Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) (3 page)

“No shit?” The words flew out
before I could catch them. “Pardon me; I mean, really
?”

Cecilia smiled, apparently pleased with herself that she knocked me
off guard. “Indeed, Mr. Logan. I had a conversation with
them at which time we discussed the possibility of bringing
in a fresh set of eyes. The detective in charge
of the investigation immediately recommended you.”

“The detective in charge
—and who might that be?”

“Lieutenant Ron Bergstrom.”

Ron Bergstrom
. We knew Ron, but only barely. He’d given us
some advice on serial killers when we searched for Gina
Fiore last year. Ron had seemed like a sharp enough
guy at the time, but he was our one and
only contact. I had no idea why he’d refer
the Wards to us. Based on the way this conversation
was going, though, it was starting to look like I
was going to find out soon enough. Besides, if I
had to guess, I’d guess that Cecilia would probably
settle for nothing less. She was a formidable, determined woman
.

I glanced at Toni—the other formidable, determined woman in
the room. Her face was a mask—I couldn’t
read her. Except for a few questions here and there
, she’d hardly said a word so far. In fact
, now that I realized that, her failure to raise any
of the obvious questions this case posed was starting to
register in my brain: she had an agenda, something she
’d noticed. I looked at her, and I know she
saw me, but she refused to look my way.

I
turned back to Cecilia. “Okay—fair enough. You asked when
I could give you an answer. If you’d be
so kind, please allow us the rest of the day
to talk with Lieutenant Bergstrom, check with the appropriate parties
, and meet among ourselves. How about if we have you
a final answer in the morning?”

She pushed her chair
back. “Excellent, but do hurry.” This was our cue, and
we all stood up. She reached across the table and
shook our hands. “We very much look forward to working
with the two of you, along with the other members
of your team.” She smiled. “And—since I’m confident
you’ll soon be on board, I’d like you
to have a look at this.” She reached into her
purse and pulled out an invitation and handed it to
me. I read it quickly:

You are cordially invited
to
attend a private luncheon ceremony

marking the dedication of the

Sophie Thoms Memo
rial Fund

for African families in need of
assistance.

The ceremony will be held at
noon on the
afternoon of

Saturday the 20th of October 2012

in the

Spanish Ballroom at the
Fairmont Olympic Hotel in
Seattle, Washington
.

“We’d love it if the two of you
could attend tomorrow. We could introduce you to some of
the people you’ll probably want to speak with during
the course of your investigation.”

“Tomorrow?” I nodded, surprised and
trying to picture our schedule. “Okay, thank you.” I looked
down at the invitation. “Assuming everything goes as expected this
afternoon, I suppose this would be a good place to
start.”

Cecilia nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Thank you
very much,” Oliver said, stepping forward to shake my hand. “
We’d be very grateful if you could help us.”

They turned to leave, and I remembered something I’d
meant to ask. “You know, I do have one question
before you go.”

She stopped and looked at me. “Yes?”

“
Before we started, Oliver said that we came highly recommended.”

She smiled. “Allow me to explain. Does the name Andrew
Hayes ring a bell?”

It did. I smiled. “MI5 Andrew
Hayes?” If it was the same Andrew Hayes, we’d
had the opportunity to work with him earlier this year
on a different case. “Do you know Andrew?”

She shook
her head. “Personally, no. But Andrew happens to be good
friends with my brother—they attended Queen’s College together.
When Mr. Bergstrom recommended your company to me, I talked
this over with Jacob, naturally. He, in turn, contacted Mr.
Hayes to check you out. Turns out Andrew didn’t
need to check you out—he not only knew you,
he was able to immediately recommend you without reservation. I
believe he said you were ‘the bull in the china
shop’ that this case sorely needed.”

I chuckled. “Bull in
the china shop.”

“Exactly. It’s not meant to be
derogatory,” Cecilia said. “Look at it this way. Somewhere out
there, my niece’s killer is watching—laughing, even. With
every day that goes by, the trail becomes one day
colder, and he becomes one day safer. I’m sure
you’ll agree that a bull in the china shop
is exactly what this case needs.”

C
hapter 2

I WALKED
BACK TO MY OFFICE
while Toni walked the Wards to
the lobby. Logan PI was in the midst of a
distressingly recurrent cash-flow crisis, and I was eager to
look for solutions. When I realized that I’d left
my notepad in the conference room and walked back to
get it, I glanced out the conference room window that
overlooked the parking lot on the south side of our
building and was surprised to see that Toni had walked
Cecilia all the way down to their black Mercedes. Oliver
was following and holding a black umbrella for the two
women. I watched them as they talked by the car
for a few seconds when suddenly, I was even more
surprised to see Toni lean forward and hug Cecilia and
then Oliver before they got in the car.

Really? I
mean, she’s known them, what, a little over an
hour? And already, she’s saying good-bye with a
hug? I shook my head. Toni’s about a thousand
times better with people than I am.

Could be it’
s a gender thing. I didn’t used to pay
any attention, but now I’m starting to notice that
with guys, we tend to talk, ask questions, process information,
and then move on. Not much in the way of
subtleties, not much nuance—usually not much emotion unless we
get pissed off for some reason. For us, things are
pretty much black and white, thank you very much. Since
I’ve been with Toni, I’ve learned that with
women, it’s way different. They look for—and often
seem to find—hidden layers of meanings, feelings, and whatnot—
the kind of stuff guys like me never even see—
the crap that goes right past us. Women find messages
inside of messages. “What do you think she meant by
that?” Toni would say after we’d leave a conversation
with someone. I’d look at her, confused, and then
I’d shrug. “I don’t know. Probably meant just
what she said.” She’d give me a look that
basically said I was completely hopeless. Fifty shades of gray?
Yeah, I’d say . . . at least.

In early 2007 I
was still in the army stationed at Fort Lewis. I
was taking classes part-time at the University of Washington,
working on my bachelor’s in law, societies, and justice—
the U-Dub’s version of a criminal justice degree.
I was already a senior when I met Toni. We
shared several classes together that semester. I was obviously struck
by her—she was drop-dead gorgeous—medium tall, slick
black hair, striking tattoo on her left arm. Plus, she
was smart and very nice to me to boot—something
that I didn’t take for granted, since I was
unmistakably a soldier and the war in the Middle East
was not all that popular on the U-Dub campus
back then. But the furthest thing from my mind then
was that in less than six years, that beautiful woman
and this former army grunt would fall in love and
live and work together. I’d have sooner thought I’
d win the lottery or maybe go to the moon.

Toni joined me when I started Logan PI in early
2008 right after we both graduated and I was discharged.
After four years of professionally inspired “noninvolvement,” we finally connected
early this year. Now, seven months later, things are clear
to me. Toni was
it
—she is the one for
me. I’m not saying I’m ready to actually
get down on one knee and propose—I’m not
quite there yet. But for me to even be
thinking
about the M word is pretty mind-blowing. I’m
sure my head hasn’t fully caught up with my
heart, but I am getting there.

Which causes me no
small amount of consternation given the nature of our job.
I turned and made my way back to my office.
In the past year alone, I’d managed to put
Toni into situations where she’d been jumped by assailants,
kidnapped, drugged and left to die in a burning barn,
been shot at, and forced to confront a gang of
lecherous drug-addled pimps in order to save my sorry
ass. Through it all, she came through better than I’
d ever hoped. She doesn’t seem to get scared—
she mostly gets mad. Sometimes, I think she’s as
tough as I am. Other times, I’m pretty sure
she’s tougher. And she’s smart and has a
detective’s intuition to boot. But the closer we’ve
grown, the more I worry about her.

I’d just
opened a budget spreadsheet when she walked in. She plopped
down in the chair across from me and, as is
her habit, propped her Doc Martens up on my desk. “
So what do you think?” Her eyes were sparkling as
she grinned at me while giving her gum a real
workout.

I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Interesting case.”

She stopped chewing,
cocked her head and looked at me like I’d
said something funny. Not hee-haw funny, but weird funny. “
Interesting case? Okay. Let me put it to you another
way. What do you think about the wealthy British family—
royalty, practically—that seem to have decided that none other
than little ole’ Logan PI is the only outfit in
Seattle that can help them bring their daughter’s killer
to justice? What do you think about that? Is that
the kind of case you might happen to think would
be good for our reputation? Our careers?” She shrugged. “Just
askin’.”

I smiled. I knew Toni’s style well by
now, and I’d seen and experienced most of her
methods. Often, when she wanted to make a point with
me, she started by questioning me, probing, to see if
she could get me to commit one way or the
other. I was wise to this, so I decided to
flip the Q & A session back her way—see if
I could get her to speak first. I shrugged, continuing
to stare at the spreadsheet and act at least a
little disinterested. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”

She gave me a hard look, then she shook her
head and laughed. “Jesus, Logan. What is this? A test?”
She stared at me for another couple of seconds, then
she nodded and smiled—a sly little smile. “Okay. You
want to play devil’s advocate. You want me to
go first.” She nodded, then hopped up. “Alright, Mr. Smarty
Pants, I’ll bite. How about this.” She leaned forward
and said a single word. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Hell, yes,
in fact. Assuming Ron Bergstrom’s okay with it, I
say yes—I think we should take this case. Yes,
we can handle it. And, unless there’s some sort
of dramatic revelation in the next, oh, say, ten minutes
or so, I will state this very recommendation at the
staff meeting.” There it was—the Toni Blair direct, in-your-face approach. No problem. I knew this approach too.
I could deal with this.

I leaned across the desk
until my face was inches from hers. “You’re sure
about that, are you?”

She nodded. “Yes, I am. It’
d be good for our rep.” She glanced at my
computer screen and played her trump card. “And besides, think
of the business. We sure could use the money.”

Ouch—
not fair. Toni knew my soft spot and she went
right for it. We hadn’t had a decent paying
job in over a month and, if we didn’t
get one soon, I’d be forced to dip into
my “rainy day” fund—something I loathe doing. I equate
it to going backward, and I’m a “going forward”
kind of guy. Besides, I’d already had to tap
the rainy day fund twice this year and it wasn’
t all that healthy to begin with. This case could
certainly be helpful, money-wise.

“And even aside from the
money? Here’s something else,” she said.

“There’s more?”

“
Yeah. There’s more.” She paused. “I like them.”

“You—”
I started to say before she cut me off.

“I
like
them.” She enunciated each word slowly and distinctly. “I
like the Wards. I know—Cecilia’s a little pushy,
but that’s just who she is. Underneath all that,
they seem like honest, sincere people.” She stood up. “Their
niece has been murdered, and they need our help. The
police seem to be stuck in the mud. Maybe we
can make a difference.”

I shook my head. “Geez, Toni,”
I said, speaking sincerely now. “It’s been three months.
You really think we’re going to be able to
do anything?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But we’
ll never know until we give it a try, right?
That’s all they’re asking.”

I nodded, but I
was skeptical.

She looked at me and gave me a
smile. “Besides, you know us. We can usually stir things
up if we try. Bull in a china shop, right?”

I thought about this for a few seconds, and then
I shook my head. “Alright. Let’s bring it to
the group.”

The rest of the Logan PI crew was
already in the office, so after Cecilia and Oliver left,
I’d called a quick huddle-up in the conference
room for an hour later at 11:00 a.m. When
I walked in a couple minutes early, Toni was already
there, talking to Richard Taylor. Richard’s a tall, white—
haired seventy-something-year-old with bright blue eyes and
a quick smile. After serving twenty-eight years on the
Seattle PD and rising to the rank of lieutenant, he
retired in 1988 and started Taylor Investigations. Twenty years later,
he was slowing down a little, having fun doing guest
lectures at the University of Washington where, in the fall
of 2007, he’d met a couple of enthusiastic criminal
justice students—Toni and me. A few months later, Richard
and I made a deal, and he sold me his
company. A couple months after that, we changed the name
to Logan Private Investigations. Although he’s not technically an
employee (he works his own hours now and receives no
salary), Richard still loves the detective business. He’s been
involved in nearly every major case we’ve worked. If
he’s in town, he shows up nearly every day,
and he rarely fails to make a meeting. We get
the benefit of his nearly fifty years of law enforcement
wisdom in exchange for simply providing him an office and
a desk. He’s happy; we’re happy.

I walked
over to my chair at the head of the conference
table. “Morning, guys.”

“Good morning,” Richard said. “I understand you’
ve got us a new case.”

I smiled and glanced
at Toni. “I see that someone’s already filled you
in.” Toni stuck her tongue out at me.

“No, no,”
Richard said, sensitive to the game of office politics. “She
just gave me a quick summary.”

“I’ll bet she
did.” I sat down and leaned back in the big
leather chair.

Richard continued. “But I have to say, from
what I’ve heard, the case sounds excellent, Danny—a
real high-profile job. Just what the business needs to
bump us up to the next level.” Among Richard’s
many talents is a keen appreciation for the business aspect
of running a private investigation firm. He should know—he
actually lived it for twenty years. He knows the importance
of keeping the casebook filled. He smiled. “I can’t
wait to talk about it.”

At that moment, Joaquin “Doc”
Kiahtel walked into the conference room. Doc is a tall
Chiricahua Apache Indian, transplanted to the rainy Northwest from the
Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation in New Mexico by way of
an eight-year stint in the U.S. Army Special
Forces. He’s a quiet man, someone who doesn’t
usually reveal much in the way of outward emotions. I
met him at Fort Lewis. Not counting Toni, he’s
probably my best friend. “Hey, bro,” I said when he
walked in.