Chapter Seven
On the drive to work Monday morning, Mike monitored a local news and traffic radio service that worked with the police department. It didn’t entirely substitute for a police scanner, but law enforcement communications were encrypted these days. Fortunately, the Safe Harbor police chief liked to get the news out to the public in the belief that transparency boosted trust.
Nothing major seemed to be going on today: a traffic collision on Safe Harbor Boulevard, with a recommendation to use alternate routes; illegal fireworks confiscated from a home, and a warning about the dangers they presented. On the human-interest side, the announcer explained that the fire department had declined to mount a rescue for a cat stuck in a tree. To any outraged animal lovers in the audience, he asked when they’d last seen a cat skeleton in a tree. The answer was undoubtedly “never,” since felines had a talent for scrambling down on their own.
Mike hummed happily. He’d had a productive Sunday—made sure the glass in Paige’s back door got fixed properly and the alarm reattached, arranged to borrow a pickup from a pal at the police department, and figured out where in the living room to place his big-screen TV. Incredibly, all Paige owned was a tiny set in her bedroom. How could anyone live like that?
Last night at his old house, despite being surrounded by his possessions, he’d felt as if he were just visiting. Already, the beach cottage had become home.
Mike turned onto Lyons Way and into the parking lot of a strip mall dominated by the Sexy Over Sixty gym and Lyons Way Escrow. Most people arriving here wouldn’t even notice the door between them lettered Fact Hunter Investigations, with the offices located on the second floor. Being discreet suited the agency’s clients, those few who chose to come here in person.
A little over a year ago, Mike and Lock had bought the agency from a former marine and retired cop named Bruce Hunter. Despite the ongoing challenge of bringing in enough revenue to cover expenses, pay employees and earn a modest profit, Mike liked being his own boss. While earning a master’s degree in criminal science, Mike had spent three years with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, then eight at the Safe Harbor P.D. That was enough of following other people’s orders.
While some guys figured he was crazy to give up a steady paycheck and a pension, Mike had ambitions. In another half-dozen years, he might run for the powerful job of county sheriff. He considered it a plus to have the experience of owning a firm and making connections in the business world.
He parked to the side, leaving spaces open for customers, although most often he met clients at their homes or offices, or dealt with them by phone or email. His steadiest sources of income were contracts with a couple of local companies including Kendall Technologies, but he also drew clients from the internet, the Yellow Pages and referrals.
The display on his watch said 7:47. Although the agency didn’t open until nine, he preferred to arrive early, especially this week, when they were shorthanded.
His laptop case slung over one shoulder, Mike unlocked the outer door and collected the fliers and envelopes that had dropped through the mail slot on Saturday. Usually, he worked that morning, but Erica had asked him to chauffeur some out-of-town wedding guests. All safely returned home by now or enjoying West Coast vacations.
Inside, a steep staircase led to the second floor. To his right, a small sign pointed the way to the service elevator. Not an ideal setup but handicapped clients usually preferred to have an agent come to them, anyway.
Mike took the stairs at a fast clip, unlocked a second door and stepped into his domain. Pristine paint and carpeting, along with framed certificates and commendations, emphasized the office’s professionalism. A few chairs and couches—although he rarely kept anyone waiting—faced the reception desk that in another hour would be staffed by Sue Carrera, the bilingual secretary who’d worked for the previous owner. Mike also spoke fluent Spanish, which had proved useful with foster kids and in his police work.
The suite held private offices for Lock and Mike, plus a report-writing room that doubled as an archive and as Patty’s base of operations. Mike was glad she’d decided to leave the police department and work for him, a decision that was paying off now that she’d married and had a six-year-old stepdaughter. Although she put in some odd hours and occasional weekends, she had a lot of scheduling flexibility.
Mike was also glad he didn’t have to deal with the time conflicts that went along with child rearing. In his opinion, that really held a person back on the job.
As he switched on his laptop, he glanced around the office to make sure it looked presentable for a client. On Friday, as usual, he’d cleared the broad desk. Aside from a file cabinet and framed certifications on the walls, the place made no pretense at decor. Not likely to impress Mrs. Jones, but a cut above the messy P.I. offices in the movies.
After opening a window—air-conditioning just didn’t keep the place fresh enough to suit Mike—he sorted through the mail, discarding the junk and tucking the bills into a drawer. Then he took out his reading glasses and sat down to read his email.
At 8:45, he heard Sue arrive and soon afterward he smelled coffee. A few minutes later, Patty stuck her head in the door. Short, straight blonde hair topped her square face as she called out her standard, “Hey, boss.”
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Just ducky.” She beamed. The down-to-earth detective had been blooming with happiness since last November, when she’d married Alec Denny, the hospital’s embryologist. “Heard anything from Lock?”
“I hope he has better things to do on his honeymoon than call his brother.”
“Gotcha. Hey, you and the doctor cut quite a figure on the dance floor.” She eyed him curiously. “I thought you two didn’t hit it off.” She’d witnessed their first meeting a year ago, when his remark about Amazons had annoyed Paige.
Although Mike didn’t like discussing private matters, his change of address would soon be public knowledge. “I’m renting a room from her for the summer. She has a place at the beach.”
Patty’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re living with her?”
“That would be correct.” Mike nearly added that it was a platonic arrangement, but why bother? It was none of her business and, besides, he didn’t plan for it to stay platonic.
“What’s this?” On tiptoe, Sue Carrera peered over Patty’s shoulder. “You’re moving in with someone?” A child-free divorcée in her midfifties, the secretary adored any whiff of romance among her fellow staffers.
“I’m renting a room,” Mike corrected.
“You did mention you were looking for a house.” Sue sounded disappointed.
“Found one. I’ll email you the new address.” Enough of this subject. “I’ve got a new client coming at ten. Name she gave was Mrs. Jones.”
“I’ll set up a file.” Sue departed, as did Patty. Neither looked entirely satisfied.
A short while later, Mike was reviewing his and Patty’s schedules for the week when he heard Sue call out, “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Jones, to see Detective Aaron.” The impatient female voice sounded vaguely familiar.
It was 9:55. Very punctual, he thought, and closed the file.
“If you’ll just sign in—”
“I prefer not to sign anything. Just let him know I’m here.”
Where had he heard that patrician tone with its strident edge? Mike did his best to remember everyone he met, particularly those in business and local government.
Even though the woman had given an alias, her manner implied she expected red-carpet treatment. And if she was who he suspected, no wonder.
Springing to his feet, Mike went to greet the mayor’s wife.
* * *
E
VEN
THOUGH
SHE
’
D
SHEPHERDED
hundreds of women over the course of nine months and helped bring their babies into the world, by Monday morning Paige still hadn’t fully grasped the reality of being pregnant. So many things to consider, so many plans to make. And, at the moment, so many hormones to contend with.
Launching her body into action had never been difficult before. Today, she longed to pull the covers over her head; then, to linger in the shower. At breakfast, she missed having Mike pamper her, although cereal and milk with a side of orange juice was healthier than waffles.
She also missed her usual coffee, since the brew tasted impossibly bitter. But she
did
enjoy the soothing rumble of the surf and the delightful childish laughter from next door, where a young couple with two children had replaced the party girls.
Her peaceful, settled mood didn’t last long. Arriving at the medical building, Paige was hit by the obnoxious odor of disinfectant suffusing the elevator. She supposed the cleaning crew used it regularly, but she’d barely noticed it before. Well, she should get in the habit of climbing the stairs to the second floor, anyway.
After greeting the receptionist and nurse, she hurried into her office to check her email before the first patient arrived. In the queue, a staff message from Dr. T leaped out. He reported that the pregnancy rate for the first three months of the contest failed to meet his expectations. In fact, he noted sternly, he himself had achieved the highest rate, and the rest of them had better step it up. Translation: Push your patients into more aggressive treatment.
Although Dr. T was bound to be crankier than usual with his favorite scrub nurse gone for the week, Paige didn’t appreciate the pressure. Still, as a new staff member, she was hardly in a position to complain.
She deleted the message, along with the usual newsletters and other routine items, and responded to inquiries from patients. Concerned about the woman who’d delivered the baby with Down syndrome, Paige was glad to see a message from the patient’s regular physician. He thanked her for the extra care and promised to follow up with whatever referrals the couple needed.
With the emails out of the way, Paige noted that this morning’s schedule was jam-packed with physicals, surgical follow-ups, maternity care and fertility cases. From the outer office, she heard voices. The day had truly begun.
By 10 a.m., a caffeine headache reminded her of those missing cups of coffee. As Paige fixed a stronger-than-usual cup of tea in the break room, she listened to the nasal drone of her nurse, Keely Randolph, confirming a patient’s list of medications. Like Paige, Keely was substituting for a staffer on leave—in this case, Dr. T’s wife, Bailey, who was Nora’s regular nurse.
Paige resisted the temptation to sit down. If she did, she might close her eyes and yield to those hormones whispering subversive nonsense about taking a nap.
While sipping the tea, she reviewed the next patient’s chart on a computer screen. Sheila Obermeier was a healthy thirty-two-year-old who’d been seeing Nora for regular checkups. Last month, she’d come to Paige for help in getting pregnant, after a fruitless year of trying on her own. She had no obvious medical issues or medications that might interfere, and in the past few weeks they’d begun the basic fertility workup. Some test results had come back on Friday.
“Patient’s prepped.” Keely’s large frame filled the entrance. As usual, she wore a stubborn expression.
Working with Keely was, to Paige, like pushing an overloaded shopping cart with a skewed wheel. What a frustrating waste of energy. Still, in the end, you got your groceries to the checkout line just the same.
“Thank you.” She cleared away her cup.
With a grunt, the nurse disappeared, probably to vent her ill temper on the young receptionist. Paige felt sorry for the girl, but hesitated to intervene unless Keely did something completely out of line. Although the doctors at Safe Harbor maintained private practices, most contracted with the hospital for staffing. Until Bailey or Nora returned, Paige was stuck with the disagreeable woman.
In the hallway, she knocked and then entered the patient’s room. On the examining table sat a tense fair-haired woman in a hospital gown. “Did you find anything?”
“Good news. Your tests came back normal,” Paige assured her, and proceeded to explain the results. She concluded, “Our next step is to make sure the sperm isn’t the problem. I see your husband hasn’t provided a specimen.”
“He keeps putting it off. He says he’s busy at work.”
“I was hoping he’d accompany you on this visit.” Paige had suggested that the last time she saw the woman.
Sheila rolled her eyes. “You don’t know Gil!”
True enough. “It’s important that we discuss his concerns.” Some men took the possibility of a sperm deficit as a challenge to their masculinity.
“He keeps saying I’m young and there’s no hurry. I left my first husband because he didn’t want children. That’s why I took up with Gil in the first place, and now he’s pulling the same routine, only he isn’t as honest about it.” A sheen in her eyes warned of tears.
Paige had learned that an unruffled attitude was helpful to patients, so she continued smoothly, “Do you believe your husband doesn’t want kids? Surely he’s aware that you stopped using birth control.”
“Yes, not that I gave him much choice. He
said
he wanted them. But now…” The words ended in a sniffle.
“He’s changed his mind?”