Hot Rocks (4 page)

seven

After blow-drying my hair,
being extra careful around the lump, I dressed in jeans and a polo shirt and slipped sandals on my feet. I’d made up my mind about my next move and felt good about it. If the police wanted to play games, I was ready and had an appointment with just the attorney who would match them chess move for chess move. My boss—well, one of my bosses—Sylvester Bergstrom.

Images of my first encounters with Sly came to mind. Actually, he was one of the first people I met when I came to Florida. I had a letter of introduction from a large firm in Dallas that promised to open the inner doors of any law firm. Texas folks said when you had a letter from Jones, Staubach, and Owens, everyone paid attention. They were that prominent.

My first call to Bergstrom and Bergowitz bombed. Once the receptionist heard me say I wanted to speak with one of the senior partners about a job, she cut me off. According to her, they controlled the market and hired whomever they pleased, and that did not include walk-ins—especially call-ins. With those words, the phone clicked in my ear.

I counted to ten, then redialed the number. Same receptionist. “If you value your job, you
will
put me through to one of the partners. If you don’t, my next call will be to one of the seniors at Jones, Staubach, and Owens in Dallas. Then you will be answering the phone to one of them and explaining why you’re not very nice. I trust you’ve heard of them.”

There was silence with some heavy breathing until I cut it off. “I don’t have all day. Put—me—through.”

She did. Next, I had Donna sparring in my ear. Before she could hang up, I squeezed in that I had a letter of introduction from Jones, Staubach, and Owens. She replied there was no free time on Mr. Bergstrom’s calendar. However, if I
really
had a letter from whom I said, she was willing to take a look at it. I could fax her a copy.

I groaned, recognizing I had butted as big a hole in the stonewall as I could. I caved and followed instructions.

Less than thirty minutes later, I had a return call from Donna. She apologized—or I took it as an apology—and invited me to meet with Mr. Bergstrom the next day at ten o’clock. With a warning I’d better not be late, she hung up.

After that introduction, I faced the meeting with a feeling of trepidation. Obviously, I was no longer in people-friendly Texas. There would be no
how’s the family
icebreakers. It was put up, or shut up and get the hell out. A different world from the one I left, but I vowed to make it mine.

When I showed up a comfortable ten minutes early, I met Donna face-to-face and quickly learned who ran things. Not that she said anything overt, but ownership is easy to recognize.

She let me cool my heels, then glanced at her watch. “Come with me.” She led me into an ornate office.

A man in his fifties presided over a desk that fit the room. His head was down, and he apparently studied a paper he held. The clock on the wall behind him read ten o’clock. I got the message and stopped in front of his desk.

He looked up and said in a gruff voice, “I’m Sylvester Bergstrom, senior partner. You pissed off everybody in my office. You have thirty seconds. Make them count.”

“Jones, Staubach, and Owens recommend me.”

“So I heard. I have a copy. What do you want?”

His abruptness didn’t work. I was ready for it. “A job. I’m the best investigator you ever met. I can go to work tomorrow and dedicate full time to your firm. If you don’t put me on the payroll right away, you’ll miss the chance. There are other firms who will hire me, then you’ll have to face me in a courtroom.”

I’m not sure I heard an intake of breath, but there may have been one. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to a tough-talking woman coming into his office. He glared at me. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I see no reason to play down my talent. I’m good. Read the letter.”

His eyes flashed to his desktop, and he picked up a piece of paper—my letter of intro, I assumed. The rest was, as they say, history. I contracted a large retainer from Sly starting the next day, and we have worked together since. In my mind, we have both benefited from the relationship.

Now, he was the hero I wanted riding to my rescue, the man I would have lunch with and beg to help me through this difficult situation.

Before leaving the house, I checked my living room—I hate to leave a mess—and straightened a couple of magazines. The phone rang. The caller ID caused me to frown.

My mother had tentacles into every aspect of my life. If I developed a cold sore, she knew it. And she always called at the most inopportune times. Now she was doing it again. My guess was she’d had a dream about yesterday.

“Hi, Mom. I was just thinking about you.” Not entirely untrue. I did think of her when I saw the caller ID.

“And I, you, Bethy. What happened? Are you okay? Should I come out there?”

“Nothing, Mom. Afraid your radar is wrong this time. Just heading out for a meeting with Sylvester Bergstrom. You remember him, don’t you? The attorney I do some low-level investigating for. Simple business as usual.”

I always used the words
low-level
when talking to Mom. I wanted her to think my job consisted of sifting through paperwork. If she knew half the truth, she’d be on the phone every day. Even in civil cases, people get upset when they discover a PI digging into their life. Paparazzi get the headlines with their smashed cameras. However, they have safety in numbers and travel in packs. Picture a lone PI in the same situation. There had been some nasty confrontations, a few of which ended up in court.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mom said. “I have a feeling something is wrong.”

There it was—her suspicious tone that reduced me to the status of a three-year old. But this time, I needed to stay strong. Instead, I took the coward’s way out. “I have to run. My appointment is in ten minutes, and it’s across town. Everything is fine, really it is.” Oops. Not too much, Beth. She ’d see through it like a drunken barfly’s line.

Silence took over, but I fought the urge to break it. It was Mom’s play, and I was determined not to take it away.

“So, when are you coming to visit?” she said. “Dallas is still your home, you know.”

“Soon, Mom, soon.” Hurray. Her change of subject meant I’d won that round. “Now, I really do have to run. I’ll talk to you later in the week. Bye for now.” I blew her a kiss, put the phone in its cradle, and bolted for the front door. If it rang, I wanted to be able to say I never heard it.

eight

I made it to
Bergstrom and Bergowitz in record time and hit Donna’s enclave at one fifty. Proving my elevated position in her world, she let me into Sly’s office before the appointed time.

He rose and came around his desk, his hand extended. As we shook hands, he pulled me to him and gave me a hug. “Glad to see you. You should come by more often.”

I wanted to believe he said that because he meant it, but I knew sarcasm when it came my way. “Hey, I was here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Three weeks.” He ushered me toward his conference table where sandwiches rested on a platter alongside chips and sodas. He went to the other side and dropped into a chair. “Forgive me, but I’m hungry. It’s been a long day.” He picked up a chicken salad sandwich.

I did the same and took a nervous bite, a large one, then poured soda into a plastic glass and took a large slug of it. My hands shook and my stomach was roller-coaster heavy.

Sly leaned forward, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “Settle down, Beth, and tell me what happened—word by word, step by step. Whatever it is has you jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof. And your eating habits are atrocious.”

I slowed my chomping and tried to chew like a lady. In an attempt to relax, I looked around. Sly was successful, no doubt about it. The office and its furnishings screamed
old money
. Nothing stood out as being ostentatious, but everything added up to good taste and expensive. Lots of dark wood and leather filled the area, a setting that calmed the most nervous person. It almost calmed me.

Sly was right with his comments though. For reasons I couldn’t quite pinpoint, I was flitting all over the place. If I didn’t follow his advice, no one would understand me. Not even my mom—or my ex-husband during the first months of our marriage. Later, I learned he only said that to get what he wanted. Did I mention my nickname for him was Sonny-the-Bunny?

I folded my hands together and concentrated on them. “Okay, it started with a phone call from a woman who identified herself as Maria Garcia, wife of Hector Garcia. She sounded agitated, asking if I could meet her for lunch, a latte, or whatever. I invited her to come to my office, but she refused, insisting on a public place.” I looked up to make sure Sly was paying attention. He was, a bemused smile on his face—his lawyer smile. “I told her the latte idea fit me better since I’d eaten a late breakfast. She picked a Starbucks in Boca Raton. I picked three o’clock. She said she’d seen my picture on my web site and would recognize me.”

“Did she say why she wanted the meeting?”

“No. I asked, but she refused to answer, saying she’d tell me when we met.” I looked back at my hands, knowing Sly must be thinking that was a nutsy arrangement. How could I make him understand? “Like I said, she sounded agitated, on the verge of panic. I was afraid if I pressed too hard, I’d lose her, and she sounded like someone who needed a PI, who needed to confide in someone.”

“Okay, Beth, you don’t have to defend yourself to me,” Sly said, his lawyer-smile never leaving his face. He sipped his soda, then leaned back in his chair. “What happened next?”

I thought through it a bit, settling myself. “I cleaned up some paperwork in the office, then headed for Boca. I intended to get a good look at the meeting place and its environs. Her tone had me edgy, not knowing what to expect. In any circumstance, I like to have a feel for the environment. I know that someday it will pay off. Anyway, I arrived about two fifteen and cruised the area. Nothing unusual. A Starbucks in the middle of a strip mall—two pizza joints, and two Chinese food places, one of them take-out. A dress shop looking for the proper time to go out of business, a picture-framing place, an ice cream parlor, and a few other store fronts that probably changed hands every six months or so. Small merchandising is a tough business. Each time I see a
going out of business
sign, I think of the dreams that have shattered. I wonder what makes them do it. What makes them invest everything they own into a restaurant or T-shirt shop or something else doomed to failure? Do you ever consider it?”

Sly smiled. “As long as there is a chance for success, there is the dream.” He glanced at his watch. “Continue. I have appointments this afternoon.”

I took a deep breath. “There was the inevitable shoe store specializing in average footwear at above-average prices.” I shrugged. “Hey, it’s a woman’s world. Anyway, I parked and walked through the area, still feeling uneasy. You know, that prickly feeling on the back of your neck. Guess my intuition knew something.” I paused, thinking through what I’d just said. “Wish I’d listened.”

“I understand. Go on.”

“About ten minutes before three, I went into the Starbucks, got a vanilla latte, and took a table by the window where I could watch the sidewalk and the entrance. There wasn’t much traffic so spotting her wasn’t difficult, although at first I thought I’d picked the wrong woman. She had on jeans, a pink top with a scoop neck, and white sneakers with pink trim. A harried look on her face topped it all off. She hesitated as she approached the entrance, glanced around, then continued walking. I followed her with my eyes, convinced she was my appointment. She appeared to be watching for surveillance, a bit of a frightened look on her face. She stopped in front of the frame shop and faced the window. I could tell she didn’t look through it though. She used it as a mirror. After a couple of minutes, she reversed her steps, entered the Starbucks, and came straight to my table. ‘That was cute,’ I said. ‘Are you always so cautious?’

“That earned me a glare. She said, ‘Ms. Bowman, I hope you’re more serious when you’re on a case. This is important to me, and I don’t intend to hire someone who doesn’t understand that. My husband may well have brought in a PI before I decided to. He’ll do anything to stop me.’”

Sly made a couple of notes. “Are those her exact words?”

“Close enough for here and now. I wouldn’t swear to them on the stand, but I’d paraphrase them close to that. Basically, she admonished me for not being serious and said her husband was a threat.”

“Because he might have a private detective following her?”

“Yes. That was my understanding.”

“Continue.” Sly had stopped eating while I spoke, but now took the opportunity to finish off his sandwich.

I sipped my cola while Sly chewed. He was a stickler for accuracy, so I had to make sure I explained everything exactly right. “Ms. Garcia wanted to change locations, saying we were too exposed in the Starbucks. We left and walked to the Chinese restaurant. She requested a booth in the back, and when she sat, insisted on the side facing the entry. Her order was a light meal. I only had tea. I asked why she was acting so spooked. She replied that she wanted it to be difficult for anyone to see her talking with me unless they entered the restaurant. And if they entered, she wanted to know.”

“That didn’t give you cause for pause?” Sly said.

I almost smiled at his use of his favorite phrase, wondering if he really knew it rhymed. If he did, he never let on. “Yes—and no. She had my curiosity cranked so tight I’d have probably followed her anywhere. I mean, this woman had a serious case of nerves. She was jumping around like—” I stopped, realizing I was about to repeat Sly’s cliché about cats and tin roofs. “Anyway, she was being super-cautious. I didn’t know if there was good reason for it or not.”

When I paused to catch my breath, Sly said, “Did she finally get down to specifics?”

I figured that was his way of telling me to get to the details so I did, telling him her story about her husband’s shenanigans and her desire to lose him in divorce court while keeping his money. Then, after a moment of mental outlining, I gave him the rest of the story.

His lawyer-smile wavered a bit as he scratched his cheek. “And the police say the man who died was not her husband, not married?”

Apparently, he’d understood some of what I’d stuttered at the beginning of the meeting. “Yes.”

Sly looked at his notes, then doodled a couple of circles and triangles. I kept quiet, knowing it was one of his habits when weighing the points of an argument. A few cubes and cones joined the pictures. His last piece of art was a stick man. Then he steepled his fingers over his lips and looked down, a sure sign he was almost ready to speak.

After another moment of silence, he said, “Beth, I’ve kicked around everything you said. I just can’t get worked up like you. To me, it’s obvious you followed the wrong man. Unfortunately, the one you picked up walked into something that got him killed. Your intrusion was untimely enough to earn you a crack on the noggin. Since you were the only person there when the cops arrived, they had questions for you—as I would expect.” He paused, locking his eyes on me. “So? What am I missing?”