Jon’s mind turns to Mia Reiter—the hot banker babe he allowed to slip through his married fingers last night. He wonders how differently things might have turned out if he’d run after Mia instead of just watching her walk away.
His jaw tightens. Adrenaline pumps softly through his body. His breathing grows deeper, faster. He glances down at the card in his hand.
Preston Private Investigations.
Jon sets the card down on his desk. From his briefcase he extracts his laptop and opens it up. Into a browser he types in the URL displayed on the business card.
The landing page for Preston Private Investigations fills his screen.
A moving banner across the top of the page promises: “Fast Results. Full Range of Services. Discretion.”
Jon scrolls down the page.
Extramarital Affairs, Adultery, Infidelity, Unfaithful Cheating Spouses: These terms cause enormous amounts of stress for those who suspect a spouse’s activities. Name it whatever term you want, but statistics show that cheating is more common than most people think. Statistics also show that, unfortunately, once someone seriously suspects infidelity, more often than not, their suspicion is correct.
Jon glances up and once more studies his rival in his glass office. Ahmed is busy working on his computer again.
Enormous amounts of stress.
The website has got that right. That’s exactly what Ahmed Waheed is causing Jon. Stress.
What if I caught him having an affair? Something worse?
Jon considers what Henry said in the dimly lit pub.
Someone who specializes in such things. Ex-cop. Knows what he’s doing. When you call, ask for Jake.
Jon wonders what work “Jake” has done for Henry in the past. He watches as Anna-in-the-red-dress struts past his glass wall without so much as a glance inside. Let alone a mug of coffee and a smile.
His jaw tightens.
He spins his chair around so that his back faces the interior glass wall, and using his personal mobile, he punches in the number of Preston Private Investigations.
A woman answers. Jon asks for Jake.
A man with a gruff voice says, “Jake Preston.”
Jon clears his throat. “I—ah, this is Jon. Henry Clay recommended you.”
“And what can I do for you, Jon?”
Jon shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder, then explains that he’s got some competition for something that should rightfully be his. “I need to know what I’m up against.”
“You mean you need dirt? Something you can use to eliminate your competition?”
Words defy Jon for a moment. The implication, the reality, of what he’s asking is suddenly stark. He bites his lip.
“Look, Jon-without-a-last-name, if we agree to a business relationship, one thing you need to know about me is I don’t mince my words. I say things as I see them. Much easier to avoid confusion and misunderstandings that way. And it helps me to operate within the context of the law. For example, if you pretend you’re hiring me for one thing but want—”
“Yes,” Jon says quickly. “Yes, I want dirt. Intel. Anything I can use to undermine someone who is trying to steal my job.”
“Okay,” Jake says slowly. “That’s one of my specialties. If there is ‘kompromat’ to be found, I will find it. Can I email you a copy of our contractual arrangement and rates before we go further? Or would you like to do everything in person? It’s your preference.”
“I prefer in person.”
“Good call. This evening? Or afternoon? Where are you generally located, Jon?”
Jon swallows. He’s balancing on the tip of a black run. He’s leaning over. If he commits any further, he will start a racing ride of no return down to the bottom. He needs to be certain this is what he wants. He also needs to win. And in order to win, Jon is not beyond sabotaging competition. He’s not beyond playing foul. He was, after all, a top-level athlete who’d do anything to succeed at his game.
“I work in downtown Vancouver. I live in Point Grey,” he says.
“Does the Jericho Beach parking lot work for you?”
“Yes. Yes—that works fine.”
“Okay, Jon. What I need from you is the name of the subject you want investigated, plus any other information that might be relevant, or that might give me leads. Address, age, hobbies, gender, sexual proclivities—does this person have a partner, kids, siblings, parents? Who are their friends? Where do they hang out? A gym, a favorite pub, club. Do they drink, do drugs, attend a church—”
“Mosque. If he’s religious, I’m sure he goes to a mosque.”
A pause. “Okay.” Another pause. “If our subject has any ardent political or ideological affiliations, it could help. The more personal information, the better. Say six thirty p.m. at the Jericho lot?”
“That’s fine.” Jon will access TerraWest’s HR computer database. He will compile a file of whatever details he can find in there before he leaves the office. He can rendezvous with Jake on his way home. Jericho Beach is not far from Rose Cottage.
Jake says, “I drive a pale-blue Toyota Camry. Blends in everywhere—incognito is the name of my game.” The phone goes dead.
Jon sits, holding his mobile. His pulse races. But a smile begins to curve his mouth. He feels empowered. He’s taking action. Doing something. He feels the old Jon that Mia awoke last night stirring and swelling in strength. Bolstered by his chat with the PI, Jon attempts a quick internet search for “Mia Reiter.”
Several Mia Reiters pop up. But there is no one who looks like his Mia Reiter. Just as well. His place is with Daisy and the baby. He remains proud of himself that he stepped away last night. It’s imperative he keeps his head screwed on right, because losing Daisy on top of possibly losing this TerraWest promotion—it’s not tenable. Daisy and the baby are also his link to Wentworth money. Jon is fully aware that if he fucks around and Labden or Annabelle Wentworth find out—he’s toast. They will drag him through the courts and sue him to the cleaners and back. He needs to stay smart, keep low on the radar.
He also did not handle Daisy well this morning. He decides he will buy her some roses at that Bea’s Blooms place after meeting Jake. He’ll text her and tell her he’s bringing takeout for dinner.
By the time Jon drives his Audi out of the underground parking garage and feeds into downtown traffic, it’s 6:10 p.m.
A manila folder lies on the passenger seat beside him. It contains private details on Ahmed Waheed.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
When Rittenberg’s Audi pulls out from the underground parking garage of the TerraWest tower, the photographer waiting in his car across the street pulls out and follows him, staying two cars behind. It’s already dark, so he feels confident he won’t be detected by Rittenberg. The photographer’s camera rests on the passenger seat.
At 6:29 p.m. Jon Rittenberg’s Audi turns into a parking lot near Jericho Beach. Rittenberg parks near a low concrete building that houses a concession, showers, and washrooms.
The photographer stops his vehicle below a tree on the residential street that runs past the parking lot. He kills his engine and watches the Audi.
Two minutes later a light-blue Toyota Camry turns into the lot and parks near the Audi. The driver’s door swings open. The parking lot lights illuminate a heavyset guy with a belly exiting the Camry. The man’s head is shiny bald. He goes straight for the passenger door of the Audi, opens it, climbs in.