Another Side Of Midnight

I scribbled down a few more messages and reminded Jon to turn off the espresso machine before he left. After we disconnected, I bounced the phone in my hand, procrastinating. I didn’t have to make the call. Cavanaugh was an average, everyday infidelity case….

Except for the missing four hundred grand. Nothing ordinary about that. Reaching into the zippered pocket of my backpack, I pulled out Stone’s business card. Three phone numbers, but no address.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a private eye; I’m supposed to have access to all sorts of data. So why hadn’t I tracked him down before now? Why hadn’t I located him through vehicle registration, income or property tax records or something?

Because there hadn’t been any records to find. Stone’s not a U.S. citizen. Apparently he didn’t live, work or drive here. The guy was a ghost. So, not wanting to pass up an opportunity, instead of dialing Stone’s cell phone or paging him for a call back, I punched in the number for his answering service.

“Canongate Consultants.”

Hmm. This might be promising. I decided to pretend not to know where I was calling. “Can I talk to Cameron Stone, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I take a message?” The girl sounded young, with just enough of an accent to let me know she was originally from the East Coast.

“When will he back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.”

I leaned back on the bench, adjusted my sunglasses and pushed a little. “Well, maybe I can drop by. I have something for him. Where’s his office?”

“Like I said, he’s not in right now.” She was starting to get an attitude, but I gave her points for control.

“Will he be there tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Stone is not available. I’d be happy to take a message.” She didn’t sound either sorry or happy, and her East Coast roots were showing.

I wasn’t getting anywhere nor was I likely to. I stood up and grabbed my bag, ready to leave. “Fine, just tell him Steele called and—”

“Oh! Is this Ms. Mez-zuh-knot?”

I frowned and answered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. “It’s pronounced Met-suh-no-teh.”

“If you’ll give me your message, I’ll use the emergency access.”

She acted like Stone was some kind of government agent. I could just imagine her punching codes into a red hotline phone. “I just want to give him some information. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, Ms. Mezzanotte, my instructions are to contact Mr. Stone immediately anytime you call.”

What the hell was this about? I felt both flattered and pissed off. Did Stone really think he’d be forgiven just because he made a show of his current—and, I was certain, temporary—availability? I tried not to be impressed.

“The message is, ‘I have Cavanaugh’s schedule.’”

“Okay. You have Cavanaugh’s schedule. I’ve got it. Is there anything else, Ms. Mezzanotte?”

Yeah, there was a lot more. But nothing fit for even Bronx-born ears. “No, that’s it. Thanks, um…what’s your name?”

“I’m Jamie. If there’s anything else I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

I hung up and dialed information, asking for the reverse directory. After giving the operator Stone’s telephone number, I got an address in return. One more call to information got me a main switchboard. It was in an office building on Rainbow Boulevard—one of those anonymous, multicompany executive suites. Another dead end in my ghost hunt.

I stuffed the cell phone in my backpack and hiked back to the parking garage to get my bike. Knots had formed in my neck and shoulders and Stone was to blame. The man had been back in my life for less than three hours and already he was driving me crazy.

I didn’t need some secretive Scotsman messing with my head, or any other body parts. Holding in the clutch and twisting the throttle, I let the growl of the Harley’s 1450cc twin cam engine express my frustration. As I pulled out of the parking garage, I squealed the tires.

Just because I could.

CHAPTER NINE

Trouble in Paradise

AS I WAITED TO MAKE a turn on Freemont, I looked over at the Experience on my left. The Freemont Street Experience is a roofed pedestrian thoroughfare that runs four blocks to Main Street. By day, the ninety-foot canopy offers shade and background music to tourists going into the stores and casinos. Once the sun goes down, though, the Experience is, well, just that.

You have to be subjected to the two million lightbulbs and 540,000 watts of sound to believe it.

I made my turn and drove southeast for a while, thinking about the Cavanaugh case. It can be hard to tail somebody on a motorcycle, so I was going to need another set of wheels. About fifteen minutes later, I’d parked the bike and was wandering around the Vegas Metro Motors lot, waiting for Anna to finish with a customer.

She, Nikki Lopez and I met in French class our freshman year at University of Nevada. We’ve been best friends through nights out clubbing, nights in playing poker and days spent shopping. More importantly, we’ve been friends through Anna’s broken engagement, Nikki’s unexpected pregnancy and Bobby’s death.

Friendship has often been the key to our emotional survival. That and food.

Anna rushed over to me, bright red curls flying and a huge smile of welcome on her face. She grabbed me in the kind of hug I tolerate from very few people. I even hugged her back for a second. Her light brown eyes sparkled as she looked at my Have A Nice Day Elsewhere T-shirt.

“You’re wearing the one I gave you. I can’t believe I added to the collection, but the message is just so you. So, what have you been up to, Steele? You look a little pale. Are you sleeping okay? You should add some iron to your diet.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Take a breath, will you? I’m fine. No salt, no artificial color and I even bought some organic vegetables last week.”

“Oh, that’s great! Good for you.” She went on to tell me about the produce at a new whole foods shop over on West Charleston.

Anna is a naturopath, a holistic and organic Earth Mother type. Her hair falls to the middle of her back and the only makeup she wears is beeswax lip balm. She doesn’t need anything else. Her freckled skin glows from good health and a positive attitude. Basically, she’s my exact opposite in temperament and outlook.

Anna says we get along because of cosmic balance, karma and the fact that we’re reincarnated sisters from ancient Mesopotamia. I love her anyway.

“So, Steele, I’m guessing you need a car?” Anna slid me an exaggerated glance. “I’ve got the sweetest little Corvette around back.”

Interested, I cocked my head. “Oh, really?”

She wriggled an eyebrow. “400 horsepower V-8 engine, 6-speed transmission, leather sport bucket seats, speed-sensitive power steering and a seven-speaker sound system.”

I rubbed my chin, checking for drool, and started to ask what color it was before I caught myself. I’m a big fan of the Magnum, P.I. reruns, mostly for the episodes when Tom Selleck takes off his shirt. But real private investigators don’t drive Ferraris. Or Corvettes, damn it.

“I’m just keeping watch on a guy claiming disability and a cheating husband. Better stick with a nondescript, late model sedan.”

“Boring.” Anna grinned. “Beyond.”

After storing the Harley in the service garage, Anna helped me pick out a metallic gray Honda Accord that ought to blend in just about anywhere. Anna gave me another quick hug. “Don’t forget about the iron. You have to take it with lots of vitamin C and some chelated zinc.”

“Yes, dear.” Anna will make somebody a great wife someday. In the meantime she keeps trying to save me from myself. Whether I want to be saved or not.