“A lifestyle thing, huh?” He looked amused.
“Of course, if you have trouble with the longer word,” she added sweetly, “please feel free to use the shorter one.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. Any idea where Mrs. Jennifer Mason may have gone?”
“No. Davis, her husband, told me that she walked out on him a couple months ago and that they are in the process of getting a divorce. I just want to confirm that fact.”
Ethan raised his brows. “Are you sure this isn’t a background check on a potential date?”
“Davis Mason is a client,” she said coldly.
“If that’s the case, why are you so concerned with the whereabouts of his not-quite-ex-wife?”
The question worried her. “Do you need to know my reasons before you agree to take the job?”
“No. Not at this point, at any rate.”
“Your ad in the phone book stresses your concern for privacy and confidentiality.”
“That was my uncle’s ad, not mine.”
A whisper of uncertainty tingled through her. She rested her hands on the overstuffed arms of the big chair, preparing to push herself up out of its cushioned jaws.
“If you intend to alter what I took to be the long-standing business practices of this agency,” she said, “I’d like to know about it before this conversation goes any further. As you pointed out, I do have another option.”
He put down the pen and leaned back in the chair. “There will be no change in this firm’s concern for client confidentiality.”
“Good.” She relaxed a little.
“But I like to know as much as possible about what I’m getting into before I start an investigation.”
It was her turn to raise her brows. “I’m here because I was under the impression that one consults a private investigator when one does not wish to explain all the reasons why one needs that particular type of professional assistance.”
His hard mouth quirked a little. “Is that right?”
She was simmering now, but she felt trapped by financial considerations and the tight time frame. She needed answers and she needed them before Friday. “Do you want this job or not, Mr. Truax?”
“I want it. Sorry, if the questions bother you, but I’m just gathering information. It’s what I do, Zoe.”
“All I want is for you to locate Mrs. Jennifer Mason. How hard can that be for a professional investigator? Surely it’s just a matter of checking to see if she’s using her credit cards or checkbook, right? Any high school kid could probably do it.”
“Yeah. Lately I’ve started to worry a lot about the competition from high school kids.”
Now she knew for certain that he was mocking her. She shoved herself halfway up out of the chair. It wasn’t easy disengaging herself from the mouth of the beast.
“If you feel that the job is beyond your abilities,” she said grimly, “or that you can’t do it without additional information, just say so and I’ll go find myself a bright high school kid.”
“Sit down.” He paused. “Please.”
It was not an order, not exactly. How could it be? It wasn’t as though he could force her to sit back down in the big chair. The problem was that she had been bluffing, and he had guessed as much.
She sat. “Do you or do you not intend to investigate?”
“I’ll find Mrs. Jennifer Mason for you. But I’d better make one thing clear. I’m not going to give you any contact information unless and until I’m sure she wants you to know where she is. Understood?”
That caught her off guard. “Wait a second. Do you think I want to know her current address so that I can do something to her?”
“It happens.”
She shuddered. “Yes, I suppose it does. Well, rest assured, I don’t care where she lives. I have no intention of contacting her.”
“You just want to know that she’s out of Davis Mason’s life, is that it?”
He wasn’t going to let it go until she came up with a convincing reason for wanting to check on the whereabouts of Jennifer Mason. Maybe the easiest way to handle this was to take the first excuse he had offered.
“All right,” she said, trying to sound resigned. “As you suggested, this is a personal matter for me. Davis is a client but he is also a successful, intelligent, attractive man, and he seems interested in me, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh. I know what you mean.”
She glared, suspicious of his tone, but he just sat there, waiting. She recognized the tactic. Dr. McAlistair, her therapist at Xanadu had employed it. The interrogation technique was based on the fact that most people were uncomfortable with silence, got nervous, and tended to start talking to fill the vacuum.
The realization that Truax was attempting to use the same approach as McAlistair pissed her off. She reminded herself that it was nothing personal in Truax’s case. He just wanted answers.
“As I told you, Davis led me to believe that he’s getting divorced. I’d like to be sure that he’s genuinely free, or about to become free, to engage in another, uh, serious, committed relationship.”
Ethan did not move, but his eyes never left her face. “Okay.”
She was not sure how to take that. “Okay? You mean you’ll get busy and investigate now?”
“No.”
“That does it, I’ve had enough.” She did get out of the chair this time. All the way out. “I’ve asked you to do a simple search and I’ve given you my reason, even though it was extremely personal and I resent the probe into my private life. What more can you possibly want?”
“An advance for two hours’ worth of my time. Credit card, check, or money order will be fine.”
“Does this mean you’re taking the job?”
“Yes, ma’am. Like you, I’m not in a position to be real choosy at the moment. I’m trying to get a business up and running here.”
She yanked open the tote and pulled out her wallet, removed a credit card, and tossed it onto the desk. “Here. Get busy.”
He picked up the card, got to his feet, and went to a small side table where a credit card machine sat.
She watched him punch in some numbers and swipe her card. “You know, I can’t help but notice that even though you haven’t had time to set up your computer, you’ve managed to get your credit card authorization machine connected.”
“First things first.”
“I can certainly see how you rank your priorities, Mr. Truax. Always get paid in advance, is that it?”
“I’m not running a charitable foundation.”
“Don’t worry, I’d never in a million years make the mistake of thinking that you might be the benevolent type.” She gave the office another critical glance while she waited for the machine to spit out the credit card slip. If she had any sense, she would keep her mouth shut, she thought. But she could not resist the urge to give him some free advice. “You know, if I were you, I’d get a smaller client chair. This one is too large. It’s not inviting.”
“Maybe you’re just too small for the chair.” He sounded supremely disinterested. His attention was fixed on the slip of paper coming out of the machine.
That’s it, she thought. Not another word, so help me. If the man was too stubborn to take some good advice, that was his problem. But the desk worried her even more than the chair. And then there was the poorly positioned mirror.
She cleared her throat.
“It would also be a good idea to move that desk over there near the window, and I’d suggest that you take down the mirror or at least shift it to the other wall,” she said in a little rush. “It would create a more calming energy flow.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Energy flow?”
She had been right. This was a complete waste of time. “Forget it. You’re probably not familiar with design theories such as feng shui that are used to organize a harmonious environment.”
“I’ve heard of them.” He ripped the paper out of the machine and handed it to h
er. “But I’m not into decorating trends.”
“Why am I not surprised?” She snatched the credit card slip from him, glanced at the total amount, and winced. Less than Radnor but certainly not exactly a bargain, she thought.
As if he knew what was going through her mind, Ethan’s mouth curved humorlessly. “I’m cheap, but I’m not free.”
She sighed, picked up a pen, and scrawled her name.
He took the signed slip from her and examined it with an expression of keen satisfaction. “You know, this is a special moment for me.”
“In what way?”
“This represents my first professional business transaction here in Whispering Springs. I should probably frame this. Just think, your name could hang on my wall for years.”
“Along with my credit card number. No thanks. If I were you, I wouldn’t get too excited about this, Mr. Truax. I have no intention of becoming a repeat client.”
“You never know. If this Mason guy doesn’t work out as a suitable candidate for, what was it you called it? Oh, yeah, a serious, committed relationship. If he doesn’t make the grade due to failure to obtain a divorce, you may want me to run a background check on some other man for you.”
For some idiotic reason, she suddenly wondered if Ethan Truax was into serious, committed relationships. She glanced at his hand and noticed that he was not wearing a wedding ring. What would she discover if she had someone run a background check on him? A lot of ex-girlfriends, no doubt, maybe an ex-wife.
Damn. Now she was speculating on his marital status. This was not good.
She dropped the pen she had used to sign the credit card slip into her tote and gave him a very bright smile. “Don’t hold your breath.”
She hoisted the tote over one shoulder, swung around, and went toward the door. At least she would have the last word, she thought.
“Just a minute,” Ethan said.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Now what?”
“That’s my pen you’re walking off with in your bag. Mind giving it back? I’m trying to keep a lid on overhead and office expenses.”
Chapter Four
Leon Grady’s heartburn always flared up in the hushed atmosphere and plush surroundings of his employer’s office suite. He had grown up in a working-class neighborhood where, if you were lucky, walls got painted, not paneled, and the furniture was trimmed in plastic made to look like wood, not veneered with exotic species of actual trees.
Dr. Ian Harper had once told him that his office had been designed to calm patients and reassure their families. But all the fancy carpeting and the expensive pictures on the walls had the opposite effect on Leon. He really hated this room. Talk about stress triggers. Hell, he’d been standing here, waiting for Harper to get off the phone for only a few minutes and already he could feel the fire starting in his chest.
Maybe it was one of those weird psychological hang-ups, he thought, the kind of crazy shit the folks who worked here at Candle Lake Manor were always going on about. A phobia or something. Maybe he didn’t like being in this office because he associated it with his worsening stomach problems. In his position as head of security for the Manor, he’d endured several extremely unpleasant conversations in this office over the course of the past year.
Things had been going halfway decently until the two female patients had disappeared. The job here at the Manor had been the best one he’d ever had. Bonuses, even. For the first time in his life he’d seen some good money coming in. And going out just as fast. Not his fault; he had expenses. The payments on the Porsche and the fancy sound system were steep.
He’d never been much good with money, mostly because he’d never had enough of it. Cash went through his fingers like water, but here at the Manor that had been okay because there was always another paycheck next month.
But then the two patients had skipped, and his cozy setup had gone sour. His stomach had followed.
The time right after the escape had been especially bad. Harper had ranted and raved and blamed the lousy security. Leon had feared for his job. It wouldn’t be easy turning up another one, and he sure as hell wouldn’t find anything else with the kind of perks he got here at the Manor. He had some problems with references.
He’d felt cornered and panicky when Harper demanded that the two patients be found and returned to the Manor. He’d had no idea how to conduct a serious investigation. The Bitch Goddess, Fenella, who served as Harper’s administrative assistant, had acidly suggested that he hire a real investigator, one of those modern, high-tech types who used a computer.
To his private astonishment, he’d gotten lucky. A few weeks after the patients had disappeared, word had come back of a small story in a Mexican newspaper detailing the deaths of two women who had perished in a hotel fire. No identification had been found at the scene, and the authorities had been unable to locate any next of kin. The only clue to the women’s identities were a ballpoint pen and some slippers. All three items had been monogrammed with the words Candle Lake Manor.
Leon had been relieved just to have an answer. Sure, it meant a loss of income for Harper, but the guy was a businessman. Harper had to understand that sometimes you took a financial hit, but that life went on and you brought in new sources of revenue.
Actually in this case, Harper was still mining the old sources. Leon was impressed. The doc had balls. Shrewd operator that he was, Harper continued to bill the Cleland woman’s relatives and the other woman’s trust fund for the very expensive fees charged here at the Manor.
It was conceivable that Harper’s clients might remain in blissful ignorance for a very long time. The Manor was a very private, very exclusive, very expensive psychiatric hospital situated on the shores of a remote lake in the mountains of Northern California. The sleepy little town of Candle Lake was nearby, but other than a scattering of summer boaters and campers, and some hunters in the fall, the place was all but forgotten on the maps.
Leon knew that the hard-to-reach location was one of the things that made the Manor attractive to Harper’s clients. The hospital raked in big bucks from folks who wanted their crazy family members warehoused out of sight and out of mind. Like so many other patients whose relatives had paid dearly to have a relative committed indefinitely, the two women had not had any visitors.
But Harper could run his scam on the clients who were paying the fees for the two women only for a limited time, Leon thought. Sooner or later someone connected to one or both of the missing patients would have a reason to come to Candle Lake. When that day came, Harper would be in a bind because he would not be able to produce them.
After learning that the two patients had apparently died in Mexico, Leon had begun to hope his problems might be over. Then, last week, he’d been contacted online by the creep who called himself, simply, GopherBoy.
“. . . understand you are looking for a missing patient. I can help. My fees are as follows and are nonnegotiable . . .”
That was when Leon’s heartburn had kicked in again, big time. It was getting worse by the hour.
Harper put down the phone, slowly removed his glasses, and looked at Leon.
“I’m very busy today, Grady. I have two intakes to deal with this afternoon. I trust this is important?”
Even Harper’s voice affected his heartburn, Leon thought. It was classy sounding, a rich man’s voice. It reminded him of all of the differences between them. Harper was a hustler, but unlike himself, the doc had gotten all the breaks.
Harper was good-looking, with a lot of thick, silver-gray hair and a trim, tennis player’s build. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten a good education. He also had the kind of charm that he needed to snow his wealthy clients.
“The hacker came through,” Leon said. “It cost us, but it looks like we may have some hard information on the Cleland woman.”
“Not the other one?”
“No.”
Harper frowned, but he did not look severely disappointed, just mildly regr
etful. It was as if Leon had told him that one of the stocks in his portfolio had tanked but that another had turned in a higher-than-expected earnings report.
“Well, she wasn’t nearly as lucrative as the Cleland woman,” Harper said. “What have you got?”
“According to GopherBoy, she’s alive and well and living under another name. He says some online ID broker set up a program to feed false and misleading information about her to anyone who goes looking. That was why that investigator we hired back at the beginning didn’t turn up any real leads.”
“Where is she?” Harper asked sharply. “I want her picked up immediately.”
The fire in Leon’s chest flared higher. He needed some of the tablets he kept in his pocket, but he didn’t think it would look good to chew them in front of his boss. He wanted to look like he was calm and in control here.
“Not gonna be that easy, sir,” he said. “She’s being real careful. All GopherBoy could tell me is that she’s somewhere in L.A. He did not have an exact location.”
“Somewhere in L.A.?” Harper’s well-manicured hand clenched around a gold pen. “What good does that do us? L.A. covers a lot of territory.”
“Yeah, but now that I’ve got a name and some details about her new ID, it won’t take me long to track her down. With your permission, sir, I’ll leave this afternoon.”
“Don’t try to bring her in on your own. When you’ve located her, stay out of sight and keep her under surveillance. Call me immediately. I’ll send Ron and Ernie to assist you. They can handle the medications that will be needed.”
“Yes, sir.” Leon cleared his throat and tried to keep his tone respectful. “But I’d like to point out that once I’ve found the patient, we’re gonna need to think about how we want to bring her in.”
“The meds will make her easy to handle.”
For all his fancy degrees, Leon, thought, sometimes Harper could be as dumb as a brick.
“The thing is, sir, the Cleland woman has been living under another name for a year. She probably has a job by now. That means there will be co-workers. Friends. Neighbors. Folks who will notice if we just grab her off the street.”