Quint Adler, P.I. (Quint Adler Thrillers Book 5) by Brian O'Sullivan

Author:Brian O'Sullivan [O'Sullivan, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

By 8:40 a.m., I was parked down the street from the Ballards’ spectacular home. I knew he was an architect, but the home was truly breathtaking and I couldn’t have imagined the price tag.

At 8:52 a.m., I saw a man leaving the house. I was a decent distance away, but the man looked to be around the same height and weight as myself. I looked back down at the information Marjorie had given me. Bruce Ballard was forty-four years old, six foot two and two hundred pounds. Almost identical to yours truly, except that I was a few years younger.

He was wearing a gray, fitted suit with a bright red tie.

I followed Ballard from his house at a great distance. I knew where his architecture firm was, so while I didn’t want to lose him, it wasn’t the end of the world if I did. Unless he was hitting up his mistress’s house on his way to work. If that were the case and I lost him, I was inept at my new job.

I didn’t lose him and arrived at the firm less than five minutes later.

As I pulled in, I was greeted with two signs. “BALLARD ARCHITECTURE” in big letters on top of the oval-shaped building. And right below that, “BRUCE BALLARD, FOUNDER.” I parked a good deal away and watched him pull into one of the parking spots directly in front of the building.

The perks of being the founder.

Bruce got out of his car and walked straight into the office. I had nothing to be alarmed about thus far. He’d driven directly from his home to his work.

I changed parking spots so I was a little bit closer to the front entrance. I parked behind another car that was able to shield me.

And while I waited, I brought up an email that I’d sent to myself with some contact numbers.

It’s almost like I was the one cheating on Marjorie Ballard, with the Ronnie Fisk case.

Before I called anyone from the list, I dialed Grant Fisk’s phone number.

“Hey, Quint.”

I wondered if everyone from the Fisk family now had my phone number saved.

“Grant, do you have Ronnie’s yearbooks?”

“Yeah, I do.”

A terrible thought came to mind. Would the Fisks have received a yearbook with Ronnie having died midway through the year?

“Hate to ask, but did you guys get an 8th-grade yearbook?”

“Yes, we did. Willard Middle made sure we got one. In fact, there was a page dedicated to Ronnie.”

“That’s nice to hear, Grant.”

“That’s not why you called, though.”

“No, it’s not. Can you check to see if they have the basketball schedule listed?”

I thought I’d get the fifth degree, but it wasn’t to come.

“Sure,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

I looked towards the entrance to Ballard Architecture, but nothing was going on.

“You there, Quint?”

“I’m here.”

“No schedule. A picture of the kids with the coach. And then a few in-game photos. That’s it.”

“Alright. Thanks, Grant.”

“That’s it?”

“For now, yeah. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Take care,” Grant said and hung up.

No luck thus far.

I looked back down at the first number on the email to myself.

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