With Private Eyes

Two

At nine o’clock the next morning, Claudia stood in front of her apartment building reading a grant application and making notes in the margins. Her fingers were freezing, but she hated fumbling with the pages through gloves. The rest of her was comfortable enough, though she did hope Mallory wouldn’t keep her waiting long.

She’d been up since six, but that was nothing unusual. She always got up at six. Claudia believed in the discipline of routine. Yoga first, then yogurt, cereal and coffee followed by her shower. She’d dressed, dried her hair, applied makeup, placed a sell order with her broker, answered e-mail and spoken with the manager of a women’s center.

The only chore that had presented a problem was dressing. What did one wear to go detecting?

She’d spent ten minutes trapped by indecision, pulling out one thing after another. Claudia hated indecision even more than she hated being dressed inappropriately, so in the end she’d opted for casual. Black blended in almost anywhere. Of course, her electric-blue leather coat didn’t exactly blend in, but unrelieved black was so boring. She’d pulled on her oldest pair of boots in case they went tramping around the burned-out plant.

The problem was, they might be going anywhere. She hadn’t asked. Claudia tapped her pen against her bottom lip, irritated. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by Ethan Mallory’s low, rumbly voice. Or possibly his chuckle. Or the memory of his shoulders.

A horn honked. Claudia woke from her reverie to see a dirty, gunmetal-gray, four-door sedan stopped in the traffic lane. She stuffed the grant proposal into her satchel and darted between the parked cars.

Mallory leaned across the bench seat to open the door for her and she slid in, her arrival trumpeted by the horn of the driver behind the Buick. Some people had no patience.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, eyeing his tie with fascination. It was blue with green squiggles and didn’t go with his suit, which was the same color as his car, but cleaner. About the best thing that could be said for the tailoring was that it had the proper number of sleeves and trouser legs. He’d tossed a khaki trench coat in the back seat that would look perfectly ghastly with the gray suit. “Where are we going first?”

“Huntington Avenue.” He accelerated smoothly.

“Baronessa headquarters, in other words.”

“Yep.”

Her heartbeat had no business speeding up. And her tummy was going to have to get over that lurch of anticipatory joy, because nothing was going to happen.

What was it with her, anyway? He wasn’t even good-looking—not the way Drake had been, at least. Or Charles, for that matter. His hair was a nondescript brown, his lips were too thin and his nose was crooked. Aside from the to-die-for body, he looked quite ordinary.

Ordinary, that is, for a tough guy. She’d bet he developed five o’clock shadow by 4:00 p.m. But his eyes didn’t fit the image. The irises were a cool dun color speckled with green that, at a distance, blended into hazel. Speckled eyes, set off by lashes too dark and long for either his hair or his gender. And…and she was staring, blast her, and he was smiling, blast him, an irritating little quirk of those thin lips announcing that he’d noticed her attention.

Claudia switched to a safer visual inquiry—the debris on the seat, the back seat and the floorboard. Her eyebrows lifted.

He noticed that, too. “I use my car as a rolling office sometimes. Things accumulate.”

“I see. No, I don’t. That would explain the files, books and calculator. Possibly the newspaper, candy wrappers and empty soda cans, too, if we allow for a degree of slobbiness. But not the Slinky, the Rubik’s Cube or the empty mayonnaise jar.”

“Those are for stakeouts. They can get pretty boring.”

Okay, so the toys were just toys. She wouldn’t ask about the handcuffs. “What do you do with the jar?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

He flashed her a grin. “Emergency urinal.”

Oh. It didn’t look used…. Hastily she mentioned traffic. Traffic was the Boston equivalent of talking about the weather. Often it segued into a discussion of the Big Dig. Would the underground highway ever be finished? Was it an enormous boondoggle or an engineering feat to rival the Great Pyramids?

“Traffic sucks,” he said. “Why were you the appointed family member to deal with me? You aren’t connected to Baronessa, except by dividend checks. Seems like someone like, say, your cousin the corporate president would swing a bigger stick.”

“I believe the size of my stick was sufficient to get me into your car this morning. Who do you want to see at headquarters? My cousin the corporate president?”

“Him, yes. Also your cousin, Gina.”

“Why?”

“I’m looking into the tampering that occurred last Valentine’s Day, too. It was almost certainly the same person. Gina ran that show. I’ll need to talk to your brother Derrick, as well.”

“Why Derrick?”

He gave her a sardonic look. “He’s in charge of quality control. Seems like having your new flavor tampered with was a pretty major failure in his department. And his office was at the plant, before it burned.”

Yes, it was. He’d complained about that often enough. Derrick was ever watchful for a slight, worried that his cousins were achieving more than him, getting more perks, more recognition.

Claudia chewed on her lip. Derrick had been especially difficult ever since the fiasco at the gala held to promote the newest Baronessa flavor—which had now been scrapped. Someone had adulterated the passion fruit gelato with habanero pepper juice. If that hadn’t been bad enough, one of the guests had suffered an allergic reaction and had to be rushed to the hospital. Derrick seemed to think the whole thing was a personal attack on his effectiveness.

“You can get me in to speak with these people, right?”

“Oh, sure.” She flapped a hand in a vague affirmative. The traffic was living up to his pithy description, creeping along at a snail’s pace. At this rate she’d be trapped in this car with him for another twenty minutes. Claudia resolved not to look at him too often. “You have any ideas about the culprit yet?”

“Yeah.” He slid her a look out of those sneaky, two-toned eyes. “It’s someone who’s real unhappy with you Barones.”

Claudia unbuttoned her coat, wondering again who had hired this man. “You think it’s personal, rather than a business competitor who has lost his sense of proportion?”

“I’m not ruling out the possibility of a competitor. There’s Snowcream, Inc. And there’s Anderson Enterprises. Baronessa has taken over several of their markets in the last two years.”

Uh-oh. Did he know about Drake? She studied him warily. Yes. Too much of a coincidence for him to mention Anderson otherwise. Of course, he couldn’t know everything. Just the more public portions of what had turned out to be an all-too-public romantic debacle.

“Anderson sells a good deal more than ice cream, Mr. Mallory. Baronessa only sells gelato. We might irritate them, but we only compete with one corner of their business. Arson isn’t a reasonable response to a small dip in the profit column.”

“Business rivalries can escalate beyond the reasonable when there’s a personal element involved. And from what I hear, you and the Anderson son and heir were involved very personally.” He shook his head. “No accounting for taste, I guess, but just what did you see in that pin-striped piranha? Aside from the teeth and great suits, that is.”

It sounded as if he’d met Drake. Emotions rose like a swarm of gnats, putting a tug on Claudia’s lips that was part annoyance, part amusement. If worse came to worst, she wouldn’t have to fight her way past any illusions created by Ethan Mallory’s sartorial brilliance, would she? Maybe she could actually have the quick, hot affair her body was urging….

Bad idea. Really bad. “Tell me, do you actually have a client? Someone who’s hired you, that is. It occurred to me you might be doing a favor for an old friend.”

He lifted one eyebrow. They were very nice eyebrows, darker than his hair, like his eyelashes, and with a pleasant arch. Expressive eyebrows for such a tough face. “So you know about Bianca and me.”

“Well, of course. Though Bianca took her maiden name back after the divorce, so I didn’t place your name right away. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? Not that I mistake gossip—” she fluttered a hand as if fanning away the chaff “—for reality. Was your parting amicable?”

“Now, why would you think that was any of your business?”

“I’d like to determine where your biases lie. And your loyalties. I could easily imagine that Sal Conti played some part in the breakup of your marriage, for example, leaving you with the burning desire to embarrass or hurt him in return. But you might have remained fond of your ex, and be determined to clear her family.”

“You go right ahead and speculate, honey. I know how fascinated some women are by other people’s love lives.”

“Well, honey, while I’m enjoying my speculations, you can circle the block. You just passed the Baronessa building.”

Ethan didn’t actually have to circle the block, since the parking garage that served the building had an entrance on the nearest cross street. Claudia directed him to the portion reserved for visitors. She didn’t say a word about his having almost passed his target. She didn’t have to. Her smirk said it all.

As soon as he cut the engine, she jumped out. That didn’t surprise him. This wasn’t a woman to sit around waiting on a man, or anyone or anything else. He bet she’d skipped learning to walk in favor of hitting the ground running, and hadn’t stopped since.

He hit the button that locked his car. She was standing on the other side, tapping one foot impatiently, her hands thrust in the pockets of that absurdly bright coat that looked like a double dip of sky.

“So tell me,” he said companionably, “is it true you dumped a whole carton of melted ice cream on Drake Anderson’s head in front of the power-suit crowd at the Radius?”

She flicked him an annoyed glance. “It was only slightly melted.”

“Pretty stupid of him to have shot off his mouth that way, where you could overhear him.”

“Drake has a problem knowing when to keep his mouth shut. It’s a common failing.” The disdain in her glance suggested it was one Ethan shared. She turned and set off briskly for the door to the lobby.

Damn, but she was cute. Ethan grinned and whistled the first two bars of the William Tell Overture as he stretched his legs to catch up with his pretty blond passport.

She held the door open for him. “You haven’t talked to anyone here yet, right?” she asked.

“Not yet. I focused on the plant first.” And had found one thread worth tugging on, which had led him to headquarters. “I did try to speak to some people here yesterday. Got turned away.” He lifted his eyebrow. “Good block.”

“I do what I can.”

The building itself was one of those oversize glass-and-chrome splinters modern architects were fond of, buffed and buttressed by steel. Attractive enough, Ethan supposed, in its way. But he preferred brick or stone. The foyer made him think of bank lobbies—lots of glass, a gleaming tile floor, with potted plants huddled in the corners trying valiantly to soften things. One wall held the bank of elevators; another was dedicated to a photographic history of Baronessa’s early years.

The executive offices occupied the fifth floor. He pushed the up button.

She pulled off her coat and draped it over her arm. Ethan sighed with pleasure. Nothing like a long, cool blonde dressed all in black. She’d left her hair down today, too, which made up for the fact that she wasn’t wearing a skimpy little skirt like yesterday’s. He planned to enjoy looking at her while he could. She wouldn’t be around long.

“Who are we talking to first?” she asked. “Nicholas?”

“Good question. I need to see a personnel file. How do I obtain it?”

“First you tell me whose file you need, and why.”

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “And if I do, can you get the file for me?”

Her lips pursed. “I think so, but I have to know why I’m getting it first.”

“Ed Norblusky. He worked at the plant until three days after the tasting was sabotaged. He was fired for showing up for work drunk. Seems he shot his mouth off afterward about how he’d teach ‘those rich bastards’ a thing or two. And he’s disappeared.”

She bounced on the balls of her feet, excited. “You said you didn’t know who it was! This Norblusky—”

“May have just moved, not intentionally disappeared. And people blow off steam all the time without setting fire to an ice cream plant to make their point. But he’s worth checking into. I need the name and address of his last employer, his next of kin, his social security number—all of which should be in his personnel file.”

She nodded decisively. “I can get it. Nicholas and I deal well together. That’s whose approval we’ll need.”

“Tell me what he’s like.”

“A man with a mission,” she said as the elevator doors opened. Three people got out, giving them curious glances. “He always has a plan, a goal to shoot for. When he was eight, his mission was a puppy.”

“Did he get it?”

“Of course. A hyperactive little Dalmatian, cute as could be. He took care of it, too, right from the first. That’s why his missions usually succeed. He plans, he works toward that plan and he follows through.”

“What’s his mission these days?”

“Being the world’s best daddy, I think.” Her smile was wide and bright, but he noticed that it didn’t push any crinkles into the corners of her eyes. “Or maybe Husband of the Year. I’m sure perfect Chief Operations Officer is still high on the list, too.”

“Do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Smile harder when something hurts.”

Her eyebrows twitched crossly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m very fond of Nicholas. Naturally, I’m happy for him.”

“If all it took to make us happy was the happiness of someone we cared about, the world would need only one happy person. Chain reaction, you see. The original happy person would make everyone he or she met happy, and they’d make all their friends and family happy, and they—”

“You have a strange mind, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. Did you know that your eyes only crinkle up at the corners when you really mean your smiles?”

She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“I guess not.” How about that. She was speechless. He bet that didn’t happen often. Whistling softly, he straightened and punched the button for the fifth floor.

For some reason Claudia’s stomach was tight. Not because Ethan Mallory’s observation had upset her, of course. He was way off base. She was happy for Nicholas, who deserved every drop of his recent good fortune.

No, it was her distressingly competitive nature that was to blame. Claudia had long ago acknowledged that she just plain liked to win. The score between her and Mallory wasn’t quite even—she remained one up due to her flanking maneuver with the photograph—but he’d certainly narrowed her lead.

He was an annoyingly observant man, though. That was a good quality in a detective, she conceded privately as the elevator carried them to the fifth floor. But tricky in an opponent.

Fortunately, Nicholas wasn’t in a meeting or otherwise unavailable. Claudia had very little time to chat with his assistant before they were told to go on in, which was probably just as well. Mrs. Peabody was trying to give away puppies.

Claudia liked Nicholas’s office. The window-walls made it sunny when the weather was clear, and even on a gray November morning like this they imparted a spacious feeling. Nicholas was seated when they entered, a big, dark-haired man with what Claudia liked to call laser eyes—sharp and keen as a scalpel.

At the moment he was looking decidedly wary. He stood and walked around his desk, holding out his hands. “I’m delighted to see you, of course, but…you haven’t decided Baronessa needs your attention, have you?”

She chuckled as she took his hands, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. You’ve done too good a job here. There’s nothing for me to fix. Aside from the problems we discussed the other night, that is. Nicholas, this is Ethan Mallory.”

“Ah. The detective.” Nicholas nodded, but she noticed he held on to her hands long enough to make it unnecessary to shake Ethan’s. “Mr. Mallory. You’re here with questions, I assume.”

“That, and a request.” He slanted Claudia an amused glance. “Properly vetted by the family’s tame dragon, here.”

Nicholas smiled. “Don’t bet on the ‘tame’ part.”

Claudia had no objection to being called a dragon. They were beautiful, powerful beasts, after all, highly intelligent and, in Chinese folklore, the repositories of wisdom. But she didn’t care for tame. “I am civilized, I trust, but tame implies a certain subordination. While I’m perfectly capable of working with others—”

“Ha,” Nicholas muttered.

“I’ll admit I have trouble working for others. Shall we sit down to discuss Ethan’s request, or are you on a tight schedule this morning, Nicholas?”