“An exposé about aliens.”
She sat back.
“Does it matter? My son is missing. I want you to find him.”
She counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, hesitated, and counted another ten. She pushed the stack toward me.
“Three thousand dollars. If he’s with a friend as you say, finding him should be easy. Find him, and I’ll double this amount.”
I told myself it couldn’t hurt. I could swing by his bungalow and maybe have a line on her son by the end of the day. And even if I didn’t, Adele would feel better knowing I was looking.
I picked up the bills, kept ten, and pushed the rest back.
“Let’s start with this.”
“I’d like a receipt, please.”
“Of course.”
She tucked the receipt into her purse, stood, and offered her hand.
“Please find him.”
“Try not to worry. I’m sure he wasn’t abducted.”
She looked at me as if I were slow.
“Are you, Mr. Cole? I’m not. I’ve seen things you can’t imagine.”
Adele Schumacher went to the door and let herself out. Wendy stepped in a moment later, and came to my desk.
“You’ll do it?”
I nodded.
“This is me, twenty-four-seven.”
Wendy gave me a plain, cream-colored card bearing her name, phone number, and email. Gwendolyn Vann.
I raised my eyebrows.
“I went with a Sherlock Holmes motif, myself. The magnifying glass. The deerstalker cap. People seem to like it.”
Wendy tipped her head at the Mickey Mouse phone perched at the end of my desk.
“Sit tight. Mickey will ring in three minutes.”
“Who’s calling? Aliens?”
Wendy ignored me.
“When the mouse rings, answer.”
Wendy walked out and closed the door. I waited. Three minutes later, the phone rang.
I answered.
2
Elvis Cole Detective Agency. If we can’t find it, it can’t be found. To whom am I speaking?”
The man’s voice was cultured and reasonable. He did not introduce himself nor greet me. He began as if we were in the middle of a conversation.
“So you agreed to help. Good, I’m pleased, but I’m surprised a man with your credentials took the job.”
People who didn’t introduce themselves were usually top-tier corporate executives or self-absorbed celebrities. I went with corporate.
“Surprises are my business. To whom am I speaking?”
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“So tell me, I’m curious why this nonsense about aliens and secret projects didn’t put you off.”
I carried the phone out to the balcony. The Mickey phone didn’t have a remote, so I’d bought a twenty-five-foot extension. The line was tight as a bowstring when I reached the rail, and tighter when I peered down at the street.
I said, “Pretend I just answered and let’s begin again. Elvis Cole Detective Agency, this is Elvis Cole. To whom am I speaking?”
He muttered so softly I barely heard him.
“Good Lord.”
“No, not the Lord. Elvis. Who is this?”
Four floors below, Wendy, Kurt, and Adele crossed the sidewalk to a cream-colored Mercedes sedan. A red-haired man by the Mercedes opened the rear passenger-side door for Adele, helped her inside, and climbed in behind the wheel. Wendy saddled up in the front passenger seat. Kurt slipped into a white Lincoln SUV waiting behind the Mercedes. The Mercedes pulled away. The Lincoln pulled out behind the Mercedes. Trail car. The shabby housedress and wispy hair didn’t go with a top-of-the-line Mercedes and personal security detail, but people were often surprising.
They drove away as the caller responded.
“This is Corbin Schumacher. Adele is my ex-wife.”
I watched the Mercedes disappear and returned to my desk.
“Making you Joshua Schumacher’s father?”
“As much as it pains me, yes. I’m also the person who suggested Adele contact you.”
“Do we know each other?”
“We do not, but I had you vetted. Your reputation for this kind of thing is excellent.”
“Uh-huh. This kind of thing being?”
“Finding people. When I hire someone, I hire the best.”
“Let me stop you, Mr. Schumacher. Adele hired me, not you, so everything she and I discussed is confidential.”
“Adele knows I’m calling. Please confirm this with her. I’m not snooping behind her back.”
“Then why the call?”
“First, to make sure you don’t take advantage of her.”