M orris hated Fremont.
Jerry Isaac’s office was located in the heart of the quirky Seattle neighborhood, made popular by the young professionals who wanted to stay in the city and didn’t mind living in old houses that needed work. Fremont was filled with independently owned coffee shops, secondhand clothing stores, and ethnic restaurants Morris had never heard of. Its residents were environmentally conscious, and most of them had no need for a car.
In other words, it was hip. And he could count on two fingers the number of times he’d been here.
He trudged up the sidewalk, the black leather bag on his shoulder getting heavier by the second. He was sweating profusely. The Cadillac was parked three blocks down in the only spot he could find. For a neighborhood that prided itself on its nondependence on automobiles, it was interesting how every available parking space within a two-block radius was taken.
He consulted the slip of paper in his hand where he’d written down Jerry Isaac’s address, finally stopping in front of a store called Bead World. Confused for a moment, he looked straight up and was relieved to see a sign in the second-floor window that read ISAAC AND ASSOCIATES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS.
He looked around but saw no entrance to the second level of the building. Dismayed, he pushed open the doors to the bead store. The bells that were attached to the door’s frame chimed his entrance. Loudly.
Four ladies were sitting around a large, square white table, all working on projects of some kind-necklaces, bracelets, God knew what else-and they all glanced up as he entered. The room reeked of musky sweetness and he tried not to gag. The only thing he hated more than beads was incense. Plinky New Age music played in the background to complete the experience.
This was Morris’s version of hell.
“Can I help you?” the oldest lady said in a singsong voice. In her hands was a long rope of red and silver beads that matched the sari she wore.
Morris was afraid to venture in farther. Beads of all colors, shapes, and sizes surrounded him, in boxes, in bins, in little plastic bags hooked onto the walls. The smell of patchouli assailed his nostrils. His eyes began to water.
“Uh, yeah, can you tell me how I can get up to the second floor?” His throat was getting sore.
Four pairs of eyes scrutinized him from his tie to his shoes. He was much too dressed up for Bead World, and for Fremont in general.
“The entrance is at the back,” the lady said, the space between her eyebrows wrinkling in disapproval. “If I’ve told Jerry once, I’ve told him a thousand times, put something on that darn sign that tells people to go around back. Is that so hard?”
Morris didn’t think she wanted an answer, so he didn’t offer one.
“You are looking for Jerry, right? It’s either him or Rosemary the psychic. Not that it’s any of my business.”
“Thanks.” Morris turned quickly back toward the door.
“Come through this way!” the lady called. “It’ll save you from walking all the way around the building. Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.”
The other three ladies tittered.
Plastering on an uncomfortable smile and trying not to breathe through his nose, he made his way through the aisles of all things bead. He passed the table where the ladies sat and nodded politely.
“He’s cute,” one of them said out loud. “And burly. I like ’em burly.”
He felt his face turn red.
“Straight through, exit out the back, entrance to the second floor is on your right.” The oldest lady appraised him through spectacles perched low on her nose. The glasses were, of course, attached to a long string of shiny black beads that draped around her shoulders and neck. “Stop back in afterwards if you have time. I have an introductory necklace workshop starting in half an hour.”
Morris’s smile was strained. “I’ll try.”
They all tittered again.
He exited and another tinkling of chimes announced his departure. Stepping out into the dreary gray day, he found himself in the building’s parking lot. Half a dozen parking spots were free, of course. Swearing under his breath, he thought of his beloved Cadillac parked three streets away. At least the October chill was refreshing. The incense had left him with a headache.
He took one last breath of fresh air, then headed for the back-door entrance. He was dismayed but not surprised to see that there was no elevator. Adjusting the bag on his shoulder, he started up the long, narrow staircase to Jerry Isaac’s office. And, of course, Rosemary the psychic.
Hell, if the private investigator couldn’t get him any answers, maybe Rosemary could.
Morris’s knees were creaking in protest by the time he reached the top step, and he had to stop and wait for the burning sensation to subside. Looking down the long corridor, he saw that quite a few offices were up here. Most seemed unoccupied, and the flowery, colorful sign to Rosemary’s office said CLOSED. No psychic reading for Morris today.
The door to Jerry Isaac’s office was open and Morris stepped into the small, dingy waiting room. A dark-skinned young woman-presumably the one he’d spoken with the day before-looked up at him. Some type of rap music played softly through the speakers of her computer.
“Can I help you?” She was pleasant enough, but after giving him a quick once-over, her eyes were back on her computer screen. Before he could answer, she was already typing.
“Morris Gardener for Jerry Isaac.” His tone was brisk. If she’d worked at the bank, he’d have fired her ass for not telling a client about the parking lot at the back. Okay, he wouldn’t, but the thought was comforting. “I have an appointment.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She typed something else into the computer, giggled, then typed something else. He glared into the side of her face, but she was oblivious. After a full minute, she finally yelled, “Uncle Jerry!”
A man about the same height as Morris but with about fifty pounds less on his lanky frame popped out from the doorway just behind her. He had a close-cut Afro and ebony skin, which made his teeth look startlingly white. He saw Morris and grinned.
“Jerry Isaac,” he said with an outstretched hand.
“Morris Gardener.”
“This is my receptionist, Keisha. She’s also my niece.” Jerry gave the young woman a stern look. “Keisha, you’d better not be chatting online with that old guy in Idaho. I already told you.”
“He’s not old, he’s twenty-six.”
“So he says.” Jerry rolled his eyes, leading Morris through another door and closing it behind them.
“These kids today.” Jerry gestured for Morris to have a seat. “They have no sense of danger. It was hard enough staying out of trouble when we were young, but with the Internet, it’s a whole other thing. They go into these online chat rooms and they meet these people, and you have no idea who anybody really is. It’s a scary world out there, I tell you. You got kids?”
“Three boys,” Morris said. “But they’re grown. And when they were Keisha’s age, the Internet wasn’t the juggernaut it is now.”
The private investigator had his back to the window. Facing him, Morris was surprised to see that the office had a rather nice view of downtown Fremont. If Fremont could be considered nice.
“Exactly.” Jerry nodded. “I tell my sister-Keisha’s mother-to put the computer out in a central area in the house so she can monitor where the girl goes, what she does online. Keisha’s a bright kid, but she’s got no street smarts.”
Morris nodded politely.
The private investigator suddenly sniffed the air. “Did you pass through Bead World?”
“Unfortunately.”
Jerry threw his head back and laughed. “Miss Gwendolyn and her crew are harmless. Bet you made their day.”
Morris managed a smile.
Jerry cracked his knuckles. The popping sound was loud in the small office. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about the Internet or beads, you came here to discuss your fiancée. She’s missing?”
“The cops don’t seem to think so.”
“Ah.” Jerry grinned. “Mike Torrance sent you? He’s a good guy. We were partners up till I retired last year.”
Morris looked at Jerry doubtfully. “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”
Jerry laughed. “I’m fifty-two. It’s the West Indies blood that keeps me looking so young. I started working for Seattle PD fresh out of college at twenty-one, put in my thirty years. Got a full pension, so this is a nice side business, something to keep my mind occupied until I figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Get a lot of referrals from Mike-Detective Torrance. I owe that guy a steak dinner and a few beers. But enough about me. How far did he get in the investigation?”
“According to him, all the way. But I’m thinking he wouldn’t have suggested you if something more couldn’t be done.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Jerry’s face was neutral. “Sometimes the case is closed but you have this inkling there’s more to it. Sometimes Mike recommends me just to put the client’s mind at ease. What was his official conclusion?”
Morris cleared his throat. “That Sheila-that’s my fiancée-left town voluntarily. She’s been gone over a week now. He thinks she’ll be back when she’s ready.”
Jerry reached for a notepad and pen. “And you don’t think this is normal behavior for her?”
“Blowing off our wedding? No, I don’t. She’s a meticulous person. Every hour of her day is planned. Even if she changed her mind about getting married, I can’t imagine she’d take off the way she did. She’s a tenured professor at PSSU. It’s hard to imagine her leaving before the end of the term.” Morris described the phone message Sheila had left. “Her therapist said she didn’t check into any of the better-known treatment centers. I’m worried about her. I need to make sure she’s okay.”
“Puget Sound State professor? What did you say her name was?”
“Sheila Tao. She teaches psychology.”
“Huh. I took a behavioral psych course through PSSU about seven, eight years back. But the professor’s name was Sheila Chancellor, I think.”
Morris nodded. “That’s her. She was married then.”
“Get the hell out.” Genuine shock spread over Jerry’s features. “The world just gets smaller and smaller. She was a helluva lecturer. She even gave me some one-on-one help with my final paper. She’s your fiancée?”
Morris nodded again.
Jerry was quiet, clearly perturbed. “Well, shit, this puts it all in a different light, knowing who she is and all. I was upgrading to a bachelor’s degree in criminology back then, through night school, which wasn’t exactly easy, being a cop and keeping crazy hours. She helped me write a paper that focused on criminal behavior patterns. Nice lady.” Jerry was thoughtful for another moment, then jotted something down on the notepad. “How old is she now?”
“Thirty-nine.”
The private investigator looked up. “I hate to suggest it, but maybe she’s going through some kind of midlife crisis. I went through it with my wife when she turned forty a few years back.”
“That’s what your former partner said.”
“It does happen.” Jerry saw the look on Morris’s face. “But you don’t think that’s it.”
“She was having an affair. She admitted it.”
Jerry didn’t blink. “She say who?”
Morris shook his head. “And there… might have been others. I’m not sure.” He couldn’t bring himself to say she was a sex addict. The words were too ugly. And this guy was a former student-Sheila wouldn’t have wanted someone like him knowing her secret.
Jerry’s expression was hard to read. “Did Mike explain to you that most of the time adults go missing because they want to? Forget what you see on TV. The majority of people who disappear do so on purpose. Considering she left you a message, it sounds like this is the case here.”
“Torrance made a point to tell me all that, yes. Twice, actually.” Morris didn’t bother to mention that he also thought Torrance was a jackass. “But I need answers, Jerry. Isn’t that why people hire you? Because, unlike the police, you can find people who don’t want to be found?”
Jerry smiled.
“I can’t force her to come home, but I need to see for myself that she’s all right. I’ve invested too much of… my time to let it go like this.” Morris had almost said of myself.
Jerry didn’t look happy. For a moment Morris thought he might have offended the former cop. Or maybe he had second thoughts about investigating someone he knew.
But then the PI reached into his drawer and pulled out a stack of yellow forms. He peeled one off the top. “All right then. These are my fees. I need two thousand as a nonrefundable retainer up front, and then I bill a hundred per hour plus expenses-”
Morris put up a hand. “That’s fine, whatever. But I have something else to show you.”
“What’s that?”
Morris reached into his leather bag and pulled out Sheila’s laptop. “Can you hack into this? I’m sure if you do, it will tell us a lot. This is her personal computer. It’s password-protected.”
“Whoa.” Jerry leaned back in his chair again, appraising Morris with narrow eyes. “Computer hacking? That’s illegal, man.”
Morris’s gaze did not waver.
Jerry cracked his knuckles again. “No wonder you want to hire a civilian. All right, I’ll see what I can do. Computers aren’t my specialty, but I know a guy.”
Morris smiled his first genuine smile in days. “I thought you might.”