe we grow into what’s described for us. The problem with that is people like you who aren’t into this kind of stuff still seem to run to type. You’ve got this leadership thing going, and as for your love life, you like to chase and catch, but sooner or later the heat fizzles out of the affair.”
“Not all of them. One or two have exploded quite spectacularly. I was lucky to make it clear with my life.”
“True, but was that because you’re an Aries, a son-of-a-bitch, or just overloaded with testosterone?”
Tarrant smirked, aware of his faults and proud of them. “All three.”
She snorted, putting the book away. “You don’t need me on this.”
“Sure I do. While I interview the client, you pretend to take notes like a personal assistant.”
“I won’t be pretending.”
“Good, then I won’t have to pretend to pay you.”
Tarrant consulted scribbled directions he’d stuffed into the dash clipboard, negotiating turns and counting off house numbers. He had a GPS unit, but liked doing things old school to keep in practice. The houses and grounds in this section of Highland Park were very large, the low end of the real estate scale starting at a million and a half. When he pulled into the right driveway, he estimated the place as being easily in the three million range.
“Wow,” said Caitlin. “People really live like this, it’s not just something made up for movies?”
“Yup.”
“How’d you come to know them?”
“I didn’t, she had my pager number. Said I’d been recommended.” It was the only way he worked on a blind commission. Safer.
“By whom?”
Tarrant had an idea, but wasn’t certain. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.”
“You terrify me, did you know that?” she deadpanned, half-serious.
“Go with what you’re good at.”
The house was a southern-mansion, post-World-War II, but pre-central air-conditioning era with its long windows. To his eyes it looked like an overgrown version of a small-town Texas funeral home.
Caitlin said wow again, under her breath, then shut up and squared herself, assuming a cool, friendly face. He could trust her to stay in that mode until they were finished. Her awe was understandable; he felt its tug himself here on the threshold of a place that represented Real Money. He also understood what it took to obtain that kind of wonderfully filthy lucre.
“Sure we’re supposed to use the front door?” Caitlin muttered. “I delivered flowers to get through college. A joint half this size got snotty when I knocked with my basket of posies. They made me go around to the side. It didn’t sit well with my ego.”
Tarrant grunted and rang the bell, assuming his own game face. He wore one of his better suits, a quietly expensive tie, his Rolex peeking discretely from beneath an Egyptian linen cuff. He would make a reasonably good impression to anyone used to GQ-style wealth. Caitlin had on new designer jeans, boots, and an oversized olive-colored sweater that played nicely off her redhead’s pale complexion. Her leather coat added the right kind of flair for this job; she’d invested well in that. His instinct to ask her along had been right once again; like a good nurse she radiated cheerful competence. Safe-looking.
Caitlin stood straighter at the sound of approaching footsteps within. “It’s show time,” she whispered.
The door was opened by a Hispanic maid who apparently knew to expect them. She smiled and led them into expensively decorated depths.
Tarrant made an accurate gauge of the surroundings, concluding it was old money, at least three generation’s worth. The woman who’d set the appointment gave no name, only an address which he’d checked using a reverse directory on the Internet. He’d turned up the name of Pangford as the property owner. The family had something to do with textile manufacturing. That was all he’d managed to get by the time Caitlin arrived at his condo for a short briefing over lunch. Normally he’d be more cautious over new business, but the bills were piling up. If this interview went well he could score enough to float for a considerable period without having to dip into savings.
The indoor hike ended at a lavish home office with a wall of French windows opening onto a garden. Clumps of gold daffodils dominated the perfectly kept beds. The room was also colorful, with phalanxes of books, paintings, and appropriately matched furnishings. There were too many pillows and doilies scattered around for it to be a man’s office, though it might have been one once. Tarrant saw no horoscope symbols lurking in the décor.
A small woman in her young forties came in from a side door and nodded to the maid, who left. “I’m Mrs. Dolly Pangford,” she said, extending a delicate hand. A peach blond, she wore a simple dress that was nearly the same color as her creamy skin.
“Nick Tarrant,” he responded. “My associate, Caitlin McGill.”
Caitlin shook hands, murmuring a soft greet
ing in a mid-Atlantic non-accent she’d picked up in her drama major days. She wouldn’t revert to her Texas drawl until they were back in the car.
Mrs. Pangford went through the social ritual of getting them seated and offering refreshments. With a tray of coffee delivered from a distant kitchen—she’d used the house intercom to call for it—Tarrant thought she’d be ready to settle down and talk.
“What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Pangford?” he asked.
She glanced at Caitlin, who pulled out a small note pad and pen. “I shall want absolute privacy about this.”
“You’ll get it.”
Caitlin nodded, smiling sympathetically, projecting more confidence with her silence than if she’d seconded his assurance aloud.
“Very well.” Pangford took a deep breath, lifting her chin. “This is about my stepdaughter, Amanda. She doesn’t know that I’m interfering in her life, and she’s not to find out. I’m sure you’ll have heard this before: she’s taken up with the wrong sort of man.”
“Go on.”
“Amanda met him at one of those clubs she’s been sneaking out to since she was fifteen and got her first fake ID. She’s nearly twenty-one now and not past her wild oats yet. I’ve not been the best mother for her; we don’t get along, especially since her father died and left the bulk of the estate to me. We have horrible fights, but I don’t want her walking off a cliff. . .or being pushed off.”
“How so?”
“She ran away to Las Vegas a few months ago with a loser named Kyle Deacon and married him. I made sure that her trust money was tied up in such a way so he couldn’t get to it even after she turns twenty-one, which endeared me to them both. Since then I’ve discovered he’s put several insurance policies on her life. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where that might lead.”
“You think he’s planning to kill her?”
“I do. He’ll have to do it in such a way as to make it seem like natural causes or an accident. I think he’s just smart enough to succeed. He runs with a rough crowd. I’m sure he knows people who can arrange such things.”
“Your stepdaughter suspects nothing?”
“She’s in love and it’s made her stupid. He’s her ally against her wicked stepmother, after all. The more I disapprove, the more she clings to him. He’s garbage, but clever. I know his type and how they work their game. When I was her age I had a similar parasite turning my head with charm and an offer of shelter from a family that didn’t understand me. I emerged with only a bruised ego once I figured out the truth. I don’t think Amanda will be so lucky. She’s a Gemini, but not one of the brainy ones. He’s a Scorpio with a mean streak and a rat’s cunning. Their marriage will never work anyway, but I doubt he’ll let it go on much longer.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
Dolly Pangford’s beautifully-preserved pale face went still, her gray eyes hardening. “I want you to do whatever it takes to keep Amanda alive.”
“That could involve any number of possibilities, ma’am.”
“I will leave the means and manner to your choice, then. You’ve more expertise than I, though in my opinion it’s best to keep things simple. I was told by Doc Jessup that you were very good at your job.”
At the mention of that name Tarrant’s own face went still. “May I ask how you know him?”
“Through my late husband’s business dealings. Henry had a wide range of acquaintances, with many, shall we say, forceful sorts. I’d hoped Doc might take care of this, but he’s retired. He said he had every confidence in your abilities, though, and gave me your number.”
“Did you discuss this on a phone or by E-mail with him?”
“No, face-to-face over dinner in a noisy restaurant. He said you should see this.” She drew forth a business card from her sleeve and handed it over.
Tarrant recognized the embossed lettering and phone number. Those could be faked, but on the flip side, in Doc’s distinct scrawl, was a short note, addressed to him. Syko, this one’s ok. Come over and buy me a beer later. Tarrant’s mouth twitched. Only a handful of his old fight-kill-and-die-for-you cronies were alive to call him Syko these days. The job would be safe enough to take with Doc’s seal of approval.
Of course, Doc would want to meet afterward and hear the details. He loved post-game quarterbacking.
Tarrant smiled, not showing his teeth. “All right, Mrs. Pangford. I think I can come up with some kind of agreeable solution to your problem.”
“Without Amanda finding out my involvement?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll have to get some basic information from you, quite a lot of it.”
“Whatever you need.”
The coffee was fragrant and perfectly brewed and accompanied by home-baked cookies, which got past Caitlin’s professional facade. She helped herself to two. He sucked hot caffeine to be sociable, wishing for a Pepsi instead. As soon as the maid left Tarrant began asking questions. Caitlin wrote down the replies.
He got the names, numbers and addresses he’d need, a general idea of schedules, and photos.
Neither Amanda or Kyle Deacon worked; Amanda received enough from her trust fund each month to afford a loft in Deep Ellum, utility bills, and groceries. If either or both of them had a regular job they could live very well indeed. Deacon called himself a musician, Amanda was an artist.
God save us from liberal art degrees, Tarrant thought, wondering what academic idiot ever imagined those to be a good idea.
According to an earlier inquiry Dolly Pangford had initiated with a legitimate private investigator, the young and carefree couple each had five credit cards, all ten hovering near their maximum limit.
Amanda frequently demanded loans against her trust to pay them off. Dolly just as frequently refused, suggesting a job search and using scissors on the cards as the obvious solution to debt.
“I am then called foul names and treated to the sound of the phone slamming down,” she told Tarrant. “After a week, or until the next collection agency calls, she starts all over again. Sometimes it’s tears, other times she’s honey-sweet and apologetic. It worked on Henry, but not on me. I don’t know why her father didn’t teach her how to be responsible about life and money. By the time I came into the picture she was spoiled rotten and out of control. I was the first person who ever said no to her, and it was an ugly shock for her to find out she was no longer the center of the universe. I should have brought in professional help for our family. Too late now. All I want is for her to survive this and live to grow some brains.”
Tarrant’s own keep-it-simple solution for spoiled kids began with a good spanking followed by a lengthy stay at a boot camp. Perhaps after this was settled, he’d suggest it to Mrs. Pangford. Maybe if she got Amanda declared mentally incompetent. . .there was probably enough cash lying around lost in the mansion’s sofas to buy off all kinds of doctors.
Not my problem today.
“I think that should do it,” he said. Caitlin had filled several pages. He’d memorize it, then destroy the notes. He had no worry about Caitlin; hers was a selective memory with a convenient ability for forgetting data when it was no longer needed or too dangerous to recall.
“What about your fee?” asked Mrs. Pangford.
Tarrant quoted her a price based on what he’d learned in the last hour, factoring in anticipated difficulties. It was fair, the average rate in the more rarified circles of his trade.
Mrs. Pangford didn’t blink. Either she deemed it a bargain for what she wanted or Doc had warned her what to expect. “You’ll want that in cash?”
“If you don’t mind. Small bills, nothing over a hundred. I’ll need half as a retainer, and we can arrange later to pay over the balance when the job is done. All incidental expenses are included, by the way.”
He’d learned in the course of business that clients didn’t mind forking over a flat fee even if it was huge, but most balked when presented with the chicken-change of an itemized expense account.
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br /> “I can manage that now,” she said. “It will take a few days to get the rest.”
“I trust you,” he said, and almost meant it. He’d dealt with occasional hold-outs who thought they could get away with not paying the balance. Fortunately those were an infrequent annoyance. Other people were smarter.
“If you need any other information, just phone,” she added.
Her hand was cool and dry when he took it. That was good. The lady was no wimp. He thought he could trust her to see things through.
“You’re absolutely sure about this?” he asked. “Doc mentioned all the possibilities?”
Her gray eyes reminded him of polished granite. “I am absolutely certain, Mr. Tarrant. Doc told me everything. I will be comfortable with whatever measures you judge necessary to keep Amanda safe from harm.”
“So long as we’re clear on that.”
She smiled. “Crystalline.”
* * *
“Jeeze-Loueeze,” said Caitlin, once they’d left the driveway. She heaved a huge sigh of relief, resuming her native drawl. “That was one hell of a learning experience. Are they all like that?”
“Every job’s different.” For instance he’d not expected Mrs. Pangford to have the first half of his fee ready and in the house. The usual thing was to wait however long it took for a client to get hold of the required funds, then make a drop. Doc Jessup must have given her one hell of an earful.
“You didn’t need me along to take notes.” Caitlin tapped the shoulder bag on her lap, which held the pad and its possibly incriminating information. Mrs. Pangford had supplied an envelope with copies of her private investigator’s detailed report on her stepdaughter’s life. It also held Tarrant’s down payment money and was now quite heavy. He would work out Caitlin’s percentage when they got back to his condo.
“You put her at ease,” he said. “She glanced at you a few times.”
“I noticed. I tried to look intelligent and poised.”
“You did and it worked. It helped having another woman there so I wouldn’t scare her so much. She’s the old-school sorority-sister type.”
