Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2) Page 14

  He pointed to the wall behind the door. ‘Put it there. They need to be able to see the photograph and read the information you’re going to put underneath it.’

  She nodded. ‘Got a piece of paper?’

  ‘Would you like me to write it for you?’

  ‘What’s your printing like?’

  ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘I know. I chose to ignore it.’

  In the end, she stapled the photograph at the top of an A4 sheet of paper and wrote underneath it:

  DID ANYONE PICK UP THIS MAN FROM PALATKA TRAIN STATION AND DRIVE HIM TO PORPOISE POINT? THERE WILL BE A REWARD FOR ANY NEW AND RELEVANT INFORMATION.

  ‘How much?’ George asked.

  ‘Fifty,’ she ventured.

  He made a sound with his mouth.

  She doubled it, ‘A hundred?’

  ‘Two-fifty.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘If you find the driver and he provides you with “new and relevant” information – will it be worth two-fifty?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She added $250 to the sheet of paper, and then stapled her business card underneath that.

  The man passed her a roll of tape, and she stuck the sheet of paper on the wall.

  ‘Just the job,’ he said. ‘Now we have to wait.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘That’s right – me. And you’ll make sure every driver is told about it?’

  ‘That’s what you’re paying me for.’

  ‘I’m not paying you.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘That’s right, you’re not, are you?’

  ‘So, I’ll wait for a call.’

  ‘That’ll be the best strategy to adopt.’

  She turned to go. ‘Thanks for your help, George.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Thank you. It’s been a humbling experience.’

  ***

  The double-bit key seemed to be another dead end. If he’d had the password, maybe he might have taken a short break in Switzerland, but without the password it would probably be a long break – a very long break in a Swiss prison cell.

  He wondered if Rae had heard from the English student – Lillian Taylor – yet. Probably not. If she had, she’d have called him with any news. He pulled his cell out, took the bull by the horns, and phoned Mona.

  He could hear her breathing.

  Why didn’t she answer? Was she waiting for him to say something? ‘Mona?’

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  ‘How do you know I want anything?’

  ‘You always want something. The only time you call me is when you want something.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can . . .’

  ‘So, you’ve just called to say what a wonderful person I am?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You must have a very dim view of me, Mona.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘If it’s nothing – why did you call?’

  ‘Sometimes, I turn to look at the passenger seat and expect to find you sitting there, hear your voice and your beautiful laughter.’

  ‘I’m touched. What do you want?’

  He read out the Chrysler’s number plate. ‘Could you run that for me?’

  ‘So, this is nothing?’

  ‘I’ll understand if you . . .’

  ‘It’s registered to Greiner, Tibbs & Myrick – attorneys at law – 100 Old Mission Avenue.’

  ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I really wanted to know who was driving the car last Thursday.’

  ‘Well, that’s all I can do for you.’

  ‘What about . . . ?’

  The phone went dead.

  He could hardly blame her. She was right, the only time he seemed to call her was when he wanted something. He wondered how other PIs found out the information they needed. He’d have to talk to Rae. Not only was he too old, but now it appeared that he didn’t have the skills to be a PI anymore – if he ever did. Maybe he should just pack it all in, and go back to being retired and doing nothing all day.

  He could drive to the attorney’s offices on Old Mission Avenue, but what would that achieve? They wouldn’t tell him who had been driving the Chrysler 300 last Thursday. And even if he did find out who the driver was – then what? What he really wanted to know was what was in the envelope? The driver could have been one of their attorneys, the contents of the envelope might very well be something legal – like divorce papers. But . . . if that were the case, why meet with Harrison in a shopping centre car park on the edge of town like spies in a B-movie? All he had was guesswork, and not very good guesswork at that.

  The day was running out of time. He aimed the Nitro toward 250 North Forest Dune Drive. He wasn’t optimistic that Rosalind Winter would see him, and if she refused – what could he do? He wanted to talk to her about the crash report that had resulted in a fatality, but didn’t exist in the records. Why did Harrison have the original report in one of his safe deposit boxes? Why had it never been recorded on the computer system? Who was the person she had killed? Was it relevant to Harrison’s disappearance?

  The Winter residence, like the Harrisons’, was secured by high palisade fencing, an electronic gate and CCTV cameras. Through the bars of the gate he could see a well-established and colourful landscaped garden leading up to an enormous brick and yellow-painted house with round turrets, high arched windows and a tall chimney.

  He spotted the intercom box on the wall, climbed out of the Nitro and pressed the button.

  ‘Yes?’ asked a woman’s voice with a Spanish twang to it.

  ‘I’d like to see Miss Rosalind Winter, please.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tom Gabriel – I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Winter doesn’t see anybody.’

  ‘Tell her it’s about a car crash from 1984.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Miss Winter doesn’t see anybody.’

  ‘I’m going to put my card in the letterbox down here,’ he said, and then over-emphasised a pantomime for the cameras. ‘I’d be grateful if Miss Winter could contact me at her earliest opportunity.’

  There was no response again.

  He got back into the Nitro, reversed up and drove off.

  Would she contact him? He could have threatened to go to the police or the media with the accident report, but his investigation wasn’t about her. He wasn’t being paid to ruin people’s lives – not that she had much of a life to ruin from what Rae had told him. All he wanted to know was whether she knew anything about Roger Harrison’s disappearance, and – although it was really none of his business – why Harrison had hidden the crash report in his safe deposit box, why it wasn’t recorded on the police database and who she had killed. Not much to ask really.

  His meeting with Rosalind Winter hadn’t really panned out as he’d expected, or maybe it had. Either way, he now found himself with an hour to kill, so he decided to go to his empty office before returning to the Casablanca. There wasn’t much point in having an office if he was never there, and wondered whether he should close it down.

  A stack of mail behind the door made it difficult to open. He shovelled it up and deposited it on his desk. The number three was flashing on the answering machine.

  Coffee was at the top of his wish list, so he left everything as it was and walked across the road to Myrtle’s Diner.

  Apparently, there was no Myrtle. The owner was called Fanny Fleming, and it was generally agreed that Myrtle’s Diner sounded far more homely and welcoming than Fanny’s Diner.

  Fanny gave him a genuine smile as he stood at the counter. ‘You not joining us, Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘No. I only came in for a coffee. I’m on my own over there, and there’s post to open and messages to ignore.’

  ‘Y
ou need to get yourself somebody to look after the place while you’re out and about.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I need someone who can work all this technology.’

  ‘I might know someone.’

  ‘That’s good of you, but . . .’ He could envisage no end of problems if he employed someone Fanny knew. What if it didn’t work out and he had to get rid of them? What if the person told Fanny about the cases he was working on? What if . . . ? No, it would be a disaster in the making.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You never told me you were telepathic.’

  ‘You’re thinking that it could be awkward for any number of reasons because I know the person, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very astute.’

  ‘No, I promise you, it won’t.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘It’s my daughter – Mary Lou.’

  ‘That’s even worse.’

  She passed him a mug of coffee. ‘I’ll have her in your office in half an hour – you can interview her.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You and I won’t fall out whatever you decide.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. If she’s not what you’re looking for, that’s fine. And if you want her to work a probationary period, that’s fine as well.’

  ‘No hard feelings if I say no.’

  ‘None.’

  ‘All right. In half an hour.’

  ‘You won’t regret it, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Wishing he’d gone to Joe’s hotdog stand for coffee instead, he made his way back across the road.

  There were two bills in the post, which he stuffed into his pocket – he’d deal with those later. Of the three messages, only one was interesting.

  ‘This is Rosalind Winter, Mr Gabriel. If you contact me again I’ll destroy you.’

  She didn’t mince her words, and it was clear that she wasn’t going to see him to discuss the crash report. His face creased up like an old leather soccer ball left to rot at the bottom of the garden. There didn’t seem to be a lot more he could do. Except . . . He wondered whether the police investigator who had written and signed the original report – Sergeant Neville van Dalen – was still alive, and if he was, whether he’d remember a crash investigation from 1984.

  The doorbell jangled.

  A very attractive young woman wearing a sleeveless red dress, small pearl stud earrings and a warm smile entered. Her long dark-brown hair was held back with a red ribbon, she carried a red handbag and wore matching flat shoes.

  ‘You don’t look as though you need my help,’ he quipped.

  She looked around the office. Her smile disappeared. ‘No, but you look as though you need mine.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘How’s that?’

  She offered her hand. ‘I’m Mary-Lou Fleming. My mother said you were in desperate need.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, I think she was right. It says Tom Gabriel Investigations outside . . .’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And yet – in here – it says: “But I’m not being serious”.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She didn’t sit down. Instead, she walked about peering in the other rooms and shaking her head. ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot . . .’

  ‘Yes, I think we have,’ she said. ‘My mother said you were a private investigator, but instead I find someone who sits in an empty office like a hobo watching the world go by through grubby windows.’

  He had the feeling that he’d just been subjected to an inspection, and failed miserably. ‘Now look here . . .’

  ‘Look at what? If I was looking for a private investigator I’d go someplace else.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Okay, I can see my mother was right – you are in desperate need of my help. Against my better judgement I’m willing to come and work for you, but I want assurances that I’m in charge.’

  ‘In charge? I thought I was in charge.’

  ‘No. If we’re going to work together, you have to get that out of your head right away. You can’t be out there doing whatever private investigators do, and be in charge as well.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Have you any idea how to run an office?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘What about computers? Accounting software? Case management software? Filing systems? Contract law? And a million other things?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Now if you think you can be in charge . . . Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ She moved towards the door.

  He stood up. ‘If you’re in charge, Mary Lou, you’d better sit here.’

  She walked round the desk and sat in his chair. ‘We’ll have to change this,’ she said. ‘I could end up with a serious back injury sitting in this chair.

  He sat in the client chair. ‘So, now that you’ve interviewed me, can I interview you?’

  ‘Do you know anything about interviewing people?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. Mum said you used to be a detective in the police force.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’d stick to what you’re good at, if I were you. You were good, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes – five years ago, but now . . .’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘The technology seems to have passed me by. Before, I could just say to people: “Find this or that out for me,” and they’d do it. Now, I have to do it myself, and I suppose I’m struggling a bit.’

  ‘Struggling a bit! I’d say you were struggling a lot. Without a computer you’re never going to find out anything.’

  ‘I have a friend.’

  ‘That’ll have to stop.’

  ‘What – having friends?’

  ‘No. Your friend doing my work. Remember, I’m in charge. If you need to find out something – you come to me.’

  ‘There’ll be some overlap. Tell me about yourself, Mary Lou.’

  ‘I’m twenty-seven years old. I have a Master’s Degree in Business Administration from Harvard Business School and . . .’

  ‘An MBA from Harvard! Why aren’t you out there making a name for yourself?’

  ‘That’s not what I want.’

  ‘You want to run a small PI’s office in St Augustine?’

  ‘The simple answer is yes – I want a life not a career.’

  He nodded. He could understand that. To his everlasting regret, his job had sometimes prevented him from having a life. He’d missed aspects of Sara and Misty’s childhood and not spent as much time with Cassie as he ought to have done. His work had seemed more important than his life. It was only now – when he turned to look back at the road he’d trodden – that he realised he’d taken some wrong turns along the way.

  ‘I have to say that I’m not keen on the idea of you working just across the street from your mother.’

  ‘Nor me. I love my mom and all, but I don’t want to spend all day with her.’

  ‘Do I need to mention client confidentiality?’

  ‘No, you don’t need to mention that.’

  What about a husband or boyfriend?’

  ‘I haven’t found either yet. Men don’t seem to measure up.’

  ‘How about me’

  ‘You’re not doing well so far.’ A flicker of a smile creased her face. ‘But I can see you might have some potential.’

  ‘Very kind. So, let’s say I let you come and work for me . . .’

  ‘I haven’t said whether I want to come and work for you yet. I have some questions.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you happy with a woman being in charge?’

  ‘My whole life women have been in charge – my wife, my two daughters, my partner on the force, Rae my journalist friend . . . and now you.’

  ‘I pay myself what I think I’m worth?’

  ‘Three months’ pro
bationary period?’

  ‘For both of us.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m going to New York for a couple days tomorrow morning . . .’

  ‘Good. It’ll give me a chance to get this place organised.’

  ‘You’ll need money, I suppose?’

  ‘You suppose correctly.’ She looked around. ‘Probably three thousand, but you’d better give me five to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Five thousand!’

  ‘If it’s too much for you . . . ?’

  ‘I’ll need to go to the bank.’

  They swapped phone numbers. She took notes as he told her about the cases he was working on, about Rae . . . ‘You’ll like her when you meet her.’

  ‘I don’t share your optimism, but I’m prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘One last thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  He fidgeted on his seat. ‘I can see and converse with the dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh!’ He was disappointed.

  ‘I did my research before I came here. I know all about you, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Okay, Tom.’

  ‘If you know all about me – how come you’re still here?’

  ‘I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt as well.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  He walked along the road to the bank, took five thousand dollars out of his account and strolled back.

  Fanny Fleming – with her apron still tied around her waist – accosted him before he reached the office.

  ‘Well?’

  He stopped. ‘Three months’ probationary period.’

  ‘I knew you’d be the one.’

  ‘The one what?’

  ‘To give her a chance.’

  ‘She has an MBA from Harvard – who wouldn’t give her a chance?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes she’s her own worst enemy.’

  ‘Do you want me to change my mind?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that . . . she has a mouth.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  ‘And it’s not put you off?’

  ‘So far, she’s said the right things.’

  ‘She has?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘You seem surprised.’

  ‘No, no! I’m glad. Don’t worry, Mr Gabriel – you’ll grow to love her.’