A Note From an Old Acquaintance (18 page)

18

IN
ERIK
RUBY
’
S
EYES, Cary Mosley was a walking set of contradictions, a man who shattered expectations and defied convention. When he entered Ruby’s office on the dot for his nine o’clock appointment, he didn’t walk, so much as glide—moving across the floor with the fluid grace and coiled power of a professional athlete. Reed thin, with broad shoulders, he was draped in an elegant dark-blue hand-tailored Brioni suit, immaculate white shirt, Harvard tie, ostrich leather shoes, and carried two thick manila file folders clutched in his left hand. And Cary Mosley was black, a deep shade of perfect ebony accented with rich highlights that shone as if he were carved from the purest obsidian. No, Cary Mosley wasn’t Humphrey Bogart, but Ruby was impressed.

He stood and offered his hand. Mosley enveloped it in a grip made for a basketball player.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ruby,” he said in a soft voice at odds with the rest of his persona. His smile revealed perfect pearl-white teeth and the crinkle of laugh lines around the eyes.

“I wish it could be under different circumstances,” Ruby said, offering a rueful smile. “Please, have a seat.”

Mosley folded himself into one of the leather chairs facing the desk and crossed his legs, placing the file folders onto his lap.

When Mosley was seated, Ruby eased back into his swivel chair and regarded him with a steady gaze. The black man met his stare with one of his own, his manner remaining calm and composed.

“Where should I start?” Ruby asked.

Mosley flipped open one of the files, pulling a Monte Blanc ballpoint from inside his jacket. “How about I give you what I have so far?”

Ruby arched a brow. “By all means.”

“Brian Alden Weller was born in Nelsonville, Ohio, August 3
^rd
, 1966, to Rita and Jefferson Weller. Father currently owns Weller’s Hardware, also in Nelsonville. The business thrived for many years, but has recently fallen on hard times. There is currently tentative interest in buying the business, as well as the other businesses surrounding it, by an investment firm in Columbus intent on redeveloping the downtown area. The Nelsonville City Council is scheduled to vote on the proposal in about a month.

“As for Brian’s childhood, idyllic, for the most part. And his schooling was average, though he showed an extremely high verbal aptitude on his SATs. Senior year of high school, he applied to five different colleges and was accepted into four of them. He matriculated at Emerson College and graduated with a BFA in film production. A year after graduating, he founded Newbury Productions with partner Robert Nolan, also an Emerson Graduate. Offices are located on the second floor of 342 Newbury Street. Company’s profits have been modest, but steadily growing. This year looks to be their breakout—”

“Wait a minute,” Ruby said. “They’re not a public company, how do you know what their profits are?”

Mosley’s cinnamon eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say that a friendly banker is a friend indeed.”

Ruby chuckled and motioned for him to continue.

“Though Brian trained as a filmmaker, and is Newbury Production’s Director of Post-Production, it is plainly obvious to those who know him that becoming a published novelist is his true passion.”

“But perhaps not his
only
one,” Ruby said, his expression clouding.

Mosley closed the folder. “That’s what I have, for now. If you hire me, I assure you I will find out everything you want to know, and then some....”

“Right. What’s in the other folder?”

Mosley smiled and flipped open the second folder. “Erik Marcus Ruby was born May 2, 1954—”

Ruby bolted upright, a vein in his temple throbbing. “Wait a minute, what is this? You checked
me
out?”

Mosley held up a long-fingered hand. “Please, let me explain. I’ve been very successful, and one of the reasons for that success is because I do my homework—in every respect. My reputation depends upon my dealing with clients who don’t hide anything from me. Even clients who don’t intentionally hide things may neglect to reveal a vital piece of information that makes the critical difference in whether or not I reach the objective for which they’ve employed me.

“You’re thinking about hiring me, Mr. Ruby, because you believe your fiancée is having an affair, and you want to get to the truth. It’s consuming you, taking your mind off important things.”

“That’s true, but my past—my life—is my business, not yours.”

“Of course, and everything in here is under the strictest confidence.” Mosley handed over the file. Ruby took it and flipped through it, morbidly curious. “This is the only copy, and it’s yours. I know all I need to know about you to know it would be a privilege working for you on this matter, as well as any others where I can be of value.”

“So, I’m clean, as they say,” Ruby said, a grin back on his face.

“Oh, there’s the usual petty bureaucratic graft, but nothing that sets you apart from your peers, certainly nothing that would preclude my taking your case.”

“And I intend to keep it that way.”

“Of course. I will say this. Your hostile takeover of your father’s company was a masterstroke. I’m just curious as to the why of it. You were his clear and uncontested heir apparent.”

“Let’s just say, his taste in women was his undoing....”

“Yes....” Mosley nodded. “Carolyn Duprée.”

Ruby’s smile dimmed. “You’re good. Maybe too good.”

The black man leaned forward in the chair, his manner turning grave. “As I told you, that file is the only copy, and you have my word that none of its contents will ever be revealed by me.”

“Even if I tell you to take a hike?”

“Yes, but you won’t.”

Now Ruby was curious. “Really, and why is that?”

“Because you’re a smart man who wants to leave nothing to chance, because you have a beautiful fiancée, whose affections may be turning elsewhere, because you have a growing business and you need someone to sweat the details, to watch for the things that fall between the cracks, someone to watch your back.”

“And that someone is you?”

“Yes,” Mosley said, sitting back in his chair. His eyes strayed to Joanna’s picture. His reaction was subtle but Ruby noticed. A moment later, he turned back to face his prospective employer. “Mr. Ruby, I’ve worked for myself for quite a number of years, and I’m good at what I do, but I’m looking for a bigger challenge. Your business and my skills look to be a good match.”

“One thing, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you cut a rather distinctive figure,” Ruby said, indicating Mosley’s natty attire with a wave of his hand. “If you’re going to follow my fiancée and Weller around, you don’t exactly...blend in.”

Mosley laughed. “When I was at Harvard, I had the privilege of being a member of the Hasty Pudding Theatricals. I can blend in anywhere. I might be that homeless derelict asleep on the park bench, the hotdog vendor on a street corner, a street musician outside the Arlington “T” station, or—”

“Or a security guard at my fiancée’s studio?”

“Or a security guard at your fiancée’s studio,” Mosley repeated, his sly grin matching Ruby’s.

“You’re very persuasive, Mr. Mosley. And my foreman, Tommy Cervino recommended you highly. He told me you know what you’re doing. But I’m also curious about something. You’re no dime-store gumshoe. How could Tommy’s cousin afford you?”

Mosley grinned. “Tommy’s cousin did me a favor when my Ferrari was stolen in the North End a couple of years ago. He was working in the little trattoria where my girlfriend and I were dining. Took a liking to me, I guess. Said I reminded him of one of the Celtics.”

“So, what happened with your car?”

“It was returned the next day...unharmed, not even a scratch. I gave him my card and told him to call me if he ever needed my help—on the house. When he suspected his wife was stepping out on him, he did.”

“I like a man who keeps his promises,” Ruby said, chuckling. “I assume Tommy’s cousin received favorable terms in the divorce settlement as a result of your help?”

“My evidence was indisputable.”

Ruby sighed and looked toward Joanna’s photo. “No pictures. I won’t have her degraded like that. I— I just need to know. What are your terms?”

“Two thousand per day, plus expenses.”

Ruby nodded and reached into his desk. He pulled out a bound stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills and tossed it to Mosley. “Here’s ten thousand to start. If you need more, ask me.” The black man glanced at the cash without reacting, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. That was good. Ruby didn’t trust naked greed.

He stood and offered Mosley his hand. “If, during the course of your investigation, you discover them together. I want you to call me. Immediately.”

“I wouldn’t advise confrontation,” Mosley said, shaking Ruby’s hand. “Situations like that can get ugly.”

“I appreciate that, but I’ll take the risk.”

“Okay, Mr. Ruby, it’s your dime.”

Mosley left moments later and Ruby sat down at his desk, his mind spinning. He couldn’t believe he’d just hired a man to spy on Joanna, yet he’d done that very thing. Soon, he would know the truth, and there was an odd comfort in that thought, even though it might mean the worst.

One thing he was sure about: Mosley was the right man for the job, and maybe the right man for a more permanent position. That remained to be seen. He had to admire the guy’s king-sized
cojones
, but he was a crackerjack salesman, too. And what he was selling was peace of mind. Time would tell if that would be the case. Time would tell....

19

JOANNA
SIPPED
FROM
HER
mug of herbal tea and turned her concentration back to her drawing. It was just before 8:00 and she’d been in her office since the school building opened at 5:45, leaving Erik snoring away in their bed. He’d come home late for the third night in a row, complaining about endless changes with his new building. And while she empathized with his plight, she was secretly glad he was too tired to initiate any intimacy.

Now, with her class beginning in a few minutes, she put the finishing touches on the idea for her new piece. It was something vastly different from her abstract machinery, something inspired by Brian. She smiled, remembering his “Tickle Monster” antics from the other night, her eyes finding the rose in its vase at the edge of her desk. It still flourished, showing only the barest of signs that it was beginning to die. A colleague advised her to put two aspirin tablets in the water, telling her it would keep the flower alive longer. She was right. The rose had opened, the petals spreading day by day into a glorious picture-book specimen.

A glance at the clock told her it was 8:00. Closing the sketchpad, she rose and tucked it under her arm, locking her office behind her. It was a quick walk down the corridor to her classroom.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, noting the glazed eyes on a few of her charges. No doubt a late night or two of partying to blame.

“Come on, now, it’s a beautiful February morning, and we’re going to do something a little different.”

A couple of her students groaned. One of them, she recalled, was on her potential fail list. She wasn’t going to let that spoil her mood, however. Moving to the side of the room, she dragged an easel front and center then propped her sketchpad onto it, flipping it open to the page she’d been working on. It was four views of two hands intertwined: a man’s and a woman’s.

“Oh, wow,” a reed-thin girl with bright blue hair said, her kohl-rimmed eyes bulging.

“Great job, Teach,” another added.

Joanna smiled, feeling a rush of pride. She’d taken the original four views of Brian’s hand and redrawn them with her own hand in his. As before, every detail was lovingly portrayed. Her students were awe-struck.

“Thank you,” Joanna said. “Now that I have your undivided attention, this is your assignment. I want you to try and reproduce this with your clay.”

The blue-haired girl looked as if she might choke.

“I know this is a quantum leap for most of you, but do the best you can. I promise not to grade you too harshly on this. It’s mainly an exercise. And I’m going to do it right along with you.”

“Then you’ll need to remember what you always tell us, Teach,” a longhaired boy said, grinning.

“Oh, and what’s that?” Joanna said, stifling her own grin.

“ALWAYS KEEP YOUR CLAY AT THE PROPER HYDRATION!” the class sang out.

Joanna laughed. “Well, at least you’ve all learned something!”

The class erupted in a chorus of giggles and groans.

“Okay, then,” Joanna said, clapping her hands, “let’s get to work.”

Two of the students brought out the clay, kept moist in a special container lined with a thick plastic bag. She had them distribute exactly three pounds to each student. A little more than necessary, perhaps, but it would give them a margin for error. She took her own glob of clay and began kneading it into the basic shape.

She’d decided to do the exercise last night when she realized that as well equipped as her studio was, she didn’t own a kiln to fire the piece when it was completed. The school did. And turning it into a class project assuaged the morsel of guilt she felt using the school’s kiln.

The clay felt moist and cool, and she loved the feeling of molding it, something she missed with her larger pieces. When it was done, she intended to put it on display as the centerpiece for her first show. Returning her thoughts to the task at hand, she started to hone the rough shape into the details that were burned into her mind.

“Feel free to come up and take closer looks at the sketches when you feel the need,” she told the class. “The more details you can see in your mind, the more precisely your mind will direct your hands.”

She looked down at her own piece and picked up one of the implements she’d laid out like a surgeon’s tools.

This one’s for you, my Sweet Writer.

Wrightson was going to drive Ruby to drink. First it was the exterior sheathing on the building, changing it from black granite to red granite, then back to black. Then it was the flooring for the lobby. He’d recommended faux malachite, which wore better and looked exactly like the real thing, but Wrightson demanded the real deal, that is, until he was told it would cost over $300,000 and would be cracking inside a year from all the foot traffic. He couldn’t fault the old guy for his taste, but he wished Wrightson would find something else to do, other than bother him with trivial details, details that piled on top of one another until they threatened to delay the project.

Ruby steered his Jaguar into the alley behind his building and rolled into his parking space, noting the dumpster had still not been emptied. He could see the old models for the building jutting out from under the lid. Damn sanitation department was the worst, although they couldn’t hold a candle to New York for incompetence. At least the streets here were clean.

Up in his office, Ruby checked his messages and found one from Mosley.

“Hi, Mr. Ruby,” he said between screeches of static. “Just wanted to give you an update. Please, give me a call when you get in.”

Ruby switched off the machine, picked up the handset and dialed. The investigator picked up on the first ring. “Mosley, here.”

“Anything new?”

There was a momentary squall of static and Mosley’s voice dropped out.

“—ear me, Mr. Ruby?”

“Sorry, got a bunch of noise in my ear.”

“I just passed an electrical substation. Happens sometimes.”

Ruby chuckled. “I know what you mean. So, what have you got?”

“Our boy, Weller has stayed close to home and hearth, for the most part,” Mosley said. “I’ve followed him back and forth from his apartment to his office several times over the last couple of days. And that’s pretty much it. Of course, phone records might show they’ve been talking.”

“Joanna told me he was helping her with the mailer for her show. He’s got a legitimate reason to talk to her.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I want you—” The static squalled again and Ruby waited, his patience wearing thin.

“Sorry, thought I’d lost you,” Mosley said when he came back on the line. “You were saying?”

“I was saying I want you to watch her studio,” Ruby snapped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to yell. I’ve got a lot going on and it’s getting to me.”

“No problem, sir. I’m on it. I’ll swing over there, now.”

“Okay, but hold off on the security guard gambit. She hasn’t mentioned it again, and it might make her skittish if she suddenly sees you there large as life. If something’s going to happen between her and Weller, I’d rather it happen sooner than later.”

“You’re the boss.”

“One other thing. You’re not driving the Ferrari, now, are you?”

“No, no,” Mosley said, sounding amused. “That’s my weekend car. This one’s a five-year-old silver Ford Taurus sedan with a dent in the left front fender, a cranky car phone and a wheezy air conditioner. Precisely the kind of car everyone sees every day...and forgets.”

Ruby grinned. “I like the way you think. Keep me posted.”

He hung up and sat back in his chair. For the last few days Joanna had floated around the house as if she were on cloud nine. Nothing could dent her happy mood. He knew what that meant, and the implications of that knowledge grew like a cancer in his gut. What did she see in that penniless pissant writer, anyway? What could he offer her except uncertainty?

Enough! Mosley was right. All this
was
consuming him.

Soon, he’d have his answers and then he would have to come to grips with them. He still didn’t know how he would handle it all and what he would do about Weller, but Ruby had a feeling Mosley would provide the spark of inspiration, whatever that might be. He just had to wait a little while longer.

They called patience a virtue. But that was a load of crap. It was purgatory for the soul. Nothing less.

Ruby forced his attention back to the Wrightson project. Now, this was something he could deal with. The old guy was tough, but Ruby understood tough. He didn’t pretend to understand the world in which his fiancée moved, and it didn’t matter. He just knew she belonged in his life. What was it about Joanna that enchanted and inspired him so? He stared at her picture and frowned. Sure, she was adorably beautiful, that was a given, but there was something else, something indefinable—something rare and precious....

He shook his head, a crafty smile curling his lips. If he could see this problem through, and his engagement survived it, he’d have the remainder of his life to unravel that little conundrum. And he could live with that just fine.

The last several days had been a whirlwind of activity. With Bob shuttling between two simultaneous commercial shoots in studios across town from each other, Brian was left with the burden of running the business, as well as keeping a seamless workflow through the edit suite. It gave him little time for anything else, including Joanna.

Taking a break, he picked up the phone and called Nick.

“Hey little brother, how’s it hanging?” the older man said in his characteristic wheeze.

“Busy as hell.”

“And since when has that been a problem?” Nick laughed.

“Did you get the text changes on Joanna’s mailer?”

“Sure did. Everything’s cool. She signed off on the revised proof yesterday and it’s in production. Should have it out to everybody right on time.”

“Great. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

There was a moment of silence before Nick coughed and resumed speaking. “Listen, kiddo, how about I spring for lunch today, or are you too freaking busy to eat?”

Brian chuckled. “No, not too busy for that.”

“Good, then meet me at the Bookstore Café at 12:30.”

“Why there?”

“’Cause I’m in an intellectual mood,” he said.

“All right, Brainiac, I’ll see you then.”

He hung up and turned back to what he’d been doing: a quick tweak on a spot for a local muffler shop. The phone rang. Brian picked it up and wedged the handset between his jaw and shoulder, while he cued the tape decks to make the next cut.

“Newbury Productions,” he said.

“That you, Slugger? You sound like one of those blow-dried announcers.”

“Dad?” Brian straightened up and grabbed the phone from the hollow of his neck to keep it from falling. There was something in the old man’s voice. “You okay?”

“Just a bit under the weather.”

“Sorry to hear that, but I’m sure you didn’t call me about that.”

“No...,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “Need a bit of advice from the other businessman in the family.”