Lead-Pipe Cinch (17 page)

I picked up the local weekly, abandoned by an earlier customer on the end of the counter.

A report on a zoning dispute filled the front page, spilling over onto page four. It was a sign of things to come. Another project like McComb’s would never get approval.

I read the end of the article and glanced at a couple others. Typical small-town reporting: a local high school girl had been selected as an exchange student and was raising money to fund her trip; the grammar school would be closed on Thursday and Friday for parent conferences; a picture of Janis Breckweth handing an oversized check to Carl from Homes for Hope. Martha Tepper’s estate had been settled, and the check represented her bequest to the building fund.

I flipped back to page one and scanned the rest of the week’s front-page stories. Blake’s death was a small box at the bottom of the page. He was identified as an out-of-town consultant for new residents Chad and Astrid McComb, and the article said the investigation into his death was ongoing.

Nothing I didn’t already know.

The
new residents
line did amuse me. Chad and Astrid had been working on the moat project for many months, and had pumped a lot of money into the local economy. They were well liked, and they treated everyone with respect. But until they had survived a couple winters in the relative isolation of a small town at the foot of a large mountain, they would remain “new” residents. Too many people before them had fled back to the city; they had to prove themselves to the locals.

I looked up from the paper in time to see Stan Fischer come through the front door of Dee’s. He wore an expensive raincoat and hat I was sure cost more than I made in a week, and yet he looked completely at home in the tiny diner.

I guessed wife number four—or was it five? I’d lost count a few years back, and there could have been more since I left—had tried to make him over, but the oil field roughneck still lived just below the spiffed-up exterior.

It was reassuring to know that some things never change.

Stan spotted me, and a wide smile spread across his broad face. As he walked back to where I sat, I stood up and greeted him with a hug.

“Stan! It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Georgie. You, too.”

We took a moment to scan the chalkboard behind the counter that held today’s menu and then stepped to the counter to give Dee our orders. Stan wanted the works: eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, and a side of pancakes.

When we sat back down, he frowned slightly. “A sad business, this thing with Blake,” he said. “It’s really good to see you again, but I’d hoped it would be under better circumstances.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry about Blake. He was really good at what he did. I’m sure it’s a huge loss for you.”

“For all of us,” Stan replied. He sipped his coffee before adding a large amount of cream, and several packets of sugar.

“I was excited when he told me he’d found you, Georgie. And so was he. Said he was going to have a talk with you.”

“About what? I saw him a couple times, but it seemed like all he wanted to do was make snide comments.”

“He was a little defensive, I guess. Thought you wouldn’t want to talk to him after what he did. But I urged him to speak to you, to give you a chance to, I don’t know, maybe put the past behind you.”

“I’ve put the past behind me, Stan, in case you hadn’t noticed. I moved almost a thousand miles away,” I exaggerated, “and I started a new career. Something that has nothing to do with computers, or security.”

“And how’s that workin’ for you?”

“Just fine.”

Stan gave me a look that said he didn’t believe a word I said. He chewed his eggs and toast, and washed it down with a big gulp of sweet coffee before he prodded me.

“You sure about that?”

“I walked away, Stan. That’s what mattered. I jumped. I wasn’t pushed. And it didn’t take Blake Weston to make me know I made the right decision.”

I was being defensive, but Stan was poking at scar tissue, and I wanted him to leave it alone.

“Georgie”—he put down his fork and reached across to pat my hand—“do you mean to tell me you and Blake did not have a conversation about you coming back to Samurai?”

All I could do was stare. There was no way Blake would have asked me to come back to Samurai, and there was absolutely no way I would have agreed.

The whole idea was ridiculous.

“What do you mean, come back to Samurai?”

“Just what I said. Blake said he was thinking we ought to ask you to come back to Samurai.”

I took a bite of waffle. It tasted like sawdust, and I couldn’t swallow.

“You know the industry, Georgie. Like sharks. Move or die. We have to keep moving, keep innovating, to stay competitive.”

He picked up his fork and shoved a pile of hash browns into his mouth. When he finished chewing, he took another big gulp of coffee. “Blake said, and this is a direct quote, ‘No matter what happened with me and Georgiana, she was the most innovative thinker we had. We were foolish to let her go.’ ”

I picked up my coffee and took a drink, forcing the clump of waffle down my throat. Blake had wanted me to come back?
Blake?
The man who had tried to provoke me into a fight in front of the entire crew at McComb’s? The guy who sneered at me in Tiny’s, when Chad told him I was working with the plumbing crew?

That Blake?

It made no sense.

“He didn’t mean that.”

“He most certainly did. Told me so himself when he called from up here, the night before he died. Said he was going to talk to you, that Samurai needed you, and he had to put the best interests of the company ahead of his personal concerns.”

Stan shook his head. “I tried to tell you, office romances never work out.”

Yes, Stan had tried to tell us exactly that when he arrived, but since Blake and I were already partners—personally and professionally—we had chosen not to heed his advice.

I struggled to hold back a laugh, knowing the source of his wisdom. It seemed that several of the former Mrs. Fischers had come from exactly that origin. Of course he didn’t believe in romance in the workplace. It had worked so well for him, after all.

“Well, he may have talked to you, Stan, but the man didn’t say a thing to me about Samurai. In fact, all he said was that he was here on a job for McComb. I don’t think he even mentioned Samurai directly. To tell the truth, I wondered if he was still working for you.”

“He was—one of our best. And this McComb deal was important enough to deserve our best. A chance to expand, maybe even open a Northwest office. Something we’ve talked about for a long time.”

I remembered the heady days when the customer demand was growing faster than the business. We were running full speed just to keep up. We had dreamed of expanding beyond the Bay Area. The Northwest was the natural first step, but we hadn’t moved in that direction before I left.

“My problem now is, I don’t have anyone I can put into Blake’s spot here. We’re stretched thin when it comes to the really talented people. Just like we always were.”

He signaled Dee with his coffee mug, and she shuffled over with a refill. “How was your breakfast?” she asked as she poured.

“Before I answer that, will you answer a question for me?”

Dee furrowed her brow and gave him a stern look.

“One question?” Stan wheedled. He was a flirt, though he wasn’t very good at it. When you have his kind of money, you don’t have to be.

Dee waited stoically, the coffee pot in her hand.

“I think I’m in love. Are you married?”

I had never in my life seen Dee blush. A rosy color crept over her cheeks and down her neck. She didn’t answer Stan, just waved dismissively, and walked away.

“This is the best meal I’ve had in years,” he said. He looked down at his plate where a faint trace of egg yolk tinted the white surface a pale yellow, then back up at me. “And I don’t want to hear a word about calories or cholesterol or any of the rest of it.” He snorted. “The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Fischer thought she needed to reform my eating habits.”

I wondered if this was the same Mrs. Fischer I had met. She had been a waitress before she retired to spend Stan’s money. She’d probably get a tidy settlement, as the others had, before he went looking for his next victim, er, spouse.

Stan had that look in his eye—the one that said he was hatching a scheme that was going to make a lot of work for everyone involved. That usually meant a lot of work for him, too. And a tidy profit.

It was a look that sent a shiver of anticipation through me. When Stan got that look, anything could happen.

“If Blake had asked, about coming back to Samurai, what would you have said?”

I stared in disbelief. “You are kidding, right? You know what I would have said. Not just no, but . . .”

Stan chuckled. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Stan. I was through with Blake, through with Samurai, through with the whole industry.

“Blake could have stood by me against the board, and we might have been able to convince them we were right. But he saw which way the political winds were blowing and he made his choice.”

“Then what if
I
asked you?”

“You wouldn’t,” I answered without hesitation. “You still have to work with the board, and they wanted me out. I don’t think Blake would have done it, either.”

“Then would you consider acting as a consultant for me? Just this one job. The board won’t even have to know. I’ll tell them I hired a local hotshot who was able to step in.” He took a last sip of coffee. “That much would be the truth.”

“You mean the McComb job?”

“Exactly! Blake was the best we had, but you were better, and we both know it. The hourly rate should be attractive, you don’t have to leave home, and you are already familiar with the site. Everybody wins.”

For one insane instant I considered the offer. I could use the money, and as long as the board didn’t have to know who the “local hotshot” was I might be able to get away with it.

Except that this was a specialized field. Innovation had moved at lightning speed when I was up-to-date on the latest developments. There was no way I could hope to do the job Blake had been sent here to do.

“I’m flattered, Stan. I really am. But it just wouldn’t work. I’m out of the loop—haven’t kept up with the field in a couple years. Everything I know is out of date, and there isn’t time for me to catch up—even if I wanted to.

“You know that.”

Stan smiled a little sadly. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I expected you to say. But you can’t blame a guy for trying, especially when I’d really like to have you back on the team.”

I smiled back. “Thanks.” He had his wallet out, and dropped a handful of bills on the table. “And thanks for the breakfast.”

“Thanks for the recommendation. Exactly what I wanted.”

We stood up and Stan followed me to the sidewalk. There was no question which car was his. The Lincoln Town Car stood out on a street full of pickups.

Stan looked at the neighboring trucks. “You get rid of the car, too?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Keep it garaged. A convertible doesn’t make a lot of sense in the rainy season.” I didn’t bother to explain that rainy season included most of the year.

“Good. You deserved that car.” He clicked a remote and the Lincoln flashed its lights. Another click and the engine purred to life.

“Where’s the sheriff’s office?” Stan asked. “I have to stop and talk to him before I go see the McCombs. I wish I knew what I was going to tell them.”

I pointed to the corner. “Two blocks to the right.”

He opened the car door, climbed in and opened the passenger’s window. He leaned across the seat. “Thanks, Georgie. I hope we can get together again before I have to go home. This shouldn’t take too long, but the board wants me to report back to them as soon as possible.”

“That’d be great.

“As for the McCombs, tell them you have some good people back in San Francisco, and you will get one of them up here just as soon as you can. I’m sure you have someone down there that can do the job.

“They’re reasonable people, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Stan waved as he closed the window and pulled away from the curb.

I knew he had Richard Parks, who was at least as capable as I was. More so, now that I wasn’t keeping up with the world of high-tech security. But I had promised Richard I wouldn’t tell Stan he’d called.

Somehow I had never had the chance to ask him about the rumor that I’d taken a buyout. There hadn’t been a way to work it into the conversation without revealing where I’d heard it.

Maybe he hadn’t even heard the rumor, though I doubted it. If it weren’t for his rough edges, Stan would have been more than a match for Blake in the office politics department. Even with the rough edges he managed to keep on top of most of what went on around Samurai Security.