"Thanks, but I don't need a loan. What I need is a really cheap receptionist-someone to take phone calls and deal with clients and manage the files."
Anson's bushy brows rose. "You got someone in mind?"
"You."
Startled, Anson put his beer bottle down very slowly. "Me?"
"You need a job and I need someone who can handle my office. I need someone I won't have to train or manage. Someone who understands the investigation business. Most of all, I need someone I know I can trust."
"Me," Anson repeated.
He sounded thoughtful now.
"I also need someone who will work for low pay until business improves."
"Me," Anson said.
This time he sounded certain.
They drank a little more beer. After a while Anson took out his notebook and a pen.
"I'll start shopping around for better office space tomorrow," he said.
Max smiled. "Thanks. I'll help you."
"No, you won't," Anson said. "You need to focus on bringing in the business. You've got contacts and connections from your old days at the profiling agency. It's time you got serious about networking."
"Networking?"
"And while you're at it, think about bringing in another investigator. One-man firms never impress high-end clients or big businesses."
"Another investigator? Who would want to work for a small investigation business like mine? Maybe when business picks up-"
"I'm telling you, business won't really pick up until you look like a bigger operation."
"I can't afford to pay another investigator."
"So offer him a piece of the action. Make him part owner of the business. That way he'll be responsible for bringing in new clients."
"Him? You've got someone in mind?"
"Yep, as a matter of fact, I do."
Anson told him.
"Huh." Max considered for a while. "That's an interesting idea. I should have thought of him myself."
"That's why you've got a receptionist-to think about stuff like that."
"While we're on the subject of thinking about stuff, I want to run something by you."
"What?"
"Charlotte says that my obsession with finding out what really happened to Quinton Zane isn't going to go away."
"She's probably right," Anson said. "Doubt if Cabot and Jack will ever be able to let it go, either. See, if you three really could let go of it, none of you would have turned out to be good investigators."
"Wonderful. Are you telling me that being obsessive is part of the makeup of a good investigator? You're saying I'm in the business because of a personality disorder?"
"What you have-what all three of you have-is a passion for finding answers to certain kinds of questions. Call it an obsession if you want. All I know is, you're gonna go on looking for answers, come what may."
"Charlotte says I need to allow myself to spend some time looking for Zane."
"She's right," Anson said. "Because that question isn't going to go away."
CHAPTER 68
It was raining lightly when Charlotte left Rainy Creek Gardens on Monday afternoon. She pulled up the hood of her anorak and hurried home along the familiar route.
Mentally she made a list of what she needed for the meal she planned to serve to Max that evening. It would be the first time she had actually cooked dinner for him. She wanted it to be perfect. The menu included roasted Romanesco and grilled salmon, so she made a quick detour through Pike Place Market to pick up the veggies and the fish.
The early dark of the autumn night was descending fast by the time she got to her apartment tower. The warm light of the streetlamps glowed on the damp pavement and the sidewalks. Raindrops sparkled on the windshields of passing cars.
I love this town, she thought. And I love Max. Everything about Seattle felt like home.
She fumbled with her key fob to open the door and let herself into the lobby. The front desk was vacant. The concierge had gone home for the day.
She took the elevator up to the twelfth floor, got out and went down the hall. She opened the door of her apartment, flipped on the hallway light and went into the kitchen to set the groceries on the counter.
She was about to open the refrigerator when she felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere behind her. Her pulse was suddenly beating very fast and her breathing felt constricted. Too much excitement lately, she thought. My nerves are on edge. I need to meditate.
But instinct overrode the soothing self-talk. She turned quickly and looked out across the breakfast bar into the darkened living room. A figure stirred in the shadows.
"I've been waiting for you," Roxanne Briggs said.
The light from the kitchen gleamed on the gun in her hand.
Charlotte tried to breathe through the panic.
"How did you get in here?" she managed.
"It wasn't hard. I arrived a couple of hours ago. I didn't know exactly what time you would be home, you see. I wanted to be here first. I told the nice man at the front desk downstairs that I was your new cleaning lady and that I needed the key to your place."
Roxanne waved the gun rather casually at a janitorial bucket on the floor of the living room. Charlotte could see some brushes and a mop sticking out of the bucket.
"He believed you?" Charlotte asked.
"He took some convincing because you hadn't notified him that I was starting today, but everybody trusts a hardworking cleaning lady. Besides, things were quite hectic in the lobby. The afternoon deliveries were coming in. Contractors were asking for keys. It was all a little chaotic. Your concierge gave me the key to get rid of me, I think."
"Why are you here, Roxanne?"
"I've been thinking about things," Roxanne said. "I finally decided that everything went wrong because of you. You're the one who got that damned PI involved. Now my son is facing prison because of you."
"You can't blame Max or me for a disaster that you helped create," Charlotte said. "You're the one who killed Gordon Greenslade, aren't you?"
"He lied to me," Roxanne said. The hand holding the gun shook a little. "I kept his secret all those years and in return he promised he would take care of our son."
"You and Gordon Greenslade were lovers."
"Back at the start, yes. He told me he loved me at the beginning. Said he would divorce his wife and marry me. I stopped believing that lie years ago."
"Why, after all that time, did you decide to kill him this past summer?" Charlotte asked.
"Because my son needed to go back to the hospital for rehab again and Gordon refused to pay for it. It costs thousands, you see. Gordon had paid for two treatments, but he refused to pay for a third. He said he didn't care if I told everyone the truth because he'd met the woman of his dreams-on an online matchmaking site. Can you believe it?"
"I've heard people do things like that sometimes."
"He was obviously having some sort of delayed midlife crisis. I knew that if he was planning to run away from Loring and his responsibilities, he would probably also change his will. I couldn't risk letting that happen."
"So you killed him before he had a chance to do that. But he lied about the will, too, didn't he?"
Tears of fury filled Roxanne's eyes. "Nolan was never in his will. Gordon left everything to his other son."
"Trey."
"That was not right," Roxanne said. She seemed to regain some control. "My Nolan had an equal claim on the Greenslade money. If he'd had all the advantages that Trey had, Nolan would never have become addicted to drugs."
"So you shot Gordon Greenslade for nothing. Greenslade left nothing to Nolan."
"That bastard didn't leave my son-our son-a dime. He never even acknowledged him."
The intercom buzzed, startling both of them.
"What's that?" Roxanne hissed.
"Max Cutler. He's downstairs. He knows I'm up here. I'd better let him in."
"No."
"If I don't, he'll get suspicious. Trust me, he'll get a cop and make a very big scene."
Roxanne hesitated. "All right. Do it."
Charlotte went to the intercom. "Max?"
"I've got the wine. I've also got news."
"Come on up." She pressed the lock release. "We've got company."
"Who?"
"Surprise."
"I'm on my way."
She looked at Roxanne. "I think you want him to hear the rest of this. You want us to know your side of the story, don't you?"
Roxanne looked uncertain now. A couple of minutes later, there was a knock on the door. She flinched.
"Open it," she ordered, the gun shivering in her hand. "Do it."
Charlotte held her breath and went down the hall. She opened the door. Max stood there. He had the bottle of wine in one hand. He held his gun, concealed against the side of his leg, in the other hand. His eyes were ice-cold.
"Who?" he asked quietly.
"Roxanne Briggs," Charlotte said, careful to keep her voice pitched in a normal tone. "She's telling me how everything went wrong."
He mouthed, "Armed?"
She nodded, then turned and led the way down the hall. Max put the pistol into the pocket of his jacket. He kept his hand wrapped around the grip, making it look casual.
"Hello, Roxanne," he said. He acted as if he did not notice the gun in her hand. "Are you okay?"