Smoking Ruin by D. R. Martin

Author:D. R. Martin [Martin, D. R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Conger Road Press
Published: 2012-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Jennifer and I watched Denny march out, and she came over to me.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew he was going to terminate you. But it wasn’t my place to say anything. Not until we know what’s in Daddy’s will.”

“That’s okay,” I said, almost cracking a smile, picturing a younger Arnold Schwarzenegger swooping down on me, naked on a Harley. What a way to go!

“I expected it. Hell, why not? That’s the second time he’s fired me.”

I hadn’t figured Jennifer for a new pal, but she asked me to stay a few minutes. She had some questions. Seeing as how I was suddenly at liberty, I thought, why not?

Like an obedient puppy, I followed her into the kitchen. It was bigger than my living room, with sapele mahogany cabinets and engraved glass all around. Her stove was one of those tank-like, commercial gas jobs, and they’d built the fridge into the wall behind a pair of sapele doors. She perched on a tall stool next to her espresso machine, a big red Gaggia—the kind you’d see in a coffee cafe.

“I have a favor to ask,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. There was no inflection in her voice

“If I can help, Jennifer, I will.”

She tapped her fingers rapidly on the fancy tile counter. “If you honestly feel you have more to give to this matter—” She stopped tapping. “What I’m saying, Marta, is—” She stared at me intently, and decided. “I’d like to hire you to continue this inquiry.”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “But the sheriff’s office’ll handle the murder investigation and look into the alleged terrorist plot. Doesn’t seem much more for me to do.”

“Probably so. But I know I’d feel lots better if I knew I had someone working directly for me.” She climbed down off the stool, went over to one of the sinks and closed the stopper. She started the water, squirted in some detergent, and began washing dirty wine goblets.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me. “I have that dish washer unit there, but this kind of calms me down. Sort of like meditation, I’ve always thought.”

I trotted over, grabbed a cream-colored linen dish towel, and started drying for her. I set the dried items on the marble counter one by one, off to the side.

“So,” I said after a long silence, “you’d like me to keep on just as if I were working for Denny.”

“Right. Do what you think needs doing, let me know how it’s going. Keep track of hours and expenses. Quit when you feel like it, or when I tell you to.”

“Fair enough.”

“What’s your rate?”

“Seventy-five an hour.”

“Sounds good.” She rinsed the last goblet and handed it to me. “So what’ll you do next?”

“I’d like to interview more people locally. Like Harry Litzky, who I really haven’t visited with yet. Then I want to get someone in San Diego to look into your dad’s associations there. I mean, he spent just as much of his adult life on the Coast as here.

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