Authors: Mark Henwick

Raw Deal (Bite Back) (20 page)

BOOK: Raw Deal (Bite Back)

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“Done,” she said quickly. There was a note of relief in her voice. I hadn’t done anything yet, but it was something I’d seen before, as if just talking to someone else had shifted part of the burden.

“Can I see the contract, please?” she asked.

I passed the standard duplicate forms across and sipped my cooling coffee as she bent her head over them. She noted some stuff on her smartphone as she went. She also made some changes, initialing them before moving on. I huffed quietly. I’d have to take a look at those and I hated reading legal forms.

There was a bit of turnover in Papa Dee’s clientele. A couple walked out, kissed and went to separate cars. A guy whose face made me think of an angry rabbit came over and sat one table away from us. Now, there’s a convention that most people stick to in half-empty coffee shops. You try to space yourself out, you don’t take a table right next to someone else. He flicked up his laptop screen and dived in. A nerd. Low level of social skills. Probably only came in for the free internet. I sighed. Nothing that set my alarms off, but we’d have to talk quietly if there was more to say.

The waiter wandered over with a coffee refill for us. He had a bit of a swagger and strong, square hands. I imagined those hands gently massaging my back and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. A quick peek confirmed he had thick, dark hair that I could almost feel my fingers running though. And a nice smile. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes.
Not going to happen. Not allowed. Rules.

Back in the real world, Jen had signed the contracts and pushed them back at me. I hoped she hadn’t spotted me eyeing the waiter. Or my reaction afterwards.

I checked her amendments. They were perfectly fair. She had emphasized the confidentiality aspects, corrected a typo that I’d kept meaning to correct, and added nothing that made me unhappy. I matched her initials, signed both copies and passed one back to her.

She fiddled with her smartphone and looked up.

“Good. Thank you. I’ve transferred five thousand into your bank account to cover preliminary costs. Bank details as in the agreement.” She made a wry face. “Or at least, the money is wherever it goes to when it’s left my account and isn’t yet in yours.”

I kept my face impassive and managed not to punch the air. Five thousand would take care of the bills due next week and then some.

“Thanks,” I said blandly. “My reports will detail costs.”

We exchanged cell numbers and email addresses, and she handed a USB drive across to me. “This contains files of my internal accounts with my analysis, a list of employees who’ve left recently, with contact details, and the missing man I’m especially worried about, Troy Huber. And security footage from Silver Hills.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the table. “Amber, I know I sound evasive about the problem at the resort. Please, just have a look at the clip before you make your mind up. You’ll understand.”

As I slipped the drive into my pocket, she also handed me a photo and a set of keys. “That’s Troy and these are for his apartment down in LoDo. The address is on the label.”

I took them silently, glancing at the picture. I wondered how she came to have a set of keys for Troy’s apartment.

“What’s his job?” I asked.

“He’s the head chef at the Golden Harvest restaurant. He didn’t show up for work over the weekend. The police won’t do anything yet. All that information is on the drive.”

I nodded. The Golden Harvest was her signature restaurant and the priciest place in town. Certainly not somewhere I could afford to eat, but I had heard the chef was something special. People would notice his absence.

“Married? Partner? Local family?” She just shook her head.

“Okay. I’ll start with his apartment and I’ll call you.”

She nodded her thanks and made a call to her driver to pick her up, before turning back to me.

“May I ask a personal question, Amber?”

I shrugged. “Of course.”

“Those are really beautiful boots. They’re handmade, aren’t they?”

I pulled my jeans up to the tops of the boots and stretched my legs out beside the table to show her, obscurely pleased she’d noticed. “Yup. Made by a friend of mine.”

“They’re so soft!” She felt the supple leather. “Does he do it as a business?”

“Sure. Here, I’ll give you his contact info.” I fiddled with my cell and sent Werner’s details to her.

“Werner Schumacher?” she asked. “Mr. Schumacher is the shoe maker?”

“Indeed he is.” I laughed. “Your car’s here.” I pointed at the black limo and the driver shouldering his way through the doors.

She got up and took my hand, squeezing it.

“Thank you, Amber. Please call as soon as you can.” She started towards the door and stopped as if something had just occurred to her. She turned back and waved at my boots. “Do you ride?”

I shook my head with a little smile. “Not unless you count a couple of hours when I was fourteen.”

“Oh. Never mind. Maybe we can do some, after we straighten this business out. I have horses. Bye.” And with that she was out the door.

I loved the cheerful assumption that all would go well.

I sat there, watching a car that had gone around the block a couple of times do it again, and wondered why I hadn’t picked up my gun when I walked out of the office.

In between, I wondered what the hell I was getting into, let alone what I was already in. And what were the prospects for a private investigator in, say, Alaska?

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

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