Pros and Cons (2 page)

T
WO

Top of the Hill is located in Capitol Hill—hence the name. The decor is classy—or pretentious, depending on your point of view—the clientele upscale, and the drink prices outrageous. I'd been there before a couple of times but only because my adoptive family sometimes ran in elevated circles. I've never had much patience with elevated circles or the people within them.

I hoped I wasn't wearing my attitude on my sleeve when I stepped through the door the following Tuesday night.

Like every bar I've ever set foot in, the place was dimly lit, so my first impression when I stepped through the door was that I'd entered a cave. Tuesday isn't what I generally think of as a happening night at most bars, but Top of the Hill was crowded, the VIPs and wannabes flocking to the place in droves.

Unlike many trendy places, Top of the Hill wasn't designed to lure in twenty-somethings. The club reeked of power and money—things we twenty-somethings don't generally have a lot of—and I'd guess the median age of the patrons was in the mid-thirties. Most of the men had at least some gray at their temples, and many of the women would have had wrinkles if they weren't dipping into the Botox. It struck me that Heather would have looked out of place here, too young and unpolished. Why had she chosen this particular bar to drown her sorrows in after a nasty breakup? If it'd been me, I'd have been looking for somewhere . . .
fun
.

I made my way through the crowd toward the bar, looking all around me as I walked, searching for something that would ping my subconscious radar. Whatever mysterious hunting powers I'd inherited from Artemis functioned on a strictly unconscious level. The harder I tried to look for clues, the less likely I was to actually find them. I'd been overthinking things for as long as I could remember—a hard habit to break.

The music playing was something jazzy and instrumental, and the buzz of conversation was subdued for a bar. People were drinking, but at first blush, at least, no one seemed to be drunk. It made the place seem even stuffier than it was, and I felt like I was intruding on some country-club cocktail party rather than a public watering hole.

If the main room, with its decor of mahogany, crystal, and marble, wasn't exalted enough for you, there were a couple of semiprivate alcoves that, judging by the velvet ropes and bouncers around them, were the VIP areas. There was a crowd of younger folk in one of those alcoves, their voices louder than anyone else's. They'd probably be getting louder as the drinks flowed, and I wondered if that area might be more like a quarantine.

In keeping with the generally staid and stodgy theme of the club, the bartender was in his forties and wore a crisp white shirt that just
dared
drinks to spill on him. He moved with brisk efficiency, not being unfriendly to his customers but not hanging around to chat, either. I ordered a margarita I didn't really want and tried not to wince at the price.

The bartender, whose name tag declared him to be Mike, gave me a polite smile as he served my drink, but he was quick to move on to his next order. He was also the only one on duty behind the bar, and he was clearly overworked. Getting him to hold still for a conversation might be a challenge.

I drank about half of my margarita and fended off two unwanted advances as I angled for a better opportunity to get Mike the bartender to talk. I was just running out of patience when he was finally joined by a second bartender so he could slow down and take a breath. I then got his attention by spilling the rest of my drink. Let's just pretend I did it on purpose.

“I was wondering if I could ask you something,” I said, slipping him a more-than-generous tip as he cleaned up the spill.

His eyebrows rose, and he made eye contact briefly before he continued wiping down the bar. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I have a friend who met a man here early last month,” I said. “She was hoping to get in touch with him, but she only ever got his first name, so—”

The bartender rolled his eyes, and a look of disgust crossed his face. “Is your ‘friend' named Heather Fellowes, by any chance?”

Not the most promising start to our conversation. “Actually, yes, she is. I take it you know her.”

He tossed the bar rag aside with a little more force than necessary. “Unfortunately. And I've told her ten thousand times, I don't know the guy.”

Heather had mentioned that she'd asked around at the bar herself, but it sounded like she'd made a nuisance of herself. Nothing better than a client who plays amateur detective before hiring you and thereby pisses off anyone who might help.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” I said with a smile, hoping to take the edge off his annoyance. “I didn't realize she'd already talked to you.”

“Hmph,” he snorted, and started to walk away.

I continued on as if I hadn't noticed he was through with our conversation. “I realize you don't know the guy yourself, but might there be someone else who does? Maybe one of the waitresses?”

He looked like he was tempted to keep walking—Heather must have made quite a nuisance of herself—but he relented with a sigh.

“Look,” he said in what I'm sure he thought was a reasonable tone, “I remember seeing her with the guy. But she never leaves the bar without some rich older man on her arm, and they all kind of blur together. I doubt I'd be able to pick him out of a lineup, and the same goes for the rest of the staff.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So she's a regular here?” That, Heather had
not
mentioned.

His glance darted left and right, like he was looking for an excuse to blow me off. “I'll take another margarita,” I told him, pulling a twenty out of my purse. Good thing I'd stopped at the cash machine on the way.

At my unsubtle suggestion that another big tip was on its way, Mike decided the other bartender could handle the heavy lifting and stopped looking like he was going to bolt.

“I wouldn't say she's a regular,” he said. “But she's been in here more than once.” I might have been imagining things, but I thought there was a hint of pink in his cheeks. “She makes quite an impression, you know?”

I imagined Heather would be a knockout with some makeup and nice clothes. The frumpy look she'd affected the other morning had probably been intended to disarm me.

“I can imagine,” I said, sharing a conspiratorial smile. “So she's been here before and left with other men, huh?”

He nodded. “Not that I'm one to judge or anything. But yeah. She's a sucker for the geezers.”

The geezer on the stool next to me must have heard that during a lull in his own conversation. The bartender didn't see the dirty look the guy flung his way, and it was just as well. I didn't want him to start editing himself and clam up.

“And Doug was one of those ‘geezers'?”

“Nah,” the bartender said. “He was younger than her usual fare. But I'm sure he looked like a good catch, if you know what I mean. I don't know why she's so worked up about him, though. It's not like she can't have just about any guy she wants with a snap of her fingers.”

So Heather hadn't told him why she was looking for Doug. Not surprising, I suppose. She hadn't seemed comfortable sharing the secret even with me. Certainly she wouldn't be willing to confide in someone who already thought she was some kind of bimbo.

“Who waited on them that night?” I asked, but it seemed Mike had had enough of my questions, no doubt thanks to Heather's previous badgering.

“Take a look around you,” he said, grabbing for a clean dishrag. “This is what this place is like on a slow weekday night. On a Friday or Saturday, we'll have twice as many, easy. If you think there's anyone working here who pays that much attention to a customer who isn't a celebrity or a politician, you're nuts. I don't know who the guy was, and no one else does, either. Tell her better luck next time for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work.”

I had no choice but to let him go. If he hadn't already had his back up, I might have been able to coax some more details out of him, but clearly that wasn't the case tonight.

It was looking like Top of the Hill was a dead end, and finding someone there who knew the identity of Heather's mystery man had been my best hope of tracking him down. I was beginning to think the other P.I.s who'd turned down the case had been right. If the future of an innocent child weren't at stake, I might have decided it was just as well. I try not to be judgmental, but the portrait Mike had painted of Heather wasn't what I'd call a flattering one. My suspicion that she was looking for a sugar daddy was even stronger now, and I couldn't help wondering if this was the first time she'd “forgotten” to use protection.

But whether I liked Heather or not, whether I trusted her motives or not, her baby's future might depend on my ability to track down this Doug person. There would probably be no trouble finding a loving couple to adopt an infant—it wouldn't be like trying to find a home for a troubled four-year-old, I insisted to myself—but having spent so much of my time in the foster-care system, I didn't want to risk sending another child there because of my failure.

Maybe I was letting it get too personal. It was just a case, after all, and the only reason I'd taken it in the first place was to give me an excuse to stay away from the mansion for long periods of time. Even I couldn't be expected to succeed on
every
hunt.

And yet I found myself reluctant to call it a night and go back to the mansion, so I sipped at my margarita and kept scanning the club, looking for something I might have missed, some opportunity that no one but me would recognize.

Like I've said, my power is annoyingly nebulous, and it usually doesn't come out if I'm concentrating too hard. I was way too keyed up to do a good job of picking up subconscious clues, and all I saw was a crowd of rich, powerful people, drinking and mingling.

If it weren't for the margarita nibbling away at the edges of my concentration, I probably never would have noticed the flashes.

The party I'd glimpsed earlier in the VIP area was gaining momentum as the night wore on and the drinks kept coming. The ambient noise level grew progressively louder as those in the main room had to raise their voices to be heard over the partyers. The rousing, painfully off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” they shouted out had me wishing for earplugs and might well have chased me out of the bar if my eye hadn't suddenly been drawn to the flashing of the cameras as people took photos of the birthday boy.

There was nothing remotely remarkable about people taking pictures, especially not at a party. And yet, beneath the soft buzz of my drink, I felt an odd sort of compulsion in my gut, a need to take another look.

Why would flashing cameras draw my attention like that? The alcohol made my brain a little slower to catch up, but I practically smacked myself in the forehead when it did.

What if that VIP area was rented out to private parties on a regular basis? And what if there had been a party there on the night Heather met Doug? And what if someone at that party had taken pictures? Pictures that just happened to have Heather and Doug in the background?

It sounds like one hell of a stretch, I know. The chances seemed slim that anyone would have caught an image of Doug, and even slimmer that having a picture of him would in any way help me find him. But those flashes had pinged something on my subconscious radar, and I was trying to learn to listen to those pings more faithfully. Besides, it wasn't like I had anything else to go on.

Abandoning my drink, I went off in search of someone who might be able to tell me if anyone had been holding a private party on the first Friday night in December.

T
HREE

Usually, I'm very good
at coaxing information out of people, even stuff they shouldn't share with me. If I weren't any good at that, I'd have had to shut down my business about five minutes after opening. But that Tuesday night, my skills deserted me. I tried talking to Mike the bartender again, this time about the VIP area, thinking he might still have a soft spot for me and my big tips, but he was having none of it. I got just a tad rude at the end, which is why the manager came over and suggested I leave.

It was an ignominious ending to a tedious evening, and I was feeling both surly and a bit embarrassed as I entered my suite at the mansion well after midnight. At least, the excursion had served its primary purpose and kept me out of the house when Anderson was most likely to be looking for me.

The only information that I'd been able to get out of Mike before he lost patience with my questions was that the VIP lounge was booked by private parties virtually every night of the week, and the waiting list to book it for a Friday or Saturday night was several months long. I'd pissed him off before I even got around to asking him if I could see who had booked the lounge on the night in question, and after the way I'd botched things tonight, my chances of getting someone at Top of the Hill to talk to me seemed slim at best.

Luckily, I was not the only
Liberi
who worked for Anderson, and I had a house mate who might well make cooperation by the Top of the Hill staff unnecessary.

Leo Huff is a descendant of Hermes, the Greek god of commerce. He's an absolute genius with finance, and his work with stock markets around the world is enough to finance all nine people living in the mansion and then some. Above and beyond his financial wizardry, however, he's also an all-around computer expert and hacker. The guy had accessed police files for me in the past, and I had no doubt he could get into Top of the Hill's computer system. Assuming they kept their bookings on a computer somewhere—which was a damn good assumption, because who actually writes these things down these days?—Leo ought to be able to find out everything I needed to know.

His light was off when I returned to the mansion, so I didn't knock on his door for fear of waking him. Besides, he seemed more comfortable with email communication—he was so focused on his computers and the stock markets that sometimes the rest of us had to remind him to take a break and eat. I wrote him a succinct email, telling him exactly what I wanted to know and sending a link to the bar's website, in case it would help.

I slept in on Wednesday morning—which for me means I woke up at sunrise instead of before. It was early enough that I didn't expect anyone else to be up yet, so I was pleasantly surprised when I settled in on my couch with my laptop and a cup of coffee, meaning to scan my favorite news sites, and discovered I had a response from Leo.

The man is a freaking genius. Not only did he confirm that the lounge had been booked for a bachelorette party on the night in question, but he also had sent me a guest list, complete with names, addresses, and phone numbers.

It was way more than I had asked for, but then it had never occurred to me to ask for a guest list. The club probably needed it so the bouncers could keep out interlopers, but all they would need for that were names. I suspected that Leo had, in that incredibly thorough way of his, looked up each name on the list individually so he could give me contact information. If I could think of a way to repay the favor, I'd have done it in a heartbeat, but I had not yet come close to understanding Leo. I'd just have to owe him one.

Now all I had to do was come up with a way to persuade complete strangers to show me pictures from their party. Telling the truth wasn't an option. Not only would it violate Heather's privacy, but it would also sound terribly far-fetched. I wasn't even sure I could explain to
myself
why finding a photograph with Doug in the background might be important. It felt vaguely ridiculous in the cold light of day; however, one thing I'd learned about my powers is that they're stronger at night, when the moon is out. (As well as being a goddess of the hunt, Artemis is also a moon goddess.) Seeing the flashing cameras had felt important to me last night, and that probably meant it was.

No one was likely to believe I was looking at their photos in search of a complete stranger, so I immediately knew I was going to have to claim I knew Doug. When I reminded myself that the event that night had been a bachelorette party, I knew exactly what pretext I could use to persuade the attendees to let me look at their photos.

I debated whether to do my first round of investigations via the phone or in person. Phone calls would be a hell of a lot faster and more efficient; however, people were more likely to say no to an anonymous voice on the phone. My physical appearance screamed “harmless,” and I suspected people would be more likely to feel sorry for me when I spun out my tale if they were forced to look at me while I did. So door-to-door it was.

It made for a long and grueling day behind the wheel. Most of the women from the party had full-time jobs and therefore weren't home. I should have waited until evening to get started, but driving around and knocking on doors all day fulfilled my primary purpose of making myself unavailable to Anderson.

I did find one woman at home who had taken pictures that night, but though she was happy to let me look at them when she heard my story, I saw no sign of Heather or a man who might fit Doug's description. On the upside, she was able to tell me the names of several others who had definitely been taking pictures, so at least she narrowed my search for me.

I had spent more hours than I wanted to count on my day's errand, with little to nothing to show for it. On top of that, I ended up stuck in rush-hour traffic, which would try the patience of the most Zen person in the universe. So I was not in the best of moods when I rang the bell at the Georgetown town house of Katie Radcliff, one of the women I'd been assured had been taking a lot of pictures at the party.

I probably would have been wiser to stop somewhere and have a nice cup of coffee, decompress a bit after the traffic nightmare and my long day. Putting on my friendly, charming face was harder than it should have been, and I hoped I had enough energy for the acting job I was going to have to do.

The peephole darkened, though I hadn't heard any footsteps coming to the door. I lifted my chin a little and tried a tentative smile, projecting an image of small, harmless female. There was a pause and then a barely audible sigh. The door opened.

My immediate thought when I first caught sight of Katie Radcliff was “lawyer.” She wore a charcoal-gray skirt suit with a dusty-rose silk blouse. Her hair, which hung loose around her shoulders despite the top part being plastered to her skull by hairspray, rippled with the distinctive kinks of a braid that has been recently undone. On the floor at her feet were a pair of sensible but expensive black pumps and a crumpled pair of pantyhose.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing me warily as if suspecting I was going to try to sell her something.

I gave her another tentative smile and hoped I'd been wrong in my guess that she was a lawyer. Somehow, I didn't see an attorney being overly willing to share personal photos with me. “I hope so,” I said, then bit my lip as if nervous. “Caitlin Paulus thought you might be able to.” I figured dropping one of her friends' names might take the edge off of her wariness, and I was right. After all, no door-to-door salesman or Jehovah's Witness would know the name of one of her friends.

Katie shivered and opened the door wider. “Oh. Um, please come in,” she said. “It's freezing out there.”

I was happy to come in from the cold and considered the invitation a good sign. “Thanks,” I said as I stepped inside.

Katie closed the door, then turned to me with a look of polite inquiry. “Now, what can I do for you, Ms. . . . ?”

“Glass,” I answered, figuring there was no need for a phony name. It wasn't like I was doing anything illegal, after all. “But you can call me Nikki.”

She inclined her head. “What can I do for you, Nikki?”

I fidgeted nervously and averted my eyes, slipping into character. I don't know if it was the power suit or something about her facial expression, but my instincts told me Katie was a protective sort, so I tried to make myself seem fragile. “Umm,” I hedged, “it's a bit embarrassing and kind of personal.” If I could have willed myself to blush, I would have.

In the distance, a kettle started whistling furiously. “I was just going to make a cup of tea,” Katie said. “Would you like some?”

A quick glance at her face told me her curiosity was piqued, just as Caitlin's had been. I'm not a big fan of tea, but I'm also not one to pass up an opportunity that plops down onto my lap. “I'd love one, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling warmly. “Come on.”

Katie led me to a state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like something you would see in a model home. A pot rack displayed a selection of copper pots hanging over the center island, and a plain white teapot whistled away on the top of the high-tech gas stove. There wasn't a spot or a smudge on anything except the refrigerator, and I doubted Katie turned that stove on for anything more taxing than boiling water. No kitchen that people actually use is that pristine.

Katie pulled a pair of mismatched mugs from one of the cabinets, along with a variety box of herbal teas. I was happy to see mint as one of the choices—mint tea doesn't really taste like tea, and that was a point in its favor. I noticed Katie picked chamomile, and I wondered if that meant she'd had a rough day.

There were a couple of bar stools tucked under the far side of the granite counter, and that's where Katie and I took our cups of tea.

“So what is this embarrassing and personal situation I might be able to help you with?” she asked as we sat. There was a hint of amusement in her tone, but her face was open and friendly.

“This is going to sound a little strange, but bear with me for a moment.” I cleared my throat and took a tongue-searing sip of tea, still playing up my nerves. “I have reason to believe my husband is cheating on me.” I rubbed at the ring finger of my left hand, as if missing the wedding ring that should have been there.

Katie blinked. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she said. Her smile had turned into a puzzled frown, and I imagined she was mystified by the concept that she could help in this particular situation.

“A friend of mine was at this bar called Top of the Hill last month,” I continued, “and she told me she saw my husband there with some redhead hanging all over him. If I could get proof of that, it'll be a big help to me in the divorce.”

Her eyes widened just a bit in recognition when she heard the name of the bar. I wondered if she was mentally making the connection between her attendance at the bachelorette party and my imaginary cheating snake of a husband. Even if she was, I doubted she could guess what I was going to ask.

“I must admit,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “I'm really curious about how I could possibly be of help to you.”

“You were at Top of the Hill on the same night my friend spotted my husband,” I said.

“I see. And how do you know that?”

I fidgeted with my cup, suddenly feeling a little bad for my subterfuge. I'd only known Katie for about two seconds, but she was warm and friendly, and I liked her. I usually don't mind lying in the line of duty, but this felt more like I was taking advantage of her. It was too late to back out now, and my discomfort over the lie probably made my act even more convincing.

“I hired a private investigator to try to track my husband's movements. The P.I. found out about the party and got a look at the guest list.”

Katie's eyes narrowed at the invasion of her privacy, and I figured Top of the Hill was going to get at least one angry phone call tonight. I couldn't feel too bad for them. After all, Leo
had
managed to hack their files . . . never mind that he was good enough to access much more private files than that.