Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

Genres: Private Investigators; Female Sleuths; General Fiction

Synopsis

Jane Kelly is through following men. She left Southern California for the murky quaintness of Lake Chinook, Oregon, apparently so she could trade her bartending skills for much more glamorous work as a process server. And the boyfriend, of course, is long gone. But things have been looking a little brighter lately. Her hobby doing PI work is kind of fun, especially when she lands a real case—that pays real money.

But the case is about Bobby Reynolds, best friend of Tim Murphy, the only guy she's never gotten over. Everyone except Tim believed Bobby murdered his young family—isn't that why he vanished? Now Tim's coming home and Jane's on her way to talk to Bobby's father. Looks like Jane'll be trailing men after all—this time with a tape recorder and a camera. To top it off, she's being trailed by a homely pug named Binky, left to her by a distant relative. With a job she's learning as she goes along and her ex back in town, Jane's life just went from stress-free to completely stressed-out. And then there's the dead body . . .

Release date: October 7, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

If I’d known they were about to find a body at the bottom of Lake Chinook, I never would have gotten myself into the whole mess. The lake’s deep in places and the Lake Corporation only drains it every couple of years to check the sewer lines running along its muddy bottom. The thought of the little fishy things trolling the waters, chewing off teensy nibbles of human flesh, would have been enough for me to say, “Hasta la vista, baby” and I would have exerted great haste in making tracks.

But I didn’t know. And I also didn’t know my whole life was about to change. The day I spoke with uber-bitch/lawyer Marta Cornell I was blissfully ignorant of the events in store for me which was just as well. Don’t ever tell yourself you’re happy with the way things are because that’s when everything changes in seconds flat. And not necessarily for the better.

That particular morning—let’s call it The Day Jane Kelly’s Life Changed, Not Necessarily For The Better—I walked through the front door of the Coffee Nook, breathing hard from the two-and-a-half mile run from my bungalow. I had nothing more in mind than a cup of coffee and maybe a little conversation with friends. I slid onto my usual stool and Billy Leonard sat down next to me.

He said, “How ya doin’?”

I nodded. “Good.”

“Me, too.”

“Good.”

We both ordered basic black coffee. Billy, an ex-I.R.S. man and current C.P.A. whom I turn to for advice about my modest finances, seemed a bit preoccupied. I assumed it was over his kids. Billy has this theory about why there seems to be less ambition and direction among young people in general, and his boys in particular.

As I blew across the top of my cup, Billy said, “I’m a fisherman, y’know? I mean, I fish.” He pretended to cast out a line with an imaginary fishing pole.

Maybe I was wrong as Billy appeared to be heading onto a new topic. I carefully tested my drink. Steaming coffee. Sometimes the damn stuff is so hot it burns off the taste buds and a few layers of tongue underneath.

“When you’ve got a wild salmon, a Coho, on your line, it’s like zziinnnggg!” He cast again, this time with more body English.

I watched his invisible line grab an equally invisible Coho. Billy rocked and twisted and generally acted as if Moby Dick himself had swallowed the bait.

My eye traveled past him to a newcomer to the Nook, a woman I didn’t recognize. She was thin and small and her hair was completely wrapped in a virulent pink scarf. Wide, round sunglasses covered much of her face which was perched upon a long, white neck. She was a passable Audrey Hepburn. She stood to one side and pretended interest in the glass case of pastries, but I could tell her mind was on something else. I could swear she was playacting, pretending to be thinking over a purchase.

Billy continued, “I mean you know it, y’know? It’s fightin’ and fightin’ and you’re rockin’ and rollin’.” He twisted to and fro and nearly fell off his stool. “Those fish are tough. Really tough. But sometimes you cast out…” He reeled in again. Actually reeled in. And for just a moment I almost forgot it was all illusion. Once more the imaginary line sailed toward the heads of the other customers whose blank oblivion said more about the hour of the morning than any disinterest in Billy’s story. “You get a bite and it’s kinda like…ugh.” His shoulders drooped. He jiggled the line with a slack wrist. “He’s on, y’know? Grabbed it big time. But there’s just no zzziinnnggg.” He grimaced and nodded. “Hatchery fish.”

Julie, the Coffee Nook’s proprietress, asked “Audrey” what she would like. I realized with a jolt that Audrey seemed to be staring across the room at me. She saw that I noticed and quickly murmured something to Julie, then hurriedly walked out of the Nook. Julie shrugged.

I sipped my black coffee. It’s a shame, but I struggle with both caffeine and lactose. I’m determined to give up neither. If I ever have to give up alcohol I’ll start smoking or doing drugs or indulging in weird sex acts. If I can’t have a vice I just don’t want to live.

Billy continued, “They don’t quite have that survival instinct, y’know?” He sighed and wagged his head slowly, side to side. “Just can’t really make it out there. And that’s the problem with our kids. They’re hatchery fish.”

Aha…he’d managed to pull the allegory back to his favorite subject. Billy’s boys were in college, taking a jumble of courses with no clear career path in sight. Most of their friends were in the same boat. I grimaced. Even though I hit the big 3-0 this year and consider myself long finished with higher education, I’m not convinced that I won’t be tossed in with these shiftless souls Billy seems to know so much about. My job situation alone might drop me into the loser bin.

“But they’ll—they’ll figure it out,” Billy added. He nodded jerkily as if to convince himself, then ran his hands through his hair, making it stand straight off his head. Billy always looks like he just woke up after a two-week bender. He’s so not the three-piece-suit type that his choice of profession almost awes me. But then, I’ve changed professions so many times that sometimes I think I should tack Misc. after my name. Jane Kelly, Misc.

I asked Julie, “Do you know who that woman was? The one dressed like Audrey Hepburn?”

She shook her head. “Never seen her before. She didn’t want anything.”

I decided to forget about her. If I started thinking people were watching me, I would become as paranoid as the rest of the world. I turned to Billy and said with conviction, “My brother’s a hatchery fish.”

“Booth?”

“Yep.” I hoped this deflection would take the light off me since I definitely preferred the idea of being a wild Coho to a hatchery fish.

Billy considered. “Booth’s all right.”

I snorted. My twin was a source of irritation to me. Path of least resistance, that was Booth. Christened Richard Booth Kelly, Junior after my shiftless, deadbeat father. Mom, in a moment of belated clarity, decided she couldn’t have her children be Dick and Jane and so Booth became Booth.

“Hey, the guy’s got a job,” Billy remarked.

Yes, Booth was part of the Portland Police Department. I, on the other hand, felt like a poser. I pointed out dampeningly, “The L.A.P.D. breathed a sigh of relief when he left.”

“Nah…” Billy smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. He loves it when I’m grumpy.

My brother did choose a career path while I’ve seesawed around the whole issue for years. But Booth’s reasons are so wily that I can’t trust anything he does. During his stint in L.A. I’m sure he spent most of his time patrolling the area around the University of Southern California and hitting on the sorority chicks on 28th Street. I don’t think he ever got lucky, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I suppose I should look on his following me out of So-Cal north to Portland, Oregon, as a move in the right direction, but with Booth, you just never know. This isn’t to say I don’t love him. Family is just a pain in the ass. Ask anyone.

Billy said, “You’re a process server, Jane.”

I just managed to keep myself from saying, “You call that a job?”

Billy shrugged. A friend of mine Dwayne Durbin, an “information specialist” (current buzzwords for private investigator) fervently believes I have all the earmarks of a top investigator, which means he thinks I’m a snoop. He wants me to hone these skills while learning the biz through him. The idea makes a certain amount of sense as I took criminology courses at a Southern California community college with just that thought in mind. Well, okay, there were other reasons, too—reasons that had everything to do with blindly following after a guy who had a serious interest in police work and whom I was nuts over and who subsequently dumped me. But regardless, I’ve done a fair amount of classroom training.

As I sat at the counter, I truly believed—at least in that moment—that I could become an information specialist. I had training and a mentor who would guide me into that world. Why not just go for it? I’d been resisting the full-on private investigator gig all the while I’d been in Portland. I’m not sure why. Self-preservation, I guess.

However, for the last six months I’d been working as general dogsbody to Dwayne who sometimes needs to be in two places at the same time. The fact that Dwayne thinks I have the makings of a first-class information specialist worries—and yes, flatters—me. Dwayne’s cute in that kind of slow-talkin’ cowboy way, but I’m not sure he’s really on the level sometimes. Half the time I get the feeling he’s putting me on. Sometimes he’s enough to make me want to rip out my hair, scream and stamp my feet. (I also have a problem with a name that begins with Dw. I mean…Dwayne, dwindle, dweeb…None of those words conjure up an image of a guy I want to hook up with, even professionally.)

But between doing background checks for Dwayne and process serving for some of the people he knows—mainly landlords—I’ve kept my head above water financially speaking. I keep toying with the idea of selling the Venice four-unit I own with my mother, but that would mean dealing with her in close contact and I’ve already voiced my feelings on family. Mom lives in one of the upstairs units, and though I love her dearly she’s not exactly on my wavelength about a lot of things. Sometimes we struggle just getting through to each other. She’s talked about selling the units, but selling entails moving, and she’s dropped more than a few hints about making a move from So-Cal to Portland, and I’m damn sure I don’t want her to be the next member of my family to follow me north. Booth’s bad enough. I’m just not good with either of them. (I’m very self-aware, especially about my failings. Not that this has helped me much, but if pushed to the wall, I’ll pull it out as some kind of badge of honor.) I’ve reminded my mother of this fact many a time. She always looks at me half-puzzled, as if she can’t understand how she could have given birth to me. Luckily, she seems to feel the same way about Booth so I’ve never worried that he was her favorite.

“You were a bartender in Santa Monica, right?” Billy said on a note of discovery. “What was the name of that place?”

“Sting Ray’s. Ray being the owner.”

“My old man owned a bar. Did I tell you?”

I nodded. On numerous occasions. About as many times as I’ve told him I used to bartend. Neither Billy nor I worry that we recycle conversations. I also never have to worry that he’ll get pissy over my inherent lack of attentiveness. Hey, I was ADD before it was even popular.

“Evict anyone I know lately?” he asked, grinning.

“Probably.”

This was a long-standing joke between us. The scary part was that his question might one day become reality as Billy knew a wide, wide range of people around the greater Portland area.

He slid off the stool and turned toward the door. At the last moment he said, “Hey, I ran into Marta last night at Millennium Park. She wants you to do some work for her.”

“What kind of work?”

Billy shrugged. “Said she had a job that required tact. You any good at tact?”

“About as good as you are,” I said.

“You hear about that kid fell in the lake? He’s in a coma in the hospital.”

Billy’s good at shifting subjects faster than warp speed. I may be ADD but he takes the cake. “What happened?”

“Buncha kids screwing around in a boat.” He shrugged. “He fell somewhere and was trying to get back in the boat. Think it happened on the island.”

There is one island in Lake Chinook. Circling it is a footpath and guarding this footpath is a black chain-link fence. Enterprising teenagers make a habit of leaping the fence and racing the perimeter, trying to speed all the way around before the island’s Dobermans catch their scent.

“He was running around the island?”

“Probably. Mighta tried to jump in the boat from the island. There are a lot of big rocks around that one side. But kids are tough. Don’t know what his name is. Julie…you know?”

“What?” Julie was deep into the whir of a latte, staring into a fat silver cylinder where foam lifted and fell in white waves.

“What the Coma Kid’s name is?”

She shook her head. “Everyone’s been talking about it this morning. I hope he’s okay.”

Billy nodded, then waved a good-bye as he headed out. I sent a silent wish that the Coma Kid would be all right. Hadn’t we all done something dangerous and stupid in our youth that might have killed us?

I drank some more coffee and my thoughts turned to Marta Cornell. She was the best and baddest divorce lawyer in the city of Portland and probably the entire state. Come to that, she could probably rival anyone in the region. Dwayne was her information specialist of choice, and I’d done a bit of work for her through him. Not pretty stuff. Divorces were messy and ugly and, personally, I’d rather be a process server and evict crack dealers armed with semiautomatic weapons than deal with one of Marta’s jobs. (This is a lie as guns generally worry me, but you get the idea.)

But Marta pays well. Dwayne says he’d put her first for money alone. This makes him sound mercenary and maybe he is a little, but you’d never be able to tell by his minuscule cabana off North Shore which makes my bungalow on West Bay look like a palace. Dwayne wants me to move my business to his cabana, but I fear for my independence and my soul. Not to mention I can’t see myself working cheek-to-jowl inside Dwayne’s living space. This is where the guy resides, after all, and Dwayne just doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy I want to get that close to. I have this sneaking suspicion I will turn into his cleaning woman/coffee maker/receptionist and God knows what else.

I finished the rest of my coffee. Every muscle felt stretched out of whack from my run. I don’t think exercise can seriously be good for you, but I sure as hell have to keep up with it. The last time I process-served, the woman opened her door, reluctantly accepted the eviction notice I thrust into her hands, gave it one look and howled as if I’d hit her. She then grabbed a broom and whacked me once, hard. I left with one shin smarting and my pride bruised even worse. Talk about killing the messenger. I don’t plan on being taken by surprise again.

I wondered what Marta had in store for me. Her jobs tend to be a little more involved than mere process serving. I’d once been asked to drive to Baker—a city plopped way off in eastern Oregon and miles and miles from anything else—and question the locals about the habits of a Portland businessman who’d suddenly grown a hankering for ranch life out in this remote windblown part of the state. His wife wanted to know whom he was ranching with and what she looked like. It turned out the lady in question was surprisingly plump, sweet and homegrown, and I didn’t blame the guy one bit when I met the real wife, Marta’s client, who was thin, grim, long-nailed and tense. It sorta bothered me to be on her side, so to speak. But, once again, it paid well.

With a last gulp of now cold coffee I gathered up my energy and jogged back to my rundown 1930s bungalow on West Bay, the small body of water on Lake Chinook’s westernmost tip. Once upon a time wealthy Portlanders owned summer homes on the man-made lake. Lake Chinook was created by Chinese laborers who dug a canal in the late 1800s and connected the sluggish nearby river to what was by all accounts little more than a large pond, beautifully named Sucker Lake. Now the town thinks it’s beyond upscale, and though Lake Chinook is a nice community, I think it’s good to remember one’s roots.

My cottage is a ramshackle remnant, built a few decades after the lake became a desirable locale for summering. It’s Craftsman style, which means there’s a lot of wood trim, a wraparound porch and the exterior is composed of shingles. The inside must have been utter crap because my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy, updated the place before I moved in. Ogilvy’s known for his pecuniary ways, so the improvements—new kitchen appliances and a low-water pressure toilet which requires two or three good flushes to work properly—are a complete and utter gift. The cottage sits on a flag lot, encroached on each side by huge new homes whose builders fought city ordinances against the setbacks and succeeded. Ogilvy is about sixty-five and hates government, especially city government, so he cheerfully okays every variance sent his way. Along the way he’s chopped off chunks of his own property and sold them for a premium price so now I have a teensy line of sight and strip of land that leads to the water. Still, there’s enough room for a boathouse, also ramshackle, which matches the taupe, shingle siding of the cottage. This matching color scheme exists because last year I talked Ogilvy into painting the place. This is saying a lot for my skills of persuasion as Ogilvy bitched, moaned and sidestepped until we were both beyond exasperation. Eventually, he just bellowed, “Fine!” and signed on the painters. Now the place looks semi-presentable and if I had any serious cash I’d try to buy it. On my own dime I’d cleaned out everything on the inside—some of the items in the storage shed had been left over since the cottage was built, I swear—ripped up the carpet and had the old hardwood floors stripped, sanded and generally redone. I possess a modicum of furniture, all of it castoffs that, for some reason or other, I can’t seem to cast off as well. Except my bed, which is new, springy and a double—nothing bigger fits in the bedroom—and covered with a solid red, quilted cover—a splurge at Pottery Barn.

As I jogged up to my front door, catching my breath and slipping the key in the lock, I mentally congratulated myself on my industrious fitness program. Self-affirmation is all that stands between me and the depression of reality so I keep a steady “Atta, girl!” going in my head at every given opportunity.

Stripping off my In-N-Out Burger T-shirt (which I brought back with me from my last trip to California) I walked into the bathroom and reminded myself I had to buy groceries or die. My desktop computer—years old and a real electronic grinder—sits cold, blank and silent in the little desk/nook I’ve arranged next to my bed. Though mainly used for writing up short reports for Dwayne, invoices for my process serving services, e-mail, and the occasional resume, I worry its life is close to ending and whenever I hit the switch, I fear its little green “on” light might sputter and slowly fade out forever. I’m not only afraid of the cost of replacing it, I’m afraid of new technology, period. I keep a laptop in a case nearby, just in case. It’s far newer, though given how quickly computers grow obsolete, it’s definitely in its twilight years. I’m attached to both of them in a way that defies description, especially for a loner like myself. And what’s really amazing is although they both have this nagging quality about them—their very silence a stern reminder for me to get to work—I would be completely bereft without them.

I took a quick shower, toweled off, threw on a robe, then pushed the play button on my answering machine. Marta’s voice loudly told me to phone her A.S.A.P. I made a face, sensing I should avoid the call. Then Billy’s hatchery fish comment skimmed across my mind and propelled me into action.

“Jane Kelly returning Marta’s call,” I snapped out to the receptionist. This particular woman has one of the snottiest voices on record and I always try to cut her off as fast as possible.

She smoothly responded, “Ms. Cornell’s in a meeting.”

Though I should have felt relief that I could delay my talk with Marta, I was consumed with impatience. There’s a whiff of smugness to the receptionist’s tone which calls me to battle in spite of myself. “Tell her I’m on my cell phone,” I said, then reeled off the number as fast as humanly possible.

“Could you repeat that, please?” she asked, not bothering to hide her scorn.

“Oh, sure.” This time I spoke clearly and slowly. Even while I was running through this mini-drama I asked myself why I do such things. Call it my low tolerance for frosty self-importance.

“I’ll give her the message,” she said and abruptly clicked off.

I sat back in my chair and surveyed my domain. Pretty much a desk, chair, phone, notepad, pen and stapler. And computer, of course. I switched it on and waited while it went through its beeps, whirs and flashing screens. I know others grow annoyed if their computer doesn’t jump to attention like a military cadet but I don’t mind the wait. It’s like a cat stretching awake.

Sometimes, there’s a moment of perfect synergy when what you’re thinking suddenly comes into the moment of your life. As I waited for my computer to finish its wake-up routine, my mind drifted to thoughts of Murphy. Tim Murphy, to be exact, though no one called him by his first name. He was the guy who’d walked into Sting Ray’s one night and bowled me over with quick repartee, wicked sarcasm, innate politeness and one dimple in an otherwise masculine jaw. I’d fallen in lust with him right there and then. When I learned he was taking criminology courses, I’d signed up at the first opportunity. And when he’d finally left L.A. for his native Oregon, I’d followed him blindly to Lake Chinook as soon as I could. I’d wanted to live with him, soak him into my system, wrap our lives together, but Murphy had resisted. He’d sworn he loved me, but it turned out his love hadn’t been quite as real as mine. His was the kind that disappeared like fairy dust as soon as I grabbed for it. And though it lasted a while, it had already faded some by the time a horrific tragedy involving his best friend from high school placed us on opposite sides of the law. Murphy never forgave me for believing the worst of his friend, despite overwhelming evidence. He chose to run away from me and all things related to Lake Chinook. I, however, have remained. A part of me I don’t often face knows that although Murphy was devastated by his friend’s tragedy, he also used that event as an excuse to end our faltering relationship.

These thoughts flashed across my mind in quick succession, about three seconds in real time. At the end of those three seconds my cell phone buzzed, splintering the images and memories.

“Hello?”

“Jane!” Marta boomed over the phone. The woman was over six-feet-tall with a voice to match. She could deafen with one word. I yanked the phone from my ear and hoped I still possessed my hearing.

“Jane?” Marta demanded, her voice now tinny and faraway as my arm was stretched straight out from my torso. I carefully placed the receiver to my ear.

“I hear you.”

“I have a client who has an unusual request and I think you’re just the person to help.”

I opened and closed my mouth several times, seeing if I could pop my ears. They seemed okay but there was an alarming little creaking sound at the corner of my jaw. I thought about TMJ. Temporal…mandibular…jaw thing. Whatever. It was bad and sometimes it takes an operation where your jaw’s wired shut for six weeks. I don’t normally worry about such things, but the thought of all food coming through a straw for six weeks was enough to scare me straight. No more caramels? No more Red Vines? I’d never be able to eat beef jerky again?

“What unusual request?” I asked.

“It’s about Cotton Reynolds.”

My heart leapt. Christ, I thought a bit shakily. Had thoughts of Murphy actually triggered the past? “What about him?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady.

“My client wants some follow-up on…Bobby Reynolds.” Marta hesitated, unlike her to the extreme. “She wants you to interview Cotton.”

I stared at my office door and instead of its scarred, paneled wood saw the white-haired man who happened to be one of the wealthiest in the state of Oregon. Cotton Reynolds lived on the island—the site of the Coma Kid’s accident—and it was less than a mile from my bungalow. By boat, I could be there in ten minutes, if I wanted to. By car, it would be trickier. The island was private and Cotton’s was the only house on its three acres. If I dropped in to say hello, I wouldn’t get past the huge wrought iron gate nor the Dobermans.

But interviewing Cotton wasn’t what was on my mind. Following up on Bobby Reynolds was. Murphy’s close, high school friend. His best buddy. The cause of the horrific tragedy my mind had briefly touched on.

I almost hung up right then. I probably should have. A shiver slid coldly down my spine; someone walking on my grave.

Bobby Reynolds had murdered his family and left their bodies lined up in a row—wife, Laura; Aaron, 8; Jenny, 3; and infant, Kit—somewhere in the Tillamook State Forest, just off the Oregon coast. Bobby Reynolds was a “family annihilator”: a man apparently overwhelmed with the responsibility of his family so he chose to send them to a “better place.” He shot them each once in the back of the head, then drove away. He dumped his Dodge Caravan on a turnout off Highway 101 which meanders along the West Coast throughout Washington, Oregon and into California, then disappeared without a trace, though he’d been rumored to have been seen as far north as the Canadian border, and as far south as Puerto Vallarta. To date, after four years, he was still very much a fugitive. The murders—disputed by Murphy who simply could not believe his friend capable of cold-blooded homicide—had driven Murphy away from Lake Chinook, the tragedy and me.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is this client?”

“Tess Reynolds Bradbury.”

“Bobby’s mother?”

“Cotton won’t talk to her about Bobby or anything else. They haven’t spoken civilly in years. When it was all over the news they had words, but it wasn’t exactly what I would call communication.”

“I remember,” I said, recalling how Cotton’s ex, with her blond bob, hard eyes and angry mouth had been bleeped out by the local news, time and again. Cotton had been silent and stony, although my impression was that it was a mask for deep, deep pain and shock. I’d tried to talk to Murphy but he’d gone to a place inside himself, as distant as a cold moon, before he’d left for good.

“Why does she want me to talk to him?” I asked, baffled. “The police and F.B.I. and every news channel around has been on this since it happened. What could I learn? I don’t even know Cotton.”

“You’ve met. You were Tim Murphy’s girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t call myself his girlfriend,” I said succinctly. “I knew him.” Not as well as I thought I did, as it turned out.

“Murphy was close to Bobby and Cotton. Tess thinks you can use that connection—”

“No,” I said again, with more force. “I’m outta this. I’d be useless.”

“She stopped by my office the other day, and we started talking about Bobby a little. She never could before. But it’s like she’s suddenly gotta get it out.”

“You’re a divorce attorney,” I reminded Marta tonelessly. I couldn’t keep up with this. My head reeled. I felt ill.

“I’m her divorce attorney,” Marta agreed. “But I’m also a friend. After she started talking, your name came up. She remembered you.”

If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed I would have been surprised. Tess had barely seen me. She’d been divorced from Cotton in those few months before Bobby’s deadly deed was discovered. I hadn’t known Bobby very well, as he and his family had moved to Astoria. I mostly knew about them through Murphy. I’d only met Bobby and his wife Laura a few times, so when their pictures were in the papers they’d looked like the strangers they were to me. I said, “It would be a miracle if Cotton remembered me.”

“He knows Murphy. That’s all that matters.”

I didn’t like it. It was sneaky and wrong. Oh, sure, I can be a snoop, but this tragedy was epic. I felt small and mean even talking about it with Marta. “What kind of information does she expect?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”

“Whether she’s right or wrong, she thinks Cotton’s been in touch with Bobby. I know the police and F.B.I. have wrung him dry, and he’s been more than cooperative. I’m just telling you what she wants. And she’s willing to pay well.”

“I’m not a private investigator.” Or information services specialist.

“As good as,” Marta dismissed, but then she was always saying things like that when she wanted something.

“How much is she willing to pay?” I asked cautiously, lured in spite of myself. I inwardly shuddered. It was like dipping a toe in cold, cold water.

“An initial five hundred dollars and then whatever you work out. She wants you to develop some kind of relationship, Jane,” Marta went on. “She says Cotton always admired you when you were there with Murphy. She thinks you could…have some sway.”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you saying you won’t do it?”

I didn’t know what I was saying. I was out of my depth and I knew it. I’m not all that hot at self-delusion. If I were really thinking about taking the jump to information specialist, I’d sure as hell like to start with something smaller. Like grand larceny. Or…corporate tax fraud. Or that Erin Brocko. . .