Light in Shadow (4 page)

The inner office was furnished with the same kind of window treatment and the same type of substantial, old-fashioned, masculine pieces she had seen in the other room. She had to admit that they invoked a certain period atmosphere and made a statement that suited the fictional image of the private investigation business.

But in her opinion, the client chair in which she sat was far too large and too overwhelming to make a visitor feel comfortable. Furthermore, Truax's massive desk was not in the right place in the room to create the best energy flow. In addition there was a mirror hanging on the wall that was both badly proportioned and badly positioned.

Several heavy metal filing cabinets were lined up side by side against the rear wall. They were ancient and not particularly attractive, but she supposed an investigator needed a place for files.

New bookshelves had been recently installed on either
side of the door. Unfortunately, Truax had chosen to go with inexpensive metal shelving that did nothing to add to the ambience of the room. Half of the shelves were already loaded with volumes. She could see more of the same sort of impressive, academic-looking tomes she had seen in the packing box outside.

Who would have expected a private investigator to possess a serious book collection? Maybe her concept of the profession, formed as it had been by mystery novels, television, and old films, was not entirely accurate.

Ethan's surroundings did not answer her silent questions; instead they raised new ones and made her all the more curious about him.

One thing was clear, he commanded his space; it did not command him.

Ethan opened a desk drawer, took out a yellow notepad, and put it on the desk in front of him. “Why don't we start with your name?”

“Zoe Luce. I own a design firm here in town. Enhanced Interiors.”

“You're a decorator,” he said flatly.

“Interior designer.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you have some sort of underlying hostility toward people in my profession?”

“I had a bad experience with a decorator once.”

“Well, for the record,” Zoe said, “I think that I'm having a really bad experience with a private investigator. This could color my attitude toward folks in your field for years to come.”

He tapped the pen on the notepad and contemplated her in silence for a while.

“Sorry,” he said eventually. “Let's try this again. What do you want me to do for you, Zoe Luce?”

“I thought we were going to talk about money first.”

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.” He put down the pen, rested his arms on the desk, and linked his fingers. “Like I said, if you're shopping by price, you're stuck with me. My hourly
rates are considerably less than those charged over at Radnor, and I have only a two-hour minimum.”

That news had an elevating effect on her mood. “What about expenses? Mileage and meals, that kind of thing?”

“You aren't responsible for mileage or meals within the city limits. You will be billed for miscellaneous expenses and for any costs incurred if I have to travel outside Whispering Springs. Don't worry, you'll get receipts.”

He thinks I'm an idiot.
Annoyed, she crossed her legs very deliberately. She sat back into the depths of the voluminous chair, trusting to fate that she would not get eaten alive by the monster, and smiled coolly.

“In that case, I would like to purchase the minimum two hours,” she said. “I'm sure the job won't take even that much time.”

“Background check on a new male acquaintance?” he asked with no inflection.

“Good heavens, no, nothing like that.” She frowned. “Do you get a lot of requests like that?”

He shrugged. “Not yet. You're my first client here in Whispering Springs. But it was a fairly common request in L.A.”

“I guess that isn't so surprising.” She considered the subject for a few seconds. “I mean, it makes a lot of sense to check out a potential date if you think things might get serious.”

“Especially in L.A.,” he agreed dryly.

“All I want you to do is locate someone.”

“Who do you want me to find, Miss Luce?” He paused with an air of grave politeness. “It is Miss, isn't it? Or should I call you Ms. or Mrs.?”

“I'm not married,” she said very precisely. She did not want him calling her Miss or Ms. Luce. It sounded ridiculously formal. She also did not want him inquiring into her past marital status. “Make it Zoe.”

“Fine. Who do you want me to find, Zoe?”

She breathed deeply and prepared to pick her way through the minefield. She needed to give him enough
information to do his job but not enough to make him conclude that she was loony-tunes. And she definitely did not want to give him the kind of details that would arouse any curiosity about her personally.

“I would like you to find a woman named Mrs. Jennifer Mason. I can give you her last address here in town. I believe she lived there until a few months ago.”

He unlinked his fingers, picked up the pen again, and began making more notes on the yellow pad.

“Friend of yours?” he asked without looking up. “Relative?”

“Neither. She's the wife of a man named Davis Mason. He lives in Desert View.”

Ethan did glance up at that. “The fancy gated golf-course community just outside of town?”

“Yes. Mr. Mason recently hired me to redesign the interiors of his residence.”

“Residence,” Ethan repeated neutrally. “Would that be what you interior decorators like to call a house?”

Ethan Truax was becoming more irritating by the minute.

“In the field of interior
design,
” she said, emphasizing the last word, “the word
residence
is generally felt to be a more gracious term for a client's living space. The term conveys a sense of permanence and elegance. It implies a cultivated lifestyle. People like to associate those qualities with their homes.”

“A lifestyle thing, huh?” He looked amused.

“Of course, if you have trouble with the longer word,” she added sweetly, “please feel free to use the shorter one.”

“Thanks, I'll do that. Any idea where Mrs. Jennifer Mason may have gone?”

“No. Davis, her husband, told me that she walked out on him a couple months ago and that they are in the process of getting a divorce. I just want to confirm that fact.”

Ethan raised his brows. “Are you sure this isn't a background check on a potential date?”

“Davis Mason is a client,” she said coldly.

“If that's the case, why are you so concerned with the whereabouts of his not-quite-ex-wife?”

The question worried her. “Do you need to know my reasons before you agree to take the job?”

“No. Not at this point, at any rate.”

“Your ad in the phone book stresses your concern for privacy and confidentiality.”

“That was my uncle's ad, not mine.”

A whisper of uncertainty tingled through her. She rested her hands on the overstuffed arms of the big chair, preparing to push herself up out of its cushioned jaws.

“If you intend to alter what I took to be the long-standing business practices of this agency,” she said, “I'd like to know about it before this conversation goes any further. As you pointed out, I do have another option.”

He put down the pen and leaned back in the chair. “There will be no change in this firm's concern for client confidentiality.”

“Good.” She relaxed a little.

“But I like to know as much as possible about what I'm getting into before I start an investigation.”

It was her turn to raise her brows. “I'm here because I was under the impression that one consults a private investigator when one does not wish to explain all the reasons why one needs that particular type of professional assistance.”

His hard mouth quirked a little. “Is that right?”

She was simmering now, but she felt trapped by financial considerations and the tight time frame. She needed answers and she needed them before Friday. “Do you want this job or not, Mr. Truax?”

“I want it. Sorry, if the questions bother you, but I'm just gathering information. It's what I do, Zoe.”

“All I want is for you to locate Mrs. Jennifer Mason. How hard can that be for a professional investigator? Surely it's just a matter of checking to see if she's using her credit cards or checkbook, right? Any high school kid could probably do it.”

“Yeah. Lately I've started to worry a lot about the competition from high school kids.”

Now she knew for certain that he was mocking her. She shoved herself halfway up out of the chair. It wasn't easy disengaging herself from the mouth of the beast.

“If you feel that the job is beyond your abilities,” she said grimly, “or that you can't do it without additional information, just say so and I'll go find myself a bright high school kid.”

“Sit down.” He paused. “Please.”

It was not an order, not exactly. How could it be? It wasn't as though he could force her to sit back down in the big chair. The problem was that she had been bluffing, and he had guessed as much.

She sat. “Do you or do you not intend to investigate?”

“I'll find Mrs. Jennifer Mason for you. But I'd better make one thing clear. I'm not going to give you any contact information unless and until I'm sure she wants you to know where she is. Understood?”

That caught her off guard. “Wait a second. Do you think I want to know her current address so that I can do something to her?”

“It happens.”

She shuddered. “Yes, I suppose it does. Well, rest assured, I don't care where she lives. I have no intention of contacting her.”

“You just want to know that she's out of Davis Mason's life, is that it?”

He wasn't going to let it go until she came up with a convincing reason for wanting to check on the whereabouts of Jennifer Mason. Maybe the easiest way to handle this was to take the first excuse he had offered.

“All right,” she said, trying to sound resigned. “As you suggested, this is a personal matter for me. Davis is a client but he is also a successful, intelligent, attractive man, and he seems interested in me, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh-huh. I know what you mean.”

She glared, suspicious of his tone, but he just sat there, waiting. She recognized the tactic. Dr. McAlistair, her therapist at Xanadu had employed it. The interrogation technique was based on the fact that most people were uncomfortable with silence, got nervous, and tended to start talking to fill the vacuum.

The realization that Truax was attempting to use the same approach as McAlistair pissed her off. She reminded herself that it was nothing personal in Truax's case. He just wanted answers.

“As I told you, Davis led me to believe that he's getting divorced. I'd like to be sure that he's genuinely free, or about to become free, to engage in another, uh, serious, committed relationship.”

Ethan did not move, but his eyes never left her face. “Okay.”

She was not sure how to take that. “Okay? You mean you'll get busy and investigate now?”

“No.”

“That does it, I've had enough.” She did get out of the chair this time. All the way out. “I've asked you to do a simple search and I've given you my reason, even though it was extremely personal and I resent the probe into my private life. What more can you possibly want?”

“An advance for two hours' worth of my time. Credit card, check, or money order will be fine.”

“Does this mean you're taking the job?”

“Yes, ma'am. Like you, I'm not in a position to be real choosy at the moment. I'm trying to get a business up and running here.”

She yanked open the tote and pulled out her wallet, removed a credit card, and tossed it onto the desk. “Here. Get busy.”

He picked up the card, got to his feet, and went to a small side table where a credit card machine sat.

She watched him punch in some numbers and swipe her card. “You know, I can't help but notice that even though you haven't had time to set up your computer, you've
managed to get your credit card authorization machine connected.”

“First things first.”

“I can certainly see how you rank your priorities, Mr. Truax. Always get paid in advance, is that it?”

“I'm not running a charitable foundation.”

“Don't worry, I'd never in a million years make the mistake of thinking that you might be the benevolent type.” She gave the office another critical glance while she waited for the machine to spit out the credit card slip. If she had any sense, she would keep her mouth shut, she thought. But she could not resist the urge to give him some free advice. “You know, if I were you, I'd get a smaller client chair. This one is too large. It's not inviting.”