Dying Embers (4 page)

“My reason is valid,” said Scott.

“One-eight-hundred-find-somebody—something like that?” I said. “I see it on TV all the time. I don't think they ask any questions, and it's cheap too.”

Scott picked up one of his stacks of tractor paper, reached over the lunch tray and plopped it in front of me. “Already tried that,” he said. “Every time I call one of those outfits it costs a hundred dollars and I get another stack like this.”

I looked at the stack—four folded inches of single-spaced Anne Jones—from Anne Jones in Anyplace, Alaska, to Anne Jones in No-Place-in-Particular, Wyoming. “Guess you're looking for Anne Jones,” I said. “Why?”

“I know her from Michigan State. We were friends. I just got to thinking about her.”

Lorna made a small mock cough, turned her head toward me, and shaded the side of her face with her napkin. She mouthed, “Is there a wife?” She put the napkin over her mouth, coughed again and said, “Sorry, gentlemen, I have to make a trip to the
casa de pye-pye.
” She scooted her chair back, and Scott was on his feet again.

“You should take notes,” Lorna said, casting me an innocent face with a little tilt of her head.

“When you get to the DEA and they're sitting around passing wind, scratching themselves, and talking about your ‘headlights,' you're going to think I was Prince Charming.”

“Ribbet, ribbet,”
she said as she walked off.

“Bring mustard packets on the way back,” I said.

Scott sat down. I took my drink out of the tray and tapped the end of the straw on the table to strip the paper cover loose.

“I take it things didn't work out—what is it, fifteen years ago?”

“Twenty. I went to college when I was fifteen. She was four years older. I don't think the age difference would be such a big deal now.”

“Scott,” I said, and stabbed the straw through the lid on the drink, “maybe the best thing to do is cherish your memories and get on with the here and now.”

“What we had was very special, and it's important to me to get in touch with her.”

I took a sip of my drink—oh God, the devious wench had gotten me unsweetened iced tea—and studied Mr. Lambert's face. Here was a man, an engineer with a hundred patents, one of which was about to make him a billionaire, mooning over an adolescent crush. He had lost his wife to cancer. Wendy told me that the loss had devastated him, and in the two years since, he had poured himself into his business. Maybe it was easier for him to fantasize about this Anne Jones person because he had known her before he had met his wife, and maybe that way it didn't seem like cheating. Anyway, he looked like a man holding a busted straight.

“Scott, she's probably married to a welder, weighs three hundred pounds, and has six mean-ass kids and an ugly mongrel dog named after you.”

“You don't know that.”

“No, I don't.”

“I want you to find out. I'll pay whatever you ask.”

“I'll find her, but if she's married, I won't talk to her and I won't tell you where I found her. If she is socially available, I'll tell her that you'd like to get together, but it will be up to her to make the first contact.”

“I could hire someone else.”

“If you don't care enough about this Anne person to leave her in peace, then you most assuredly should hire someone else.”

Scott slouched back into his chair. “All right,” he said. “How much?”

“A thousand shares of Light and Energy Applications.”

Scott looked up, and smiled for the first time. “We're still a year away from going public,” he said. “I can just give you cash. What do you need to get started?”

“A dream. You have yours and I have mine.”

“The current value of a share is about ten cents.”

“So it's a bargain.”

“Done,” he said, and offered his hand across the table.

I took his hand. “I need some information.”

He took his hand back and looked at his watch. “I have six minutes,” he said.

I took out my pen. “What was her name when you went to school with her?”

“Anne Jones.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. What was her date of birth?”

Scott pointed at the stack of tractor paper printout. “Those are the same questions they ask me.”

“Tick-tock.”

“Her birthday was in June. It was the third or maybe the sixth.”

I scribbled that on the top of the stack in front of me. “What year?”

“I was born in sixty-one. Anne was four years older.”

“Social Security number?”

“God, I have no way of knowing.”

“Where was she from—her family I mean?”

“Ypsilanti or maybe north of there. She mentioned Whitmore Lake, like maybe they had a cottage there.”

“Father's name? Mother's name? And don't tell me Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

“I don't know. She mentioned a brother named Leonard. Sometimes she called him Junior, but it was derisive. He was older, and in the Navy. She didn't approve of that.”

“Sisters?”

“No.”

“What about her major?”

“Fine Arts.”

“She graduate?”

“I don't know. It's a big campus. I lost track of her.”

I looked up at Scott with what I guess must not have been my best poker face. He squirmed in his chair and turned his face down to the table.

“She was in my physics lab. She was embarrassed to walk around campus with me because people asked if I was her little brother. Sometimes we met at the library or had a burger together. She got real active in the women's rights movement, and I never saw her after that.”

“Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe you could remember his last name.”

“She always said that she planned to keep her name, even if she got married. I don't remember her going with anyone.”

“Maybe that's a plus. Did she belong to any campus organizations or sports teams? A sorority?”

“I don't think so.”

“What did her parents do?”

“Her mother was a teacher. Her dad worked at the gear and axle plant at Willow Run,” he said and looked at his watch. “I have to go.” He scooped his laptop from the floor and stood as Lorna returned to the table.

“Sorry you have to rush off,” said Lorna. She offered her hand and he took it. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said. He looked Lorna full in the face and smiled. “I'm sure that lunch with you will have been the highlight of my day.”

Scott was tall. Lorna liked 'em tall, and I could tell that she was charmed. He took his hand back.

“I'll leave you the printouts,” he said. “Maybe they'll be of more use to you than they were to me.” He turned and took a step but stopped and turned back to wag a finger at me. A black Lincoln limousine pulled to a stop at the curb.

“Tell Wendy,” he said with a stroke of his finger for each word, “that her operative in Wisconsin hasn't showed at work for a week.” The low buzz of conversation in the restaurant stopped and everyone stared at Scott and then at me and Lorna.

I nodded. Scott's face went blank and he looked around the room. When he looked back, he had colored. “I have to go,” he said. “I'll be back Wednesday, early.” He walked out.

Everyone turned their heads to watch him leave. Or maybe it was the Castro clone that folded his newspaper and walked out just a few steps behind Scott. Lorna and I sat down. She took her drink out of the tray.

“Iced tea?” I asked.

“No, lemonade,” she said. “I don't like iced tea.”

“I was afraid I got your drink.”

“Nope,” she said. “Try your chili dog yet?”

“Nope, I lack the courage.”

“So, is he married? We going to do this one?”

“His wife died of cancer.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Lorna.

“We're taking the case with some provisos. First, if I find her, she'll have to make the first contact, and second, Lambert doesn't get the address.”

“He was flirting with me.”

“He's eligible,” I said.

“And charming.”

“And nearly twice your age.”

“And rich as a Rajah,” said Lorna, with a Cheshire Cat face.

I studied Lorna's face until she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “So why are we looking for an old heartthrob?”

C
HIEF
P
ETTY
O
FFICER
L
EONARD
J
ONES
,
Junior, U.S.N. Retired, mowed his lawn astride a green and yellow lawn tractor as Lorna and I pulled up into his drive. He wore khaki shorts and blue deck shoes without socks. White block letters on the back of his dark blue T-shirt announced something about “iron men and wooden ships.” A blue ball cap—crimped at the crown with the edges of the bill folded down like fenders—perched over his dark aviator sunglasses.

“Matty told me you had low friends in high places,” said Lorna as she pushed the shift lever into park.

“Sounds like an accusation,” I said.

“You found this guy in one phone call.”

“A shot in the dark,” I said. “I called the VFW in Whitmore Lake. He turned out to be a member.”

“Oh?” she said, with a little arch of her eyebrows and tilt of her head.

“So why are you and Special Agent Matty Svenson chinning about some old fart PI?”

“She did my National Agency check and I told her that I was going to
work for you until my class date came up.”

“She have anything nice to say?”

“Told me to get rid of the Walther and buy a nine millimeter.” Lorna twisted her keys out of the ignition.

Jones's gray brick ranch included an attached two-car garage. The garage door stood open, revealing two stalls with everything in its place. Several sets of scuba tanks hung on the back wall, and a folded hang glider hung from the rafters. An electric-green crotch rocket lurked next to a “write-me-a-ticket red” Humvee—the kind with canvas doors and zip-out plastic windows.

“Your lucky day,” I said, “another eligible guy.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Psychic impression,” I said.

The retired Navy type pulled up and shut off the tractor. I opened the car door and stepped out.

“Leonard Jones?” I asked.

He pulled off his sunglasses and drilled suspicion into my face with cold, slate-gray eyes. “Yeah, and you?”

I stuck my hand out. He took it and held on. “Art Hardin,” I said. I relaxed my hand and arm. Leonard brushed back my jacket with the leg of his sunglasses and exposed my auto loader.

“You look like a cop,” he said and scanned my Western livery. “But not from around here. You with Naval Investigative Service?”

“Nope.”

“You were in the military,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Marines?”

“Army. I couldn't suck my face into the mayonnaise jar.”

He laughed, let go of my hand, and knocked up the bill of his cap with his knuckle. Lines at the corners of his eyes and a little gray at the temples punctuated an otherwise young and clean shaven face.

“Some kind of trouble?” I asked.

“I said some ugly things about the chain of command.”

“Oh.”

“In the
Navy Times.”

“You're retired,” I said.

“I was with the teams. They still come steal my trash twice a year.”

“If what you said was ugly enough, we can go have a beer.”

“I don't drink anymore,” he said. “What the hell do you want?”

“I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for Anne Jones.”

“I don't have a sister.”

I looked him in the eyes and nodded once. “Thanks, Chief,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you. I gotta go.” I kept my hand to myself and turned back toward the car.

“If I had this sister, why would you be looking for her?”

I turned back. “An old flame from her college days wants to know if she'd like to do lunch.”

He looked at Lorna.

“That's my partner, Lorna Kemp.”

He laughed. “How is she at watching your back?”

“So far, so good.”

“You find this sister I don't have and you just give up her whereabouts?” he asked.

“I give her the name and address. Any contact is up to her.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

I took the “Ben Wright, Mid-West Casualty” pretext business card out of my breast pocket and handed it to him. “I haven't lied to you yet,” I said.

He chuckled. “This phone number any good?”

“Answering service.”

“How come you didn't use it?”

“Pretty sure it wouldn't work.”

“Come on in the house,” he said. He stepped off the tractor and walked toward the open garage door—five foot ten or so of kiln-fired brick with double-fist calf muscles. Lorna got out of the car and followed me up to the house. He held the door open, and we stepped into his kitchen. The walls were pale yellow, the kitchen table and chairs white wicker. The table had a glass top. He waved us toward the table.

“I was expecting a field table with jerry cans for stools,” I said.

“My ex did the decorating,” he said. “Have a seat.”

He took the telephone off the wall, wedged it between his chin and shoulder, and punched in the number off my pretext card. “Yeah, I want to speak with Ben Wright.” He opened the refrigerator door and crouched to look inside. “He is?.… Sorry I missed him.… No.… I'll call back later.”

He reached into the refrigerator and produced three bottles of Vernor's Ginger Ale racked between his fingers, bumped the door shut with his hip, and set the drinks on the table. Back on the telephone, he drilled in another number and returned to the table.