Light in Shadow

  In the middle of the block, Zoe paused to check the address she had written down. There was no mistake. She was standing in front of 49 Cobalt Street.

  She crossed a small patio and studied the grimy-windowed directory. Truax Investigations was on the upper floor. Most of the other offices appeared to be empty except for one on the ground floor labeled SINGLE-MINDED BOOKS.

  She opened the front door and hesitated a fraction of a second on the threshold. She had already learned one lesson today, she reminded herself. And older buildings were often the worst.

  Nothing terrible happened. No fierce or violent emotions emanated from the walls. The hallway in front of her was sunk deep in gloom, but she didn’t think anyone had killed anybody here. At least not lately.

  She went toward the staircase. When she passed Single-Minded Books, she noticed that the door was closed. The proprietor was evidently not keen on encouraging walk-in business.

  She climbed the squeaky, badly lit stairs to the second floor and went warily down a dingy hall. There were two closed, unmarked doors. The third one had a small sign tacked to it. TRUAX INVESTIGATIONS. It stood partway open, revealing a dim interior.

  She hesitated, wondering if she was about to make a serious mistake. Maybe it would be better to go with the larger, corporate security agency on the other side of town. So what if its services cost three or four times as much? You got what you paid for in this world.

  On the other hand, she was here and time was of the essence. And money, unfortunately, was a factor, especially now that it looked like Mr. Ideal Client might not be quite so ideal.

  She pushed open the door and stepped cautiously inside. But once over the threshold, she relaxed. There was nothing alarming in these walls.

  She took stock of the surroundings. You could tell a lot about a business and its owner by the manner in which the office was maintained, she reminded herself.

  If that dictum was true, it looked like Truax Investigations was in bad shape financially. Either that, or the proprietor had not seen fit to invest any of the profits back into the reception area.

  There was an old-fashioned vintage look to the heavy wooden secretarial desk and the large overstuffed leather chairs, but they were not the kind of period pieces that would interest an antiques dealer. People didn’t collect furniture like this, but it was sturdy and built to last. The desk and the chairs were used and worn, but they would never break down or wear out. If you ever decided to get rid of them, you’d have to haul them off to a landfill.

  She was half tempted to take out her camera. The place would have made a great black-and-white shot. She could see the picture in her head, brooding and moody and atmospheric with the hazy afternoon light slanting through the blinds.

  There was a phone on the desk, but she saw no evidence of a computer. That did not bode well. She had been counting on an investigator who was conversant in technology to get her the answers she wanted in a hurry. The lack of a secretary or receptionist was not encouraging, either.

  What really worried her, though, was the stack of cardboard packing boxes that occupied a third of the small space. Many of them were sealed. A few stood open. She crossed to the nearest one, glanced inside, and saw a gooseneck lamp and several shrink-wrapped packages of new, unused notepads in various sizes. Half were the small three-by-five type that fit into a man’s shirt pocket. The rest were large, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven legal rule tablets. There were also several old, well-thumbed books.

  Someone was packing up the office. Her heart sank. Truax Investigations was in the process of closing its doors.

  For some reason, she was unable to resist the compulsion of curiosity. Reaching into the box, she plucked out one of the heavy volumes and glanced at the title on the spine. A History of Murder in Late-Nineteenth-Century San Francisco.

  She put it back into the box and took out another. Investigating Violence and Murder in Colonial America.

  “Cheerful bedtime reading,” she muttered.

  “Jeff? Theo? About time you two got back.”

  Zoe started and dropped the book back into the box. The voice came from the inner office. A man’s voice—not loud but dark and resonant with a natural air of authority.

  Voices like that made her wary.

  “I hope one of you remembered my coffee. We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us this afternoon.”

  Zoe cleared her throat. “This isn’t Jeff. Or Theo, either, for that matter.”

  There was a short silence from the inner room. The door squeaked on its hinges as whoever was on the other side pulled it wide.

  A man came to stand in the opening, one powerful-looking hand gripping the edge of the door. He looked out from the shadows, contemplating her with an enigmatic expression that was probably meant to pass for polite inquiry. He didn’t have the kind of eyes that could do polite inquiry well, she thought. They were an interesting shade of amber brown. She had seen similar eyes on the Nature Channel and in wildlife shots in National Geographic. They usually went with the creatures that possessed the sharpest teeth.

  He was dressed in a pair of close-fitting khaki trousers, which rode low on his hips, and a crisply pressed white shirt. The collar of the shirt was open and the sleeves were rolled up on his forearms, revealing dark hair in both places. The spiral wire binding of a three-by-five notepad stuck out of the chest pocket.

  His stance in the doorway implied supple muscles and an innate confidence. Her self-defense instructor would no doubt describe him as centered. He was not exceptionally tall, only about medium height, but there was a sleek, compact power in his shoulders. He gave the unmistakable impression that he was in complete command of himself. Maybe to a fault, she thought.

  His hair had no doubt once been so dark as to be mistaken for black in the shadows. But there were shards of silver at the temples and elsewhere now. They harmonized well with the crinkles of experience at the corners of his eyes and the brackets that framed his mouth.

  The face fit that quiet, authoritative voice—not handsome but strong and compelling. Both belonged to the sort of man others would automatically look to in a crisis but who could be extremely irritating the rest of the time because he would always be in charge and would not hesitate to let you know it.

  He had a lot in common with his furniture: well used and worn around the edges, but he would probably never break down or wear out. Like the desk and chairs, you’d have to haul him off to the landfill if you wanted to get rid of him, and that would be no easy task.

  If this was the Mr. Truax of Truax Investigations, the ad in the phone book was guilty of severe misrepresentation. This man had some interesting mileage on him, but he certainly wasn’t heading into his dotage.

  “Sorry. I was on the stepladder. Didn’t see you come in. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  The dark voice brought her back to her senses. She realized that she had been holding her breath, as if this moment and this man were very important in some way she did not yet fully comprehend.

  Let’s try to stay focused here, she thought. Breathe. So you haven’t had much of a social life lately, that’s no excuse to stare at strange men.

  “I came to see Mr. Truax,” she said with what she thought was commendable aplomb under the circumstances.

  “That’d be me.”

  She cleared her throat. “You are the Truax of Truax Investigations?”

  “As of three days ago according to the date on my business license. The name is Ethan Truax, by the way.”

  “I don’t understand. The phone book ad stated that you’ve been serving the community for more than forty years.”

  “My uncle put that ad in the book. He retired last month. I’m taking over the business.”

  “I see.” She waved a hand to indicate the packing boxes. “You’re moving in, not out?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve lived here in Whispering Springs?”

  He gav
e that some thought. “A little more than a month.”

  So much for dealing with an investigator who had extensive contacts in the community and with local law enforcement, she thought. There was still time to call Radnor Security Systems. Of course there was the not-so-little issue of price, but maybe she could negotiate an extended payment schedule with the larger firm.

  She took a step back toward the door. “You’re new to this profession, then?”

  “No. I owned and operated an agency in Los Angeles for several years.”

  That should have been reassuring news. Why wasn’t she feeling reassured?

  “This probably isn’t a good time for you,” she said quickly. “I’m sure you’re very busy getting unpacked and organized.”

  “Not too busy to take on a client. Why don’t you come into my office and tell me why you need an investigator?”

  It was not exactly a request, she noticed. Not quite a command, either. More of a glittering lure designed to draw her into striking distance.

  She had to make a decision. The bottom line here was time and money. She did not have a lot of either.

  She tightened her grip on the handle of the chartreuse tote and tried to look like a woman who hired seedy private investigators on a frequent basis.

  “How much do you charge for your services, Mr. Truax?”

  “Come in and sit down.” He moved deeper into his office, beckoning her closer with the subtle invitation. “We can discuss the financial aspects of the arrangement.”

  She could not come up with a good reason not to at least get a cost estimate.

  “All right.” She looked briefly at her watch. “But I don’t have a lot of time. If we can’t agree on your fees, I will have to call someone else.”

  “The only other agency in town is Radnor.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said coolly. This was business. She did not want him to think that she had not done her research as a consumer. “They appear to be very cutting-edge. I was told that they use the latest high-tech methods.”

  “They’ve got computers, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve got one, too.”

  “Really?” She looked around very pointedly. “Where?”

  “In here. I’m still working on getting it set up.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can guarantee you that I’m less expensive than Radnor.”

  “Well—”

  “And there’s another aspect you may want to take into consideration.” His mouth curved faintly at the corners. “Being new in town, I’m also a hell of a lot hungrier.”

  She almost bolted for the door. “Yes, well—”

  “And more flexible.”

  She braced herself and walked toward the inner office. It was like walking through Door Number Three on a television game show, she thought, the door that concealed the mystery prize. You might get an all-expense-paid trip to Paris, or you might lose everything you had managed to win up to that point.

  She paused briefly at the threshold, waiting to see what would greet her. But there was nothing terrible in the room, just the faint traces of sensation that she had learned to expect in old buildings. She picked up a few whispers of sadness, some anxiety, and a little residual anger—all of it from long ago and very low-level. Nothing she could not block easily.

  “Something wrong?” Ethan asked.

  With a start, she realized he was watching her very intently. Most people never seemed to notice her slight hesitation upon entering a room. The fact that Ethan Truax had observed that tiny pause worried her for some reason. She reminded herself that he was a private investigator and people in that line were supposed to notice things.

  “No, of course not,” she replied.

  She went quickly to the huge, overstuffed, oversized armchair that sat in front of the desk. It almost swallowed her whole when she sat down in it.

  Ethan went behind his desk, a massive, scarred hunk of oak that was even larger and sturdier than the one in the other room, and sat down. The chair gave a squeak of protest.

  She examined the room with what she told herself was professional interest but which she suspected was actually deep personal curiosity. Everything connected to Ethan Truax fascinated her for some strange reason, and you could tell so much about a person by the space he or she inhabited.

  The inner office was furnished with the same kind of window treatment and the same type of substantial, old-fashioned, masculine pieces she had seen in the other room. She had to admit that they invoked a certain period atmosphere and made a statement that suited the fictional image of the private investigation business.

  But in her opinion, the client chair in which she sat was far too large and too overwhelming to make a visitor feel comfortable. Furthermore, Truax’s massive desk was not in the right place in the room to create the best energy flow. In addition there was a mirror hanging on the wall that was both badly proportioned and badly positioned.

  Several heavy metal filing cabinets were lined up side by side against the rear wall. They were ancient and not particularly attractive, but she supposed an investigator needed a place for files.

  New bookshelves had been recently installed on either side of the door. Unfortunately, Truax had chosen to go with inexpensive metal shelving that did nothing to add to the ambience of the room. Half of the shelves were already loaded with volumes. She could see more of the same sort of impressive, academic-looking tomes she had seen in the packing box outside.

  Who would have expected a private investigator to possess a serious book collection? Maybe her concept of the profession, formed as it had been by mystery novels, television, and old films, was not entirely accurate.

  Ethan’s surroundings did not answer her silent questions; instead they raised new ones and made her all the more curious about him.

  One thing was clear, he commanded his space; it did not command him.

  Ethan opened a desk drawer, took out a yellow notepad, and put it on the desk in front of him. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

  “Zoe Luce. I own a design firm here in town. Enhanced Interiors.”

  “You’re a decorator,” he said flatly.

  “Interior designer.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you have some sort of underlying hostility toward people in my profession?”

  “I had a bad experience with a decorator once.”

  “Well, for the record,” Zoe said, “I think that I’m having a really bad experience with a private investigator. This could color my attitude toward folks in your field for years to come.”

  He tapped the pen on the notepad and contemplated her in silence for a while.

  “Sorry,” he said eventually. “Let’s try this again. What do you want me to do for you, Zoe Luce?”

  “I thought we were going to talk about money first.”

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.” He put down the pen, rested his arms on the desk, and linked his fingers. “Like I said, if you’re shopping by price, you’re stuck with me. My hourly rates are considerably less than those charged over at Radnor, and I have only a two-hour minimum.”

  That news had an elevating effect on her mood. “What about expenses? Mileage and meals, that kind of thing?”

  “You aren’t responsible for mileage or meals within the city limits. You will be billed for miscellaneous expenses and for any costs incurred if I have to travel outside Whispering Springs. Don’t worry, you’ll get receipts.”

  He thinks I’m an idiot. Annoyed, she crossed her legs very deliberately. She sat back into the depths of the voluminous chair, trusting to fate that she would not get eaten alive by the monster, and smiled coolly.

  “In that case, I would like to purchase the minimum two hours,” she said. “I’m sure the job won’t take even that much time.”

  “Background check on a new male acquaintance?” he asked with no inflection.

  “Good heavens, no, nothing like that.” She frowned. “Do you get a lot of re
quests like that?”

  He shrugged. “Not yet. You’re my first client here in Whispering Springs. But it was a fairly common request in L.A.”

  “I guess that isn’t so surprising.” She considered the subject for a few seconds. “I mean, it makes a lot of sense to check out a potential date if you think things might get serious.”

  “Especially in L.A.,” he agreed dryly.

  “All I want you to do is locate someone.”

  “Who do you want me to find, Miss Luce?” He paused with an air of grave politeness. “It is Miss, isn’t it? Or should I call you Ms. or Mrs.?”

  “I’m not married,” she said very precisely. She did not want him calling her Miss or Ms. Luce. It sounded ridiculously formal. She also did not want him inquiring into her past marital status. “Make it Zoe.”

  “Fine. Who do you want me to find, Zoe?”

  She breathed deeply and prepared to pick her way through the minefield. She needed to give him enough information to do his job but not enough to make him conclude that she was loony-tunes. And she definitely did not want to give him the kind of details that would arouse any curiosity about her personally.

  “I would like you to find a woman named Mrs. Jennifer Mason. I can give you her last address here in town. I believe she lived there until a few months ago.”

  He unlinked his fingers, picked up the pen again, and began making more notes on the yellow pad.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked without looking up. “Relative?”

  “Neither. She’s the wife of a man named Davis Mason. He lives in Desert View.”

  Ethan did glance up at that. “The fancy gated golf-course community just outside of town?”

  “Yes. Mr. Mason recently hired me to redesign the interiors of his residence.”

  “Residence,” Ethan repeated neutrally. “Would that be what you interior decorators like to call a house?”

  Ethan Truax was becoming more irritating by the minute.

  “In the field of interior design,” she said, emphasizing the last word, “the word residence is generally felt to be a more gracious term for a client’s living space. The term conveys a sense of permanence and elegance. It implies a cultivated lifestyle. People like to associate those qualities with their homes.”