He Will be My Ruin
Page 31

“Would you happen to know of one who is good at more than catching cheating spouses?”
He sighs, and then, digging into his wallet, he pulls out a business card and tosses it on the table. “Call for an appointment and drop my name. He’s one of the better guys. Honest. Well connected. But he’s not cheap. Not that I imagine that matters much to you. Just don’t tell him that.”
So the good detective looked into me. I wonder if he’s getting a referral rate for this.
I stand. “So, if I hire this . . . ,” I read the card, “Douglas Murphy, and he finds compelling evidence, you’ll reopen the case?”
“I’d definitely have something to bring to my superiors. But keep in mind, Miss Sparkes . . .” Kind, weary eyes settle on me. “Dougie can’t find something that doesn’t exist.”
————
My nose is assaulted by a mixture of cigarette smoke, musky perfume, and floral air freshener the second I push through the door.
“Mista Murphy will be with you in a moment,” the woman behind a chunky old metal desk announces, her Brooklyn accent thick and nasally. She gestures with neon-orange painted claws toward the plum-colored armchair across from her before picking up the phone and punching in a button. “Yeah. She’s here.” Chomping on a piece of gum, twirling a strand of long, shiny black hair between her fingertips, she’s exactly how I pictured her when I called earlier to make the appointment. Right down to the faux fur shrug. “’kay.”
Her nails click away at the keyboard at a furious tempo while I sit and survey the interior of the Brooklyn brownstone where PI Douglas Murphy keeps office. A few cracks run along the plaster on the ceiling, but otherwise it’s in decent shape. The old oak floors look like they’ve recently been sanded down and revarnished, and an eclectic mix of office furniture gives the space a trendy feel.
The office is in a relatively quiet residential area not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. No signs are posted out front, no stickers on the window. Nothing that would indicate that a business operates here. I wonder if that’s for privacy reasons or because of zoning issues.
Heavy footsteps sound, first above my head, then moving quickly down a set of stairs, as if running. The bell rings and a short, bald man—no more than five-foot-four—shoves through the door. “Miss Sparkes?” He sticks a hand out and I take it, wincing as he squeezes too hard. “Come in, come in,” he urges, already moving toward a small office off to the side.
I’m barely in before he kicks the door shut, the translucent glass pane rattling with the force. “So, Chester sent you?”
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s talking about Detective Childs. “Yes. He said you may be able to help me. Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”
“All right, lay it on me.” He practically jumps into his chair, but not before I catch him doing a lightning-quick once-over of me—of my jeans and one of Celine’s nicer sweaters, of my short but tidy red nails, of my leather boots and Celine’s Kate Spade purse. I did my best to dress “average”—not like I had enough money to get taken for a ride, but not like he’d have to worry about getting paid.
I spend the next fifteen minutes walking him through Celine’s “suicide” and the bits and pieces that I’ve discovered so far, while he madly scribbles notes down that are beyond illegible to the common eye. It makes me think of my meeting with Jace and how efficient but calm and composed and neat he was, compared to this frantic little man in front of me.
“So you think she didn’t kill herself.” His accent isn’t Brooklyn-strong like his receptionist’s, but there’s no doubt he’s a born-and-bred New Yorker.
“I realize it may seem a little far-fetched, but if you knew Celine, you’d understand.” Though I’m beginning to wonder how much I really knew her. Or who she had become, anyway.
“And you want me to look into this guy?” He holds up the picture of Jace.
“Into him, into this ‘L’ person. Into Celine. Anything that can help me understand exactly what happened and why. There’s more to this than the police think. I’m sure of it, Mr. Murphy.”
“Call me Doug.” He tosses the pen against the desk. “Okay, my rates are as follows . . .” He flies through a list of costs—surveillance and monitoring costs, mileage, background checks, GPS checks, special equipment costs, extra costs if he needs to hire additional experts—and ends with his retainer fee, which, as Detective Childs warned, requires a lot of zeros. No 40K-a-year average American could afford to hire him without taking out a loan.
He sticks a hand out. “The diary? The florist card?”
With slight hesitation, I dig through my purse and hand them to him.
“I’m working on three other cases right now, but I’ll get started on this as soon as the check clears. I’ll need a number where I can access you at all times for questions and check-ins.”
“Good, because I insist on getting very regular updates.”
“And give me her cell number, too.”
I scribble the numbers down on a piece of paper instead of handing him my business card. The less he knows about me, the better.
“Did she have a desktop or laptop?”
“Desktop. I could bring the tower—”
He cuts me off with “I’ll swing by the apartment. Donna!” He hollers.
Heels click across the oak floor outside at a rapid tempo and the door pushes open. “Yeah, hun?”
He holds up my check. “Be a doll and take this down to the corner so we can clear it and get started.”
She plucks it from his fingertips with a wink and then leaves, her electric-blue pleather pants and waggling ass capturing Doug’s attention until she’s gone. “Okay!” He drums his desk with open palms. “Expect my call later today or tomorrow, latest. Are you talking to this guy anytime soon?”
“Later today. I have an appointment at his office.” Natasha left another brash message on my voice mail. I called back and agreed to meet him at six.
“’kay. Don’t let on that you know anything about him and your friend. That’ll make him paranoid, and that makes it harder for me to do my job.”
“Should I just cut off all communication?” It wouldn’t be hard. I could tell him that I’ve changed my mind about the investments.