Racing the Light (An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel)

1

My office occupied a two-room suite four floors above Santa Monica Boulevard on the western edge of Hollywood. Most of my business came by referral from attorneys or satisfied clients, but Do-It-Yourself parties often found me online. Prospective clients usually reached out by phone or email, most to inquire about price or learn whether I could help with their problem. Some only wanted to vent. Making an appointment was encouraged. Venters were not. Walk-in business was rare.

On the day she came to my office, the sky was unnaturally clear, a clarity so abnormal the City of Angels seemed bathed in a nuclear glow. The French doors to my balcony offered an unobstructed view to the sea, but the glare was so bright I found myself squinting. The French doors were usually open, but that day they were closed. The heat.
By ten-oh-seven, I had filed two reports and returned three calls. Another backbreaking day at the office.

I said, "How about we grab a sandwich and fight crime tomorrow? Sound good?"

The Pinocchio clock on the wall beside the door to my partner's office had a long nose, a jaunty yellow cap, and bulging eyes. The eyes slid side to side, but Pinocchio didn't answer. He never answered, but he always listened.

I said, "Okay, then, let's do it. I'm starving."

At ten-oh-nine, I was packing up when the outer door opened and a woman in a tailored navy pantsuit stepped in from the hall. She was tall and square-shouldered, and her sleek black hair was pulled into a short ponytail. A man in an expensive, summer-weight gray suit followed her. The man was maybe six-three, broad, and sported hands the size of catcher's mitts. They wore their suits like uniforms.

The woman eyed me with a casual curiosity.

"Elvis Cole?"

I leaned back and considered her.

"He's downtown with the mayor. Was he expecting you?"

The woman drifted closer as her friend circled to the French doors. He looked outside, opened the doors, stepped out, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He peered over the rail, then checked overhead as if he expected Spider-Man to swing down from above. When he looked up, his jacket opened and a holster peeked out. I made them for federal agents or bill collectors.

"If you guys aren't building inspectors, I charge for my time."

The man stepped inside and went to my partner's office. The door was closed.

The man said, "Anyone home?"

I leaned farther back until my chair squeaked.

"Marines. Go in. Say hi."

The big man peeked inside and glanced at the woman.

"He's alone."

I leaned forward and touched the edge of my desk. A Dan Wesson .38 Special revolver waited in the drawer, but the drawer and the pistol were a mile away.

"Are you going to tell me what you want, or do I have to guess?"

They turned without a word, returned to the outer office, and the big woman opened the door. A small, older woman clutching an enormous brown purse entered. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and looked to be in her seventies. Her wispy hair was more gray than not, and her thin, flower-print dress looked shabby. She glanced at me, glanced quickly away, and turned to the woman in the blue suit. She appeared uncomfortable.

The woman in the blue suit gave her a gentle smile.

"We'll be right outside, Ms. S. Take as much time as you like."

"Thanks so much, Wendy."

Wendy and her partner left, and Ms. S finally looked at me. She raked threads of hair behind an ear, but they floated free and drifted toward the ceiling.

"You're Mr. Cole? The detective?"

I stood, hoping she couldn't hear my stomach grumble.

"I am. And you?"

She came to my desk and held out a weathered hand. She was one of those people who should've avoided the sun, but hadn't. Faint spots and fine creases covered her skin.

"My name is Adele Schumacher. Forgive me for not phoning first. I don't care for phones."

I glanced toward the hall.

"And them?"

"Wendy and Kurt?"

She frowned as if my question was odd.

"They're my helpers."

I nodded. Helpers.

"I apologize for showing up without an appointment. If now isn't a good time, I could wait or come back later if you'd-"

I held up a hand, stopping her.

"I think I can fit you in. Please, sit."

She sat in one of the leather director's chairs across from my desk. I took my seat again, facing her.

"All right, Ms. Schumacher, how can I help?"

"You find missing persons."

A statement of fact.

"Among other things, yes. We offer a wide array of services."

We. This was the detective presenting himself as a multinational corporation....