Walking to my designated corner, the one nobody wanted, I groaned. Stopping at Marti’s desk—which was nicer than mine—I noticed the open file. I didn’t see the picture of Becker Cole, but the three girls were gorgeous, all very young with long, pretty hair. Looking over my shoulder, I made sure Marti wasn’t in sight before flipping the page.
Becker Cole was from Utah. Why the hell would he come to Warwick? Wait a minute. He didn’t live in Warwick. He lived about seventy miles north of Warwick in the country. Now I really wanted this case.
“What are you doing, Small Fry? Get out of there!” Marti barked, spilling coffee over the brim of her cup. She didn’t bother cleaning up the spill. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, the whole office was a stained-up mess. It always looked like that, ever since my mother stopped coming to de-contaminate it every week and yell at everyone to clean up after themselves.
“Why do you think this guy came here all the way from Utah?” I asked.
“He’s a pervert trying not to be noticed,” Marti faulted, forming her own opinion while moving me out of her way with her shoulder.
“But, why would he talk on the morning show if he didn’t want to be noticed?” I asked, not understanding.
Marti plopped in her chair and closed her file. “Look, I get you’re the boss’s kid and all, but I really think you should stick to the fraud cases. I assure you, this isn’t a case. It will be on your father’s desk, closed, come Wednesday morning. This guy is nothing more than a young playboy, partying it up with some young meat. If these girls were kidnapped, it’d be all over the news. I don’t think they are there against their will.”
“Who said they were?”
Looking up to me with an annoyed glare, Marti reluctantly answered my question. “One of the girls’ sisters hired us. Can you move along now?” she asked, sweeping her hand for me to leave her alone.
“Yeah, okay. See ya around,” I obliged, making my way to my dark corner with no window.
I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t care about the Zimmer case. I was too intrigued by the guy with the three wives who lived in the country. Why would he come to Rhode Island? It just didn’t make sense to me. That was the first day I ever got excited about following in my father’s footsteps and becoming a private investigator. I wanted to know who Becker Cole was.
Not about to do it on the computer at work, I jotted down a few notes on my fat, fraud man case file, wanting to remember later. I had to do that sometimes to keep from spacing out and forgetting what I was doing. I had a tendency to do that from time to time.
“Hot damn,” I boasted after calling the cell phone number I found on Facebook. Who said I sucked at this investigating stuff?
“Hello, is this Brian?” I asked.
“Hell no, it ain’t Brian. It’s Wayne Zimmer. You got the wrong number.”
“Oh, this isn’t the Brian Zimmer that lives over on Harvard Way?”
“No. I already told you. This is Wayne and I live on Piedmont. Go bug someone else.”
Boasting from my investigating abilities, I backed my old desk chair up. It didn’t go so well. The wheel was broken and tilted back. I thought I was going to fall, and screamed from the sudden fear of landing on the floor. Of course, everyone came running. Okay, maybe I did suck at this, and the crimson covering my cheeks was a dead giveaway.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Matt asked. I knew he was joking by the tone and smirk, but it still pissed me off. He thought his shit didn’t stink and everyone with a puss wanted him. I didn’t want him. I hated guys that thought girls would die for them.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Matt?” I countered. That was it. That was the only thing I could think of. The rest of the clan went on about their day, including my father who shot me a dirty look over the rim of his glasses. I didn’t mean to scream, geesh. Update your nineteen seventies chairs.
“I would love to be in your brain, just for an hour,” Matt teased. “I bet I’d be lying on the floor in stitches.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I pouted, cocking my hip.
“Nothing, Cassie. Just that you make me laugh—a lot.”
“Stop calling me Cassie. I’m not twelve anymore.”
“No, but you shouldn’t be here.”
“Why? I have just as much right to be here as you. You think just because you have a dick between your legs you’re better than me?” I argued, trying to be tough. I said dick; that was funny to me. I had to tighten my lips to keep up my bad ass attitude.
Matt was a different breed. I met him when he came to work for my dad when I was twelve. I thought he was cute back then—time changed that. He wasn’t the TV detective that thought the boss’s kid was cool and they hung out. He hated that I was there. He was always rude to me, well, most of the time. Once in a while he had a heart.