It wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
Perhaps a childhood filled with black and white film noir detectives had conditioned her to think in terms of dark waterfront walkup buildings and tough sounding names in peeling black paint on frosted glass doors. A bleached blonde named “Ethel” or “Vera” behind an antique manual typewriter, filing her nails, great chasms of bored yawns chewing up her hard features. Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe slouched behind a cluttered desk, his trusty fedora hanging loyally on the ratty wooden coat rack in the corner.
This two-story walkup was actually a beautiful turn-of-the-twentieth century brick townhouse, saved from the wrecker’s ball at the eleventh hour and returned lovingly to its former glory. It stood in a part of town just now emerging from shabby neglect to teeter precariously on the brink of fashionable. All around, upscale professional offices, trendy little stores and cafes with more pretensions than patrons littered the landscape.
Inside the grand marble and oak foyer, a twenty-something brunette sat behind a raised counter, her fingers flying nimbly over a multi-line phone console as she smiled into the tiny microphone of her headset. Red, green and amber lights blinking like miniature traffic signals replaced the sound of ringing phones.
“Good morning,” she chirped, “Harm’s Way Security. How may I help you?”
She listened a few moments, her face a picture of attentive concentration. In a moment, the smile reappeared.
“If you’ll hold just a moment, please, I’ll see if he’s in.” And with the press of a button, the young lady merrily dispatched another poor soul to voicemail hell.
Looking up, she focused her smile and attention on the woman at the counter.
“Good morning,” she repeated cheerfully. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Sheila Forbes. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Harm.”
“Certainly, Ms. Forbes. If you’ll just have a seat through there,” she pointed a slender, magnolia smooth hand to a large archway on her right, “I’ll let Mr. Harm’s secretary know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
As she passed through the opening to the other room, she heard the receptionist announce her.
Sheila settled into a comfortable chair and gazed around the room, more front parlor than waiting room. Lace curtains hung at long, narrow windows flanking an enormous bay window that took up virtually the entire front wall, giving a clear view of the front lawn and garden and the sidewalk and street just beyond the short black wrought iron fence. A gray marble fireplace with painted, tiles, a full-length dark wood mantle and ornate brass screen occupied the opposite wall. Enormous closed double doors filled the last wall. An oval coffee table in the same warm oak as the mantle held a diverse array of current magazines and a pair of smaller tables supported little glass dishes of brightly colored wrapped candy.
Another woman appeared, this one middle aged with blonde shoulder length hair and brown eyes behind dark framed glasses, dressed in a tailored black business suit and sensible pumps, her hand extended, a smile on her round face.
“Ms. Forbes, I’m Jessica Weldon, Mr. Harm’s secretary. If you’ll follow me, please?”
Sheila trailed the other woman a little as they crossed back through the foyer and up a beautiful spiral staircase to the second floor. At the top, a long hall lead straight back, closed doors on either side as they moved along the polished wooden floor, the click of their heels muffled by a thick runner of muted floral and dark blue.
They went through an open door and into a large, bright office. Sheila noted a computer monitor glowing a deep blue on a workstation behind a smallish oak desk, littered with legal size manila folders. A multi-line phone, only slightly smaller than the console at the receptionist’s desk took up the right-hand corner. In a few steps, they arrived at another door on the opposite side of the office, this one closed.
Ms. Weldon rapped lightly with one hand as she turned the knob with the other, standing aside to let Sheila enter. The door swung quietly shut behind her.
Even by the standards of the rooms she’d seen, this one was huge and for a moment she had the odd sensation of having stumbled into the library of an elegant, wealthy gentleman from another time. Floor to ceiling bookcases, crammed almost to overflowing stood guard over a fireplace, the little brother of the one downstairs. French Windows lined the other wall, thin lace curtains fluttering slightly at an open pair. Beyond them, she glimpsed part of a terrace and a large, padded patio chair.
At her entrance, the man behind the massive dark oak desk stood up and she understood the scale of the room, the building itself.
C.A. Harm, President of Harm’s Way Security, stood at least six feet tall, she surmised, probably closer to six three or four. Late thirties, early forties she guessed with wavy, dark blonde hair that framed his face in a casual, windblown sort of way and deep, wide set, almost black eyes that studied her intently. She felt for a moment as if he were taking some kind of mental inventory of her.
A swimmer’s body she thought with an internal nod of approval. His neatly tailored charcoal suit settled snugly across his well proportioned shoulders, the jacket covering arms she could imagine that were well developed but not muscle bound. Neck like a steel cable but not thick and bulky, solid chest and flat stomach covered beneath his white business shirt and open jacket. Long legs that moved smoothly from behind his desk as he put out his hand.
Automatically she noted his bare left ring finger; not even a “cheater mark.” Another point in his rapidly growing list of “pros.”
“Ms. Forbes,” he greeted her in a warm, mellow tenor that for some strange reason made her think of church bells chiming. The feel of his firm hand against hers and the light in those eyes…
“Mr. Harm,” she managed as he guided her to a big saddle leather armchair in front of his desk.
“Can I get you something?” he asked pleasantly as he resumed his seat. Pointing at the large, plain white coffee mug just at his elbow, the smile became an almost boyish grin. “I’m afraid caffeine’s one of my more benign vices. I’ve got just about anything you could think of and a couple you probably never heard of.”
“No, thank you,” Sheila replied, momentarily captivated by the sound of his voice.
“Tea then? Soda? Water?”
“No, really I’m fine.”
He sighed and settled into his chair, the body still relaxed but the smile disappeared, replaced by a look that told her the pleasantries were finished and business had begun. A large hand flipped open the single folder on his desk.
“You told my secretary on the phone that you wanted to hire Harm’s Way to investigate a possible stalker and provide personal security until the problem could be resolved.”
“That’s right.” Surprised at the speed with which he’d changed gears but impressed too with his get-right-to-it manner, Sheila braced herself to begin.
Picking up a big gold pen, he poised it over the file.
“Do you have any idea who the stalker might be and why he’s made you his target?”
“Oh,” she squeaked, thoroughly surprised at the question, “I…I think you’ve misunderstood.”
“Ms. Forbes,” he began patiently, “I’m sure that it’s very difficult for you to think that someone you might know, someone you may well think of as a friend could do something like this but you’d be amazed at how often that’s the case. If you can give us some help…point us in the right direction so to speak, it can save a lot of time, effort and expense on all our parts.”
“No,” Sheila replied anxiously, “I’m not the one being stalked. It’s my friend, Elgin who has the problem.”
She thought she saw a flicker of confusion in those deep eyes but it disappeared instantly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he told her slowly. “If you’re not the one with the problem, why are you here and not your friend?”
Sheila sighed, a mixture of resignation and frustration. “To be honest, Elgin’s very good at ignoring anything she doesn’t want to deal with.”
“Well if she doesn’t feel there’s a problem…”
“Please, Mr. Harm,” her voice took on a note of pleading, “at least hear me out. I’ll pay for your time, only please, just listen.”
“Perhaps you had better explain.” His tone was less than a demand but more than a request.
“Well, it actually started a couple of months ago,” she began, determined now to match his businesslike demeanor and not be viewed as a hysterical female. “I own Fantasy Publishing. We’re a small press, catering to women’s fiction.”
Instantly, she saw his mouth twitch downward and a look of disapproval like storm clouds gathering in the depths of his eyes.
“Fantasy Publishing,” he growled. “I think I’ve heard of them.”
“Perhaps you have,” she replied, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin slightly. “We’ve been very successful in our little niche the past few years.”
“You publish women’s porn,” he stated coldly.
“Mr. Harm,” she told him, her voice as cold as his, “Fantasy Publishing produces women’s fiction of every genre including science fiction, paranormal, comedy, horror and contemporary romance. Our authors have won major awards and our readership stretches from New York to New Delhi and is growing by leaps and bounds every month. That growth attests to the fact that many women…indeed, a great many women, enjoy reading sex, the steamier the better. And now that I’ve explained my business to you, I would like to continue with the relevant portion of this story.”
Sheila took a deep breath and picked up her thread as he eyed her silently.
“Elgin Collier is our most popular author. She writes under the pen name Gillian Shelby. She’s written six books with another one due out this summer.”
She watched as he scribbled on the paper in front of him, barely taking his eyes off her as he wrote.
“Anyway, one morning about two months ago, we were sitting in her living room discussing her latest novel.”
“Where does Ms. Collier live?” he interrupted.
“The Whittier Towers,” Sheila replied. “She has a large condo overlooking the park.”
He paused and waited for her to continue.
“The doorbell rang and Martha…Martha Jackson her secretary/companion answered it. Turned out to be a box of three-dozen long stemmed carnations. What they call ‘variegated.’ Red and white like the old milk cans. They’re Elgin’s favorite flowers. As a child, her father used to grow them in their garden. These are special though, because they’re field grown, not raised in hot houses so they have this wonderful cinnamony smell. There’s only one florist in the state who stocks them.”
“Was there a card?”
Nodding, Sheila reached into her bag and produced a small white envelope, which she handed to him.
“To my Gillian,” he read. “That’s Ms. Collier’s pen name?”
“Uh-huh. Gillian Shelby.”
“Doesn’t sound particularly ominous. More like a fan.”
“Elgin keeps Gillian completely separate from her ‘real’ life.”
“So?”
“So how did this ‘fan’ know that red and white carnations were Elgin’s favorite flowers? Or her home address to have them delivered?” That pesky note of panic reappeared and Sheila had to fight it back.
“Maybe one of her friends played a prank,” he offered vaguely.
“About six weeks ago, she began getting candy. Now Elgin has a metabolic disorder; her body doesn’t handle carbohydrates in the normal way and she has to be pretty careful about what she eats, especially candy which she happens to love. She searched high and low and finally found some places that sell low-carb candy. Chocolates from a place in California, jelly beans from Texas, peanut brittle from Kentucky, and salt water taffy from New Jersey.”
“All of which were delivered to Ms. Collier?”
“Every day for a week.”
“Did you check with the stores?”
“Of course we did. They all said the same thing. A postal money order and the name and delivery address came in the mail. With no return address, they threw out the envelopes. Since they’re all small outfits, they recognized her name and address and didn’t think anything about it.”
“Any cards?”
Sheila shook her head. “No. Just the candy. Elgin tried to pretend it was all some kind of joke but I know it spooked her because she had Martha put all of it…every single bit…down the garbage disposal.
“Go on.”
“Well, time went by and nothing else happened and Elgin got wrapped up in finishing the book and we all kind of forgot about the whole thing.”
“Until?”
“Two weeks ago she got a package delivered at home from one of those…those on-line adult toy stores. Their ‘honeymoon special.’ You know; a little leather whip, handcuffs, edible lotion. That kind of thing.”
Harm nodded and his pen moved quickly across the paper.
“There was also this skimpy little bra and panty thing. Black. Sort of a string thong and pasties. It really shook Elgin up.”
“Completely understandable,” he agreed without enthusiasm. “Even as a joke of some kind, it wasn’t in very good taste.”
“The toys themselves were bad enough,” Sheila continued, “but worse still, the bra and panty were her size, exactly.”
“No card?”
“No.”
“What did the store say?”
“That their customer records were confidential and that if the lady didn’t like gift, she could return it and the original purchaser would get a credit but that they couldn’t and wouldn’t give out any customer information. I got so mad I threatened to sic my pit bull lawyer on them. Miserable twerp just laughed, told me to go ahead because they had a barracuda lawyer who ate pit bulls for lunch and hung up.”
“Ms. Forbes, I really don’t see anything here to be particularly alarmed about. There’ve been no threats, no overt actions of any kind that would suggest anything but ardent, if misplaced affection.”
“You haven’t heard the whole story,” Sheila told him acidly. “Since I’m paying for this time, I’d at least appreciate the courtesy of your attention before you pat me reassuringly on the head and send me on my way.”
Anger prickled lightly down his spine. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this, especially in his own office. Especially, not by a client. And, most especially, by a woman. But she was indeed paying (and handsomely he consoled himself) for his time so he could afford to tolerate her a little longer.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “please continue.”
“Thank you. As I said, we’d sort of let the whole thing drop. Two days ago, Elgin came to my office in the Riverview Plaza to bring me the finished manuscript of her book and just generally chew over the state of the world. She stayed…oh, maybe forty-five minutes to an hour and left about noon. Later, she told me the elevator was packed when she got on and she got crammed to the center of the car. Just after the car started down again, she said she felt something brush her ass. Chalking it up to just too many people in too small a space, she tried readjusting her body a bit. The next thing she knew, she felt a hand definitely resting on her ass.”
“Could have been purely accidental.”
“Mr. Harm, I assure you that grown women can tell the difference between an innocent accident and a grope.”
She took another deep breath to calm herself and went on.
“Elgin was just about to turn around and clock this pervert when the elevator reached the lobby, the doors opened and people poured out, pushing her with them. Outside the elevator she looked around but didn’t see anyone suspicious-looking so she shrugged it off and went on outside.
“At the stand, a street beggar came up to her and demanded money. Elgin told me he was big, filthy, smelled like someone had poured cheap whiskey in an open sewer and verbally abusive. She didn’t have any change and when she started to walk away, he grabbed her, started shaking her like a shark with its prey and threatening to break her arm.”
Sheila paused as Harm’s pen flew across the folder. It took several seconds before he looked up, ready for her to continue.
“Terrified of course, Elgin said something just sort of clicked in her mind and the next thing she knew, she’d swung her briefcase as hard as she could and put the corner of it right in the…old Family Jewels.”
In spite of herself, a nervous little snicker escaped her as the man across the desk squirmed slightly in universal male empathy.
“A cabby who’d just pulled up and seen the tail end of what happened, hustled her to his taxi, calmed her down enough to get her address and took her home. Her jacket had a huge, greasy stain where he’d grabbed her arm and torn the shoulder seam wide open. And you can still see the ring of purple bruises on her arm where he grabbed her.”
She shuddered a little and closed her eyes.
“Did Ms. Collier file a police report?”
“No, although Martha and I both told her she should. But she said that if she did, someone would find out who she was and then a shyster lawyer would convince this creep to sue her. Maybe even have her arrested with all the attendant media frenzy. Unfortunately, that happens an awful lot to famous people.”
“Did someone at the scene call the police?”
“Uh-huh. A couple of gawkers with cell phones called 9-1-1 but it happened so quickly, by the time they got there, Elgin had already left and apparently, when he realized the police were on the way, the bum managed to get up and stagger away too.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“Not quite,” she answered gravely, reaching into her bag again. Slowly, she placed a small piece of paper face down on the desk and pushed it toward him.
Turning it over, Harm saw a three-paragraph newspaper “filler” item.
Homeless Man Killed, read the small headline. The short article stated simply that the body of John Richards, a forty-eight year old transient, had been found in an alley by a busboy emptying garbage from a nearby restaurant at about three p.m. Police believed he’d been stabbed about two hours before he’d been found. There were no witnesses and no suspects.
“The man who assaulted Ms. Collier?”
Sheila nodded. “If the police are right about the time he was killed, it couldn’t have been more than an hour after he attacked Elgin.” Concern now mingled with real fear in her voice.
“And you think the two incidents are related?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Forbes, that a street person’s life is precarious at best,” Harm told her, keeping his tone serious. “You said he was panhandling. He could have been murdered for his money. In that world, even pocket change can be worth killing for. And if he was as aggressive and abusive as you describe, he could have gotten into another altercation that escalated into violence. Or perhaps he just ran into someone who was meaner or crazier than he was. Whatever happened, the chances of it having anything to do with your friend are extremely remote.”
“That’s pretty much what the police told me,” she retorted sharply. “They came by yesterday to talk to Elgin. Of course they don’t think she had anything to do with this bum’s death, but they were trying to track his movements before he died and they found out about the incident and the cabby told them where he’d taken her so they wanted to get her story. ‘Purely routine,’ they called it. But I’m absolutely convinced this murder is tied to what’s been happening to Elgin.
“I believe whoever is stalking her has been following her around. That’s how he discovered where she lives. How he found out what kind of flowers and candy she has delivered. He even got close enough to her to fondle her ass in a crowded elevator. That, combined with the stalking itself, shows how unstable he is.
“When that animal attacked Elgin, the stalker probably went berserk, followed him and stabbed him. Having killed the beast who’d sullied his lady’s honor, he’s no doubt feeling very good about it, too.”
“And what does Ms. Collier say about all this?” Harm asked quietly. “I’d think if she was concerned about her security, she’d be here in person.”
“Elgin is a writer,” Sheila explained tartly. “Like most writers, she lives in a universe of her own creation where everything runs to her whim.”
“So she doesn’t think there’s a problem, either?”
Sheila rummaged in her bag once more, this time pulling out a check, which she placed squarely in front of him. The number of zeros surprised even him.
“Your secretary quoted me your rate when I made the appointment.” She nodded toward the check. “You’ll see that’s your rate times twenty-four hours, times seven days, times two weeks. Plus what I deem a generous allowance for expenses. I want you to investigate this matter, quietly but thoroughly. I also want you to provide discreet but constant security for Elgin Collier.
“If, as you seem to think, there is no problem, then you should be able to wrap things up quickly although you may keep the entire retainer. My peace of mind will be well worth the money. But if there is a problem, I want it resolved. Permanently.”
A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “And don’t worry, Mr. Harm. Not only is the check good, but there’s lot’s more where that came from.”
“All right, Ms. Forbes, we’ll take the case. We’ll deposit your check and draw our daily rate plus expenses against it. Any amount remaining after the case is closed, will be refunded to you.”
“No, Mr. Harm,” she corrected, “you will take the case. Personally. I’ve checked around carefully and you’re the best there is at what you do. Ex-police, ex-FBI, ex-Secret Service. I’m paying for the best and that’s what I expect for my money.”
“I can assure you that all my detectives…”
“Are no doubt top notch,” she cut in, “and I expect you’ll assign the watching and digging to them. A brain surgeon doesn’t boil his own instruments. But you will be in charge.”
“If you insist, Ms. Forbes,” he smiled and leaned forward. “But my time is very valuable. For me to handle this case myself, it will cost you double the agency rate.”
Without blinking, Sheila produced an eight by ten-inch photo, her checkbook and a slender jade green pen. Quickly, she filled out another check and set it and the photo next to the first check.
“I’ll expect you to begin immediately. You seem an honest sort, so for the time being, we’ll seal the bargain with a handshake.”
They stood up and she extended her hand. “Messenger the contract to me at my office, I’ll sign it and messenger it right back. Good bye, Mr. Harm.”
Slightly dazed, he shook her hand.
“Good bye, Ms. Forbes.”
The door had just barely closed behind her when his secretary came in, steno pad at the ready. Leaning across his desk, he handed her the checks.
“Open a new case file,” he told her as she began taking notes. “Our client is Ms. Sheila Forbes. Her information’s in the file from the intake when she made the appointment. We’ll be investigating a possible stalker and providing personal security to the victim until we can get it sorted out. I’ll be overseeing this myself.”
Jessica’s hand stopped in mid-flight and a quizzical eyebrow shot up.
“She handed me the first check,” he replied to her unspoken question, “and told me she wanted me to handle the case personally. I told her it would cost her twice the office rate and without so much as batting an eyelash, she wrote out the second check.”
Unexpectedly, he chuckled. “Never let it be said that C.A. Harm ever prevented some willing woman from showering him with money.”
His secretary shrugged slightly and flipped the page in her notebook. “How do you want to proceed?”
Harm rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Get a hold of Charlie Simons and have him get everything he can on the stabbing of a transient named John Richards. There’s a clipping in the file to point him in the right direction. Tell him I want not only copies of the written stuff but for him to talk to everyone involved in this death, from the busboy who found the body and the beat cops who responded all the way up to the investigating detectives and the ME. And find out who we’ve got for surveillance duty, twenty-four/seven. We’ll be shadowing the victim at a discreet distance primarily to see if she’s being followed and if so, by whom. I’d like to get someone in the field as quickly as possible. According to our client, she lives at The Whittier Towers and works at home. There’s a photo in the file.”
“Will do,” she told him crisply, closing her notebook and taking the file from her boss.
As she headed for the door, she began to scan the notes he’d taken. About midway across she stopped, staring at the words.
“Anything wrong?” he asked. His professional, efficient secretary didn’t pull up short with a file in her hand.
Looking up, he could see bewilderment in her eyes. “Sheila Forbes,” she began, pointing at the slightly open file in her hand. “She…she’s Fantasy Publishing?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“And this Elgin Collier? She’s Gillian Shelby?” Amazement drenched her words.
“If that’s what I wrote, yeah. Why?” In three and a half years, he’d never seen her act this way.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Gillian Shelby. I…I can’t believe it. I love her! She’s on my auto-buy list.” She took a step back toward him, her voice filled with awe. “You wouldn’t believe how hot she writes. Her Blue Monday? Got five alarms and a fire extinguisher from Ecstasy Romance and was voted “The Book Most Likely to Be Banned in Boston” by readers of Heartbeat, which is the biggest romance magazine in the country. Maybe the world. I know when I read it I had to change my panties. Twice.”
The shocked look on her boss’s face snapped her instantly back to reality. Gathering herself, she swallowed hard and began backing toward the door.
“I’ll…uh…get started on this file right away.” And with that, she scurried out of the room.