tomeubanks.com

                                            CHAPTER EIGHT

                                    A Company of Wayward Sleuths

2:10 p.m.

When Joe and Robby stepped through the office front door of Joe Cox & Associates on the seventh floor of the Valley Federal Savings Building, both women stood up. Leah's clenched teeth and glazed eyes warned Joe that she was ticked off about something.

But his attention was pleasurably stolen by the other woman. Beautiful was oversimplifying what he saw: her light complexion contrasted with her sea-blue eyes like sand to ocean. Her blond hair was combed straight back. It was long enough to cover her collar and frame her face, but short enough that it didn't hide her slender throat, her feminine shoulders.

Robby said, "Uh-oh."

The arch of the woman's eyebrows started at the bridge of her nose and curved up to open the attractiveness of her eyes and cheekbones.

The woman said something to Leah. Joe's eyes dweezled around the V of her white silk blouse, followed a double strand of pearls looping around her neck up to her unsmiling face.

"Joe, this is Mrs. Catlin," Leah introduced, raising a serious eyebrow.

"Glad to meet you." Joe noted the black silk pants. They fit tightly. Showed off her long legs and small waist. Her black stiletto high heels tipped her stance, throwing her hip to one side.

"She says you hired her 15-year old son–as an investigator."

"You have a fifteen year old son?" Joe said.

Robby cleared his throat.

Joe offered his hand. She just looked at it.

"Is there a problem?" Joe asked, glancing around at Leah.

"I came down here," Mrs. Catlin said evenly, "to meet the man who would take a boy– without his mother's permission–and lure him into a sleazy business–"

"Wait a minute–"

"No, you wait a minute. You ever hear about child endangerment?"

Joe focused on Robby standing beside him. "You said you called your mother."

"He did," Mrs. Catlin said. "He left a message on my answering machine: 'Mom, Mr. Cox hired me. I'm a private eye. Buy be a Ferrari!'"

"Mom, it's not dangerous."

"I thought he got permission," Joe put in.

"You should've known–not just thought–but then I doubt you know a damn thing about kids."

"Mom, I got to see Mr. Cox in action–it was unbe–"

"Uh...Robby, I don't think your mother wants to hear about our boring afternoon."

"You're right." She snagged Robby by the shirt sleeve and led him to the door. "You've had it. Get in the car."

As he left, Robby winked at Joe. "See ya tomorrow."

"No, you won't!" his mother called after him. She turned back to Joe. "I suggest you hire adults."

"Maybe I should. I'm sorry. He had a work permit. Besides, a monkey with a lobotomy could do most of what he was going to do."

"That's comforting. I guess he could work up to being a bear riding a bicycle."

"Mrs. Catlin, I'm very, very sorry," Leah said. "This won't happen again, I assure you."

"He's going to be sorry if he comes near Robby again." She was gone.

Joe brushed by Leah to get to his office. She followed him. "In the future," she began earnestly, "I'd appreciate the courtesy of being a part of the hiring process around here."

"You would, huh?" He sifted through his afternoon mail.

"I can't believe you'd actually hire a fifteen-year-old kid! My God, the liability alone–"

"Don't you have some frozen yogurt tasting to do?"

"And what was I supposed to do? You're supposed to be teaching me the business. You take a boy over me. I'm here to investigate–not vegetate! I want to do what you do!"

Joe dropped the mail back into his IN tray. "You do, huh?"

She hesitated. "Absolutely."

* * *

The Steiger Building. Sounded big and important. When Joe set eyes on it again after leaving it just five weeks before, he realized it was silly. It was only a single-story office building, painted light blue with white trim and bearing no substantial ornamentation or design. Its big distinction in Beverly Hills was that the name–THE STEIGER BUILDING–was held aloft of the roof in letters tall enough to have it zoned as a two-story structure. If the Beverly Hills planning department would have let him, Otto Steiger would have his name up in Las Vegas-style flashing lights.

Framed, published accounts of the exploits and victories–mostly fictional–of Steiger's Detectives covered the walls of the lobby. Painting the walls was an unnecessary renovation.

It was just after five-thirty. The secretarial staff was gone. Joe approached the back offices and rapped on Otto's office door, a walnut monstrosity suited for King Arthur's castle. Otto Steiger - President, read the plaque on the door. It swung open. Otto's new Chief Special Agent, Bill "Oh-Ma-Gosh" Gesh, stood there opened-mouthed.

"Oh-ma-gosh," he said. "Mr. Steiger, you ain't gonna believe who's here!"

Joe heard Otto clear his throat. It was his nervous throat-clearing. Joe stepped into the office. A sense of alienation ran up his spine and chilled him. He'd promised himself never to set foot there again.

Otto Steiger adjusted his big gold-rimmed glasses on his bony nose. It made his huge marble eyes appear to pulse behind them. His deep voice didn't fit the mousey features when Otto said:

"Well, well. Prodigal son comes home."

Otto came to his feet, reached across his black oak desk, which circled him entirely in the center of the room like a giant chocolate donut, and shook Joe's hand.

"Sit."

The desk's shiny finish was cluttered with files, papers, listening devices, a 1000 dollar bill entombed in plexiglass, a globe, pictures of his wife and son, a large bathroom mirror on a stand to regularly check his toupé, a computer terminal and an indescribable number of overstuffed ashtrays, cocktail glasses and fast food trash.

Joe sat in one of the dozen leather chairs orbiting the circular desk.

"What can I do for you?" Otto asked.

Am I going to do this? I don't have to do this. This is what I did for six years with this man. Pretend everything was hunky-dorry.

"Could I use your head?"

Caught Otto off-guard. "You come by to use the toilet, what?" He snickered in Bill's direction. Bill snickered back.

"I want to talk, Otto. First I gotta pee, alright?"

"Alright. Take a joke."

Joe used Otto's private bathroom. It was separated from the office by a short hall. Joe peed loudly into the blue water. He flushed. He coughed a few times, turned on the water in the sink and washed his hands. At least that's what he hoped Otto thought he was doing. What he actually did was open the bathroom window, a narrow opening set high in the wall. It was the only opening in the building not wired to the alarm because it was thought to be too small for your average thief to climb through.

So what now? Joe wondered. Small talk and get the hell out? Or do I get some answers? This is Otto Steiger, now. The man who, when asked what he wants for breakfast, says eggs over easy when he really wants pigs-in-a-blanket. Hell, you want answers. What've you got to lose? Just your temper.

When he returned, he flopped in the chair and blurted:

"Who's Reg?"

Otto's face changed expressions. It returned to its original mousey innocence almost immediately. "Wedge?"

"Reg," Joe repeated.

Otto swivelled back and forth in his chair, looked across the table at Bill.

"Let's pick up our talk in the morning, Bill."

"Sure thing. Hey, Joe, thanks for the promotion."

Joe said nothing. Bill obediently gathered his briefcase, tucked his tie into his buttoned coat and left them.

"Drink?" Otto offered, rising, pushing a silver button on a digital display. Accordion doors on the liquor cabinet loitering against the wall rolled back. A stainless steel bar with mixing utensils set in slots around the base rotated out.

"Tom Collins. So who is he?"

"Who?"

"Reg."

"Reg, Reg. I know the name."

"I know you know the name."

Otto sniffed. It was a sniff meant to disguise a pause–a thinking pause. Another sniff. He's calculating his answer. Figuring how much he's going to tell me.

"Otto, you taught me everything I know about this business."

"True."

"Which means I know every underhanded, slimy trick you do."

"I taught you everything you know; not everything I know."

"My point is, you don't fool me. And if I want to find out, you know I will. It's a matter of doing it the gentleman's way or not. I respect you"–gag–"and you respect me."

"Respect you say. Day you left here, you called me a...what was it?"

"A shit-eating slug."

"That's it. A shit-eating slug. And your six-year tenure with Steiger's Detectives was six years of...what was that again?"

"You know what I said."

"You say it."

"Criminal captivity."

"I'll admit I had no idea what the hell you were talking about. I got it later. You think I'm a crook."

"I...I don't think you're a crook. I was pretty mad. You pinched my pride one too many times–something you're good at–and I said whatever came to me, that's all, but I don't think–"

"What's your interest in him?"

Joe's turn to be caught off-guard. "Talking about Reg?"

"Who else?" Otto snorted, handing Joe his drink across the desk and settling back in his chair again.

"Kidnapped my client's daughter."

"Not the same guy then."

"Tell me about yours. I'll tell you if he's the same."

"Mine doesn't fish with jail bait."

"Here we go again," Joe complained.

"Here we go again, what?"

Joe leaned forward, set down his drink and looked Otto square in the eye. "Here we go again. Master to slave."

Otto chuckled.

"Otto," Joe said quietly, holding down his impatience, "you always got side deals going–that's your business–"

"Got that right, Joey."

"Why do you have to do that?"

Otto shrugged. "What'd I do?"

"Called me Joey. You call me Joey when you want to put me in my place. Well, I got my own place. You can't put me in my place anymore, Otto, so it isn't going to work calling me what my mother calls me, you got it? It isn't going to work, you aren't going to avoid the issue."

Otto leaned forward, folded his hands on his desk. "Fuck you."

"Fuck you back."

Otto grunt-laughed and threw himself back into his chair. "You don't talk like a slave. Fact is, you never did anything you didn't want to do around here, did you? Those little demons jumping your brain are all yours. You want to cry about it now. Fuckin' cry your brains out."

"I've got a mother who's worried about her teenage daughter. I've got a muscle-bound kidnapper–and who knows what he's doing to her–drugs, sex–"

"Sounds like she's having the time of her life."

Joe's fists clenched. He wanted to pull him across the table and beat him, hear him scream. Then he realized he was thinking like a Steiger Detective again. Back only minutes in Otto's world and already thinking like one of his slaves. And then a pure thought invaded his violent reasoning.

"Reg and a partner rented a motorhome. Guess whose name's on the rental agreement?"

Otto shrugged.

"Yours."

"Get out of here."

"I saw it. As a reference."

By Otto's forced grin that folded into a scowl, Joe knew Otto didn't like it. For Otto to tell him where they'd gone, Joe had to get through Otto's instinct for lying. He expected dirty tricks from Joe because that's how Otto had taught him to deal with difficult people. "Thompson's RV Center," Joe said. "Call them."

Otto smacked his lips and adjusted his glasses. Joe drank most of his drink, waiting for Otto to speak.

"What do you want me to say, Joe?"

"The truth would be refreshing."

"I know him. So what. Who knows why he put my name on a rental agreement. You want the truth? Truth is, this smells fishy to me."

Joe sniffed. "I smell it, too."

"I mean, what. You shit on me, leave me on short notice, take up with that Jewish yogurt queen–and that's another story–and a few weeks go by and you're looking for some kid who's takin' off with someone I happen to know. A lot of coincidence there. Or is it something else?"

"What is he to you?"

"He's nothing to me."

"Yeah, that's gotta be why he put your name down as a reference–give me a break."

"I'll give you a permanent break and throw your ass out of here."

"You and–" Again, thinking like a Steiger Dick.

Joe finished his drink. He firmly set down the glass on the desk. The ice clinked.

Otto exaggerated a look at his watch. "There's a white Russian with my name on it somewhere. I'd like to get there."

"Where's Reg?"

"Guy says he wants to get somewhere and you throw another question at him. I taught you well."

"Otto, please. Where can I find him?"

He hesitated, searching Joe's face. "Tell you what. I'll call him. I'll tell him to send her back."

He doesn't want the girl in the picture. Probably didn't know about her until I told him.

"Where is he?"

Otto smiled, wiggled a finger at Joe. "That's confidential. I said I'd call him. Keep pushing and I'll take back the offer."

"Have you had contact with him in the last few days?"

Otto hesitated, then answered: "Last night."

"You called him and talked to him?"

"I said I did."

"From here."

"Where the fuck else–yeah, from here, so what?"

Otto's face lost it smugness. Joe enjoyed the loss. He suddenly understood that Joe could get the number he called off Otto's phone bill and trace its location.

"Won't help you," Otto said, lighting a cigarette. "Called him back on a pay phone somewhere he stopped for gas."

"Better than nothing. Make it easier on me. Tell me where he is. I don't want him. I want the girl."

"Then find her. I told you what I would do. Pretty damn generous, coming from a shit-eating slug."

Joe jumped up, pushed aside the mess on the desk and pointed a finger in Otto's face. "I kissed your ass for six years, did every dirty thing you asked me to do. You trusted me with your company. You're going to have to trust me again."

Otto blew smoke away from Joe without taking his eyes off him. "Take your finger out of my face."

Joe complied and remained standing. "Whatever you got going is your business, but you don't want some teenage girl in the picture."

He smacked his lips, thinking. "I tell you where he is, you take the girl back to her mother, right?"

"That's what she paid me to do," Joe lied.

Otto tapped the ash off his cigarette. "Okay. Well, you've been there before. That little town in the Mojave, about four years ago."

Joe remembered and nodded. "Child custody. Guy named Birdforth. Mayor's nephew. Paley."

Otto's Swedish-made clock on a credenza by the hall to the restroom donged six times. Otto made note of it with his expression and rose.

"You don't keep your nose in your own business, I cut it off."

Joe nodded, thinking, Thanks for the invitation.

Otto escorted Joe out the door, setting the alarm at the front before locking up. They walked silently to the parking lot at the side of the building. Otto got in his black Lincoln Towncar, barely able to see over the steering wheel.

"What's his full name?"

Otto grinned, then let it fade. "Reggie Thomas."

"I appreciate the professional courtesy," Joe said for nothing better to say. All he wanted was to hold Otto's eyes and attention.

"The fuck you do," he said and threw it into reverse. For a second, Joe worried Otto might glance over his right shoulder as he backed from his parking space. But he didn't. If he had, he would've seen a peculiar sight between his building and the building next door: Leah's legs dangled and kicked from his bathroom window as she struggled to find something to push herself through into the depths of The Steiger Building.