Smith Investigation Series Box Set 1 (7 page)

Chapter 6

I looked up from my notes when Smith asked if I wanted to come to lunch. The team always ate together and sometimes they even went out for lunch. Today was one of those days.

I shook my head. “I’m not hungry, Smith.”

“What is it?”

I shrugged and laid a hand over my notebook. “This. I’m trying hard to figure out a way to find Michael Monroe’s body, but I don’t know where to begin. I can’t go to the cops and ask them to search the entire road to Canada, let alone beyond that.”

“What did the mechanic guy tell you?”

“He confirmed my suspicions. When he arrived at the site, the woman, Sarah, was alone. He didn’t know to ask about her husband. He didn’t know the man existed. She called, he came and fixed the tire, then off he went.”

“So she was alone on her way back home,” Smith concluded. “You can take an hour off and come eat with us. The case isn't going anywhere.”

“I’m still waiting for the hotel to email me. I tried calling, but they didn’t pick up.”

“Busy people. Take
your
phone with you. You can get that email there.”

I looked up at him, searching for the reason he was forcing my hand.

“Dylan will be there.” It wasn’t a question. I knew he wanted me to talk to him.

“Let’s go.”

Without another word, he walked out the door, confident I would follow. At first, I wanted to rebel and sank deeper into my chair, but my stomach growled and I thought better of it. After all, I scolded Dylan for behaving like a child and that was exactly what I was doing.

I sat up, did my signature stretch and left the office.

Smith didn't bother to tell me where they were eating. It was some sort of modern tradition to go to a diner nearby. I didn’t quite like it there, too much 50’s flair for me, but it was surprisingly quiet despite the noisy buzz of the place.

I chose not to drive, like everyone else, in an effort to comply with Spike’s new ‘going green’ policy, so I arrived at the diner when everyone was already receiving their food.

“Hi,” I said, slightly awkwardly.

“Come, sit here,” Spike pointed to the seat next to her. “I saved it for you, Rob.”

I smiled. She seemed innocent like a child.

I ordered my food, on the lighter side since my appetite seemed to have vanished, and kept quiet the whole meal. It wasn’t that I was avoiding Dylan, but one glance at him told me that a public talk would make him terribly uncomfortable.

There was something else too. His apprehension was gone, a certain degree of sadness replacing it. I felt bad.

He finished his meal first and went to the counter. I saw he had bought himself a beer and I didn’t like the looks of it. He was not a beer drinking guy, which meant he was trying to avoid drinking hard liquor on the job, while still getting the numbing effect he sought. Not a good sign.

I rose, excused myself and, with an approving nod from Smith, I walked to Dylan. Leaning on the counter, I cleared my throat.

“What do you want?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.

“How are you feeling?”

He smirked and took a sip of his beer. “They told you, didn’t they?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry for my ignorance.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I spoke out of turn, but you were in the wrong, nonetheless.”

He finally looked at me.

“You made a mistake and were avoiding responsibility. That’s what got me mad. My remark about your personal involvement might’ve been uncalled for, but no less true,” I finished.

He gazed back at me, then nodded.

“You’re right. I didn’t see it coming. I guess I have a soft spot for crying women,” he admitted and tried to take another sip of beer, but gave up.

I smiled. “It’s alright, that’s why we’re a team. Why don’t you leave that beer for the beer drinkers and come back to the table. I'm thinking about dessert.”

He threw me a grateful glance, and appeared fine to leave the beer where it was. “What kind of pie?” he asked, walking beside me.

“I didn’t say I was going to have pie.”

“What else is there? Dessert equals pie, always.”

We laughed and sat back at the table. The tension seemed to diffuse itself instantly and everyone seemed more comfortable.

In the middle of one of DeMarco’s humorous stories, I was notified of another email. Pushing my chair back, I read it in a hurry.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, half jumping out of my chair.

“What?” the group collectively asked me.

“The email form the hotel,” I pointed to my phone.

“Gimme that!” Dylan demanded.

I let him read it, thinking that he should reach his own conclusion.

“She killed him,” he admitted, looking up from the screen.

“What is it?” asked Smith, struggling to swallow the last bite of pie.

“At the hotel, they never saw Michael Monroe.”

“But how is that possible?” Spike inquired, her dark eyebrows coming together in a thoughtful expression. “Both their credit
cards
were used while in Canada. And, they crossed the border together.”

Dylan looked at me and I nodded. It was his show after all. I just sat back and let him explain all.

“That’s what she wanted the border police to see. Both of the officers said that he was asleep, right? Maybe she went on the trip to cover her tracks.”

“Yeah, but Officer What’s-his-name saw him. Like, saw him, saw him,” Spike argued.

They looked thoughtful so I decide to help them out.

“What if he was already dead?”

“When they crossed the border?” Dylan asked.

“That’s right! So she dumped his body before getting to the hotel, had a weekend to herself, used both their credit cards and then just came back,” Spike finally figured it out, visibly excited by her discovery.

“She used the same 'my husband is asleep' scheme on the way back too
. She could’ve piled some clothes or something on the back seat, for all I know, make it look like Michael was there. And
she got damn lucky,” Dylan continued. There was not a trace of yesterday's attachment to Sarah Monroe in his voice. He looked genuinely happy to have found her out.

“Yes. And, when she got the flat tire, she didn’t think she needed to act like she wasn’t alone. The mechanic was a stranger, someone that wouldn’t matter,” I added, happy to see them so riled up.

“But, did she swipe his access card on Monday too?” Smith intervened. “Don't they have surveillance cameras at the firm?”

“We need to call the police and tell them all this. If they find the body, we’re set. And they can check the cameras too. Our job is done,” DeMarco said reasonably.

“But, how will we get our money?” Spike asked, visibly concerned. She was the one most familiar with the precarious financial situation at Smith Investigations since she was responsible for the bookkeeping as well.

“Don’t worry, I have my ways. We did find Mr. Monroe, didn’t we?” Smith said, reassuring her with a wink.

I laughed, knowing how he’d manage to get paid even if Sarah Monroe would go to prison. My colleagues followed and raised their glasses to
another
case successfully closed.

BOOK 3:
SHAKY GAME

Chapter 1

“Oh, shit! I forgot to put the laundry in,” I remembered as I was swiping my access card. With a smooth ‘swoosh’ sound, the new electronically controlled door to Smith Investigations opened.

As always, the reception desk was deserted. I shook my head, thinking that if we could have our customers be announced from downstairs, we could greet them properly. "I wonder how many of them would otherwise turn around and leave straight away?" To an uninformed observer, we didn't look like the most professional PI firm in the city.

Eager to get rid of my shoulder bag, an accessory I never understood, I went straight into Operations, and dropped it on my desk. I was just taking my jacket off when Spike burst through the door, calling my name.

“What is it?” At first, I thought something might have happened, but Spike was radiating excitement so I relaxed my recently developed Mama Bear instincts.

“Smith wants you in his office. Put your nice face on.” She even winked. This must be good.

“What are you talking about? I always have my nice face on,” I joked, already on my way to Smith’s office.

For some obscure reason, I paused before knocking on his door. Although all the signs pointed to a positive outcome, I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself for every possibility.

“This is Robin Walsh, the investigator I told you about,” Smith introduced me the second I stepped into the room.

Three pairs of eyes turned to me, my discomfort reaching new heights. I swallowed hard.

The familiar feeling of excitement I got every time I handled a case began to grow in my chest, but, before I got ahead of myself, I tried to stifle it. I was just a consultant, after all.

One nod from Smith and I understood I had just been promoted to full investigator. I could have performed a back flip out of happiness, but I refrained. Considering the distraught family sitting before me, I straightened my shoulders to look more composed.

“Hi. Please call me Rob.”

The younger woman, she must’ve been in her twenties, gave me an acquiescent nod, while the man sitting beside her shook my hand vigorously. Another woman, a slightly older version of the first, I assumed her sister, just brushed her hand against mine. She looked spaced out, not really present in her family's drama.

“Thomas Jackson. Please, call me Tom,” the man eagerly introduced himself. “This is my wife, Clara, and my sister-in-law, Karen Petersen.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom. How can I be of service?”

“As Carla was telling me,” Smith began, “their mother is missing. Fiona…”

“Fiona Petersen?” I blurted out.

“Yes. You know her?” Tom asked, hope lighting up his face.

I cleared my throat under Smith's chastising glare. “I know of her. She’s a prominent scientist, isn't she?”

“A chemist. She used to be,” the younger woman spoke, her voice breaking into silent sobs. Tom pulled her protectively into his arms as I prayed for the ground to swallow me. I had started off on the wrong foot. You never point out to the client how much they had lost, possibly forever.

I doubted I had a second chance at building a connection. Maybe bright and happy mornings weren’t my thing.

There was one thing to do to salvage the situation. “Find out the facts, bitch,” I told myself and assumed the role of proficient investigator.

"When did she disappear?" I asked the most obvious question.

"A couple of weeks ago," Tom answered, shifting in his seat. He looked sheepish, as if it must've been their fault time hadn't stopped when Fiona disappeared.

“Have you talked to the police yet?” By my tone, Smith understood how I wanted to play it and didn’t interfere. Karen threw him a questioning look, as if to ask if he would stand for my lack of manners, but he was already leafing through some papers on his desk, his eyes safely out of Karen’s reach.

“That’s the reason we're here,” Tom answered. It looked like he was the messenger, translating either Carla’s sobs or Karen’s grunts.

I nodded, inviting him to elaborate. I had found that it was best to leave people to speak on their own accord. I often ended up with more information and more accurate facial expressions, even if they happened to only recite a well rehearsed lie.

Carla mumbled something unintelligible into Tom’s shoulder.

“They’re treating it as a recovery operation. I’m sure you understand,” he transmitted, his eyes pleading for mercy as he gestured to his crying wife. I nodded, trying not to look too compassionate. I needed to remain in character.

“I understand. What have they told you?”

“She’s not dead!” Carla cried, supported by a series of nods from Karen.

I kept silent as Tom comforted his wife some more, even though he looked like the responsibility was starting to get to him. His eyes were tired and sad, his body posture telling me that he was more affected by the events than his wife and her sister combined.

“Sorry, it’s a delicate issue,” he excused the two women. I almost felt sorry for him. He seemed to be their emotional cushion.

Not to step over the line between factual investigator and heartless monster, I smiled politely. Behind that act, though, I was starting to feel a pang of impatience. Weird, I usually needed significantly more than a few sobs and tears to annoy me.

“Yes, they hinted that they will not be looking for her anymore. I mean, her as in... “

“Alive, I understand.” My callous remark made Carla’s head jerk up. She shot me a deadly look, but I kept my stiff mask on, appearing completely unaffected. I noticed how she rejected Tom’s support when he tried to pat her hand reassuringly. She had almost thrown his hand away.

I made a point of taking my notebook out and jotting my observation, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t look particularly concerned with what I might've noted about her behavior. What could have been a tell-tale sign of a guilty conscience was nothing more than a hot temper. Or desperation, for that matter, so I scratched my note off.

“And you don’t agree with the police. Is that it?” I prompted the discussion forward.

“No, that’s right. You see, the police's investment in this is…” Tom stopped, looking like he was trying to find the nicest way to tell me that they didn’t trust the police. None of his companions intervened, which told me they were the type to lose their cool whenever a cop passed by.

I decided to help him out.

“Why would the police give up on a case like this?”

All three looked at me with renewed hope. Maybe even a hint of respect. “There it is,” I told Smith in a glance. My tactic, albeit unorthodox, had bore the sweet fruit of trust. This little success gave me a sense of pride, as I straightened my back unconsciously.

“They’re saying that, in her condition, she couldn’t have wandered far and not return. Especially in a quiet neighborhood like hers. Ours. So they’re certain she's dead,” Karen explained, sounding much more sure of herself than she gave the impression.

“She’s not dead, for goodness’ sake!” Carla cried again, this time more composed.

I acknowledged both their reactions with a neutral nod before asking about Fiona's condition.

“She suffers from Alzheimer’s,” Tom whispered, as if it would have been a great offence to state the illness aloud.

“Early onset,” Karen explained to my confused frown.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

The sisters exchanged a conspiratory glance before finally admitting that she had been suffering for close to seven years, her condition worsening exceptionally fast for her age.

“It’s because she was such a smart woman. A genius,” Carla managed to say before starting to sob again.

OK, this emotional situation wasn’t giving me anything. I decided to bring in the big guns. Shoot straight. Don't leave room for teary manifestations.

Tom must’ve sensed the change in my tone because he straightened up in his seat, answering my questions at a reasonable speed. Any feelings he might’ve fought against until then were conveniently tucked away, leaving behind a factual Tom, a man more comfortable without the emotional hassle.