Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) (5 page)

I rubbed my
chin some more as I considered his request. “And your
cred will be solid.”

He beamed. “Exactly. You got it.”

I nodded slowly for a couple of seconds, and then
I folded my hands on my desk and looked straight
at him. “Let me point something out, champ. Did you
ever stop to consider that this little fabrication might not
be the strongest foundation you could have on which to
build your new relationship with Meghan? I mean, think about
it. If she’s really your soul mate, the future
love of your life, mother of your children—all that
shit? If she’s all that, then this little shading—
of-the-truth thing right off the bat might not
be your wisest move.”

He leaned forward, excitedly. “But you
see, that’s just it! It would be completely true.
I’d actually be in the field.”

I looked at
him, and then I shook my head slowly. “You’d ‘
be in the field’? Dude, this sounds like you’re
splitting hairs to me. Like it all depends on what
the definition of ‘is’ is—one of those sorts of
things.”

He shrugged. “C’mon, boss. I really like her.
I don’t want to screw this up any worse
than I already have.”

I looked at him. “What about
the computer work around here? If you’re out playing
superhero, how’re we going to get by without your
computer skills?”

He smiled. “Simple. I’ve got that figured
out. I’ll do both. I can do the computer
work on my laptop standing on my head. You know
that.”

This was probably true.

I took a deep breath,
and then blew it out slowly. “I don’t know,
man. I got to say, I don’t think this
is the best way to launch a long-term relationship.”
I shrugged. “But I’ll tell you what. If it
will make you happy, I’ll get you out into
the field more. But none of this better blow back
on me. Otherwise, I’ll have your ass.”

“Fantastic!” he
said, beaming. He sobered up again. “Do you think I
can get new business cards?”

His cards now say that
he’s “Director of Technology.” Fortunately, business cards are pretty
cheap. I chuckled. “Alright. From now on, your title is ‘
Special Agent—Licensed to Kill.’”

“C’mon, boss. Just ‘Special
Agent’ would be cool.”

I nodded. “Okay. But you remember
what I said.”

He grinned. “Excellent! Special agent. That’s
perfect! And don’t worry. I’ll take care of
the computer work. And what could go wrong? Thanks, boss.
Thanks for helping me out.” He started to leave but
then stopped suddenly. “Oh, one other thing.”

I stared at
him without talking.

“Can you kind of keep this between
us?”

“How can I make you a field agent and
not tell anyone?”

He shook his head. “Oh, not that.
I just mean not tell anyone about me doing this
for . . .”

“For love?”

He smiled. “Exactly.”

I nodded. “No problem,
man. Your secret’s safe.”

“Thanks, Danny.”

He practically skipped
out of my office.

Just before four, my cell phone
rang. Caller ID: Ron Bergstrom.

I tapped the screen. “Ron
Bergstrom. How you doing? Long time no see. Thanks for
getting back to me.”

“I’m good,” he said. “I
saw you called, and I only have a minute or
so, but I’m guessing we’re sharing this little
conversation because Cecilia Ward spoke to you?”

“She did. Interesting
lady.”

“Isn’t she, though?”

The tone of his voice
instantly had me on alert. I didn’t know Bergstrom
at all—I’d only talked to him the one
time before. Still, his carefully measured inflection carried a definite
undercurrent of something—exasperation, maybe? “The Wards were in today,”
I said. “They gave us a complete rundown of the
Sophie Thoms case.”

“That’s good, then. Say, Logan, they’
re calling my name and I gotta run, but Cecilia
said that she might invite you to the Sophie Thoms
Memorial Fund dedication tomorrow. Did she?”

“Yeah, she did. Toni
and I’ll be going.”

“Good. We’ll be there
too. How about let’s get together right after. We
can wander over to the Terrace Lounge right there at
the hotel and get a table. Take some time and
sort things out proper-like.”

We said good-bye, and
I hung up. I stared at the phone for a
second. That was an odd call, all thirty seconds of
it. Maybe I’d been hanging around Toni long enough
that I was starting to sense angles and hidden motives
that would have once gone right past me. My dad’
s a lawyer, and he has a saying that popped
into my head which goes, “Someone round here’s getting
played, and I think I’m the playee.”

C
hapter 3

“
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT WAS MY
distinct privilege to work
with Sophie Thoms for most of the past two years
.” Toni and I were seated at a table of ten
in the elegant Spanish Ballroom at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel
in downtown Seattle. The crowd was hushed as we listened
to Eric Gaston, the executive director of the Beatrice Thoms
Memorial Foundation, give a welcome speech just before the Sophie
Thoms Memorial Fund luncheon was to be served. The Spanish
Ballroom at the Fairmont is probably the most well-known
Seattle venue for events of this type—has been for
close to a hundred years. Hotel management has worked hard
to keep it that way. The maroon patterned carpet was
thick and luxurious. Large crystal chandeliers hung from the twenty
-foot ceilings, sparkling brilliantly. The gloss-white highly detailed wainscoting
on the walls had no scratches, no smudges, probably not
even any fingerprints. It shone like a mirror. In fact
, the hotel looked like it had just opened for business
yesterday instead of in the early 1920s. Everything about the
room looked pristine as a small army of uniformed waiters
fanned out through the tables, ready to begin serving the
meal’s first course.

Even before Gaston introduced himself to
the crowd, I recognized him from the Internet research I
’d done on the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation. He looked
to be in his early to mid-forties with sandy
light-brown hair (like mine). He was average height with
a solid, muscular build and the deep tan of someone
who spent a lot of time outdoors. Directly behind him
, three large screens were suspended from the room’s tall
ceiling. Each featured a huge black-and-white photo of
Sophie. The screen to Gaston’s left showed her in
an African village, smiling and wearing a baseball cap as
she crouched down amid a throng of laughing children. The
photo in the center directly behind Gaston was a black
-and-white version of the close-up of Sophie that
Toni had showed us in our conference room—the one
with the haunting eyes. The photo on his right was
a picture of Sophie in a boardroom, studying a report
while chewing on a pen.

“Sophie Thoms came from a
life of privilege,” Gaston said. “Yet, even at a young
age, she recognized her advantages, and she used them to
help others. To a remarkable degree, she dedicated herself to
what’s now popularly termed ‘giving back’ to those who
were much less fortunate than she was.” He shook his
head slowly. “In truth, I’m not sure the term
‘giving back’ makes much sense in Sophie’s case, though
, for the simple reason that the words imply that Sophie
had taken something from somebody . . . that she owed something to
somebody.” He shook his head. “Nothing could be further from
the truth. You see, for the entire time I was
lucky enough to have known her, I was struck by
her generosity, her loving attitude, her ready smile, her wit
, and most especially, by the way she genuinely cared for
people. She didn’t owe anybody anything. But still, Sophie
willingly made it her life’s mission to help others
. I stand before you now, and I can honestly say
that she was an extraordinary young lady, and quite simply
the most giving person I’ve ever known.” He stopped
, and for a second I thought he was about to
break down. He stared out across the silent audience, biting
his lower lip for a few moments, and then, struggling
to compose himself, he continued. “Wherever she went, she filled
the room with goodness in a way that few people
ever do.” Despite his best efforts, there was a distinct
tremble in his voice. “It was remarkable,” he continued, “watching
the way people young and old responded to her; I
’m struck by the words of the English poet Jane
Rose Gilbertson:

The sun rose with a breeze early this
morn—

neither too cool, neither too warm.

She crept through
the window and chased night away,

and I thought of
you at the start of the day.

She woke with
the beauty of God’s wondrous grace

with a soothing
touch and a gentle embrace.

Her soft light of dawn
pushed out the gray,

and I thought of you at
the start of the day.

I breathed in deep and
felt the rush of the air

as it flew ’cross
the yard and tousled my hair.

She caressed my face
with a warm, soothing ray,

and I thought of you
at the start of the day.

“Ladies and gentlemen,
I’ll always think that that gentle breeze, that warm
ray of sun on your face first thing in the
morning—that was . . . no—that
is
Sophie Thoms.” He paused
again for a moment. The room was completely silent save
for the clink of dishes as the servers continued their
work. “Through the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund that’s been
established by her family today, Sophie’s work—her endless
generosity—continues.” He shook his head. “Sadly . . . tragically, we won’
t have her here with us to watch it grow.
But in my heart I believe that this project is
something that Sophie would have wholeheartedly endorsed. It is truly
a fitting legacy to a wonderfully caring young woman.” He
paused, then smiled and continued. “So, that said, we thank
you so much for joining us this afternoon and choosing
to participate in the Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund.” He looked
around. “As you can see, we’re starting to serve
lunch now. Afterward, we have a couple of very special
guests who are here to say a few words, and
then there’ll be a reception in the Spanish Foyer.
Again, thank you so much for your support, and please
enjoy.” Gaston smiled as polite applause filled the room. After
a moment, he left the podium and returned to his
seat.

Although they were some distance away, I could see
the other people seated at the head table stand and
shake his hand. Oliver and Cecilia were there, seated next
to the governor and a man who I presumed was
the governor’s husband. Across from them was a man
I’d never actually seen in person before but who
was instantly recognizable—one of the world’s wealthiest men
along with his equally recognizable wife. And seated next to
Gaston was a strikingly beautiful young woman who had to
be Nicki Thoms—but for her hair color, she looked
just like the picture we had of Sophie. Sophie, of
course, had been blonde; Nicki’s hair was as black
as Toni’s.

I watched her for a couple seconds
and, as I did, I noticed that Nicki seemed quite
uncomfortable and fidgety. She glanced around the room, down at
her program, at the man across the table, and then
around the room again. She spoke to no one. A
moment later, she pulled a smartphone from her purse and
read a message, which seemed to make her smile. With
a quick flurry, she started banging out a text message
until Cecilia apparently noticed and said something to her. With
an annoyed glance toward her aunt, Nicki slipped her phone
back in her purse and resumed her fidgeting. I got
the distinct impression that Nicki Thoms was wishing she were
somewhere else.

I checked out the rest of the audience.
There were probably three hundred people in attendance, many of
whom I recognized. Politicians, business people, sports and entertainment stars—
all had responded to the call to participate in the
charitable fund established in Sophie’s name. I was impressed.
The tickets that Cecilia had left for Toni and me
read
$5,000 recommended donation
. If these people kicked in $5,000
apiece, then the Sophie Thoms Fund was off to a
smoking good start.

We were seated at the back of
the room, near the doors. This was fine with me
—I’m not all that comfortable at this type of
event and, in my experience, it’s easier to duck
out when you sit in the back. Granted, about a
month ago Toni had taken me to Nordstrom’s and
forced me to buy a decent suit, but I hadn
’t counted on having to actually use it so soon
. Now, here I was, all decked out in a dark
charcoal Armani Collezioni pinstripe suit with a white shirt and
a red striped tie. Toni said I looked amazing, but
honestly it wasn’t a getup that I was all
that comfortable in: generally speaking, I’m more of a
shorts-and-Hawaiian-shirt in the summer, giving way to
a blue-jeans-and-flannel kind of guy in the
fall and winter. Not to mention that I was still
feeling a little “tingly” from this morning’s hard training
run. Everything else being equal, I’d have rather been
home on a Saturday night with my feet up.

Toni
, on the other hand—damn! She really did look amazing
. This was a “business dress” kind of deal, so she
wore a dark green wrap over a sleeveless, pleated, cream
-colored dress that fell to just above her knees. The
colors of her full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm
were on full display, but rather than scream for attention
, they blended right in with the wrap as if she
’d designed it that way. Her gleaming black hair was
pulled back tightly and worn up. This somehow emphasized her
dark red lipstick and her deep blue eyes. As always
, she was stunning.

I know the other people at our
table appreciated Toni—most of the women and all of
the men. They could hardly keep from staring. I’ve
learned to live with this over time, and it doesn
’t bother me; in fact, I find it kind of
flattering, and I take it in stride. I
was
a
little surprised that the ladies seemed interested in me, though
—must have been the suit.

“Haven’t I seen you
somewhere before?” the woman to my left asked. I guessed
she was mid-forties. A little heavy on the makeup
, but still pretty. “In films? Maybe on television?”

I smiled
. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Yes,” the woman across
from me said. “I know! You’re Danny Logan, right
? The detective who saved those police officers a couple of
months ago?”

“Well, I . . .” I started to say. Aw, shucks
.

“Why, he certainly is,” Toni said, jumping right in, complete
with a Southern drawl. “He’s a hero, that’s
for sure.”

I glanced at her just long enough to
see a sly, mischievous smile on her face.

“You should
have seen him,” she said. “He stood there like a
rock—bullets were flying all around. Why, it was terrifying
.” I half-expected her to swoon.

I gave her a
little stink-eye, trying to say “Enough!” Not that I
thought it would actually work with her if she was
on a roll and really having fun watching me squirm
, which it looked like she was. Fortunately, though, the waiters
chose that moment to show up with our salads, followed
by a surprisingly good crab-stuffed salmon. The topic changed
, and I was off the hook. I looked over at
her and she winked at me, I suppose to let
me know that I’d been saved by the bell
.