Indirection, p.40
Indirection, page 40
part #1 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
Shaw glanced at North. “We appreciate the offer,” Shaw said slowly, “and we recognize that you’re placing a lot of trust in us.”
“Unfortunately, we currently have a full case load.” North tapped a key on the keyboard. “I’d be happy to refer you to—”
“No.” The word was brittle. Color mottled her cheeks, red patches climbing her neck. Her knuckles were white around elbow-macaroni Emery Hazard. “I’m hiring you. I’ve researched your agency extensively. I’m impressed by the work you’ve done.” A big, white smile broke out across her face; that was the politician, Shaw knew, poking her head out for the first time in this conversation. “My son means everything to me, and I’ll be happy to pay your priority rates or whatever you believe is necessary.”
“Mrs. Chittenden—”
“Celia.”
North took a breath. “Celia, what you’re asking us to do, it’s not our specialty. If you want transportation, there are car services, luxury ones, who will do what you’re asking and do it very well. We’ve used a couple in the past, and I can recommend them.”
“Unless it’s more than that,” Shaw said softly. “Unless you’re worried about Philip for some reason. Do you believe he’s in danger?”
“Don’t be stup—” The smile slipped, and Celia plastered it back on. She was still white-knuckling the pasta figurine. “Don’t be silly. Philip is perfectly fine. He attends The Gouverneur Morris School, which I’m sure you’ve heard of.”
“It’s very small, isn’t it?” North asked. “Very exclusive?”
“Very rigorous,” Shaw added. “All the students there still learn Latin and Greek.”
“It’s also very safe,” Celia said. “I’m not worried about trouble finding Philip. I’m worried about Philip finding trouble. He’s a very good young man. He’s…he’s almost perfect, in fact.” The iron rigidity of her voice flexed. “I don’t want to see him mess up his life. I don’t need to hire a bodyguard, and I don’t need to call him an Uber. I want you.”
“Why?” Shaw asked.
The waxworks chill was back in her face as she turned her full attention on him. The silence dragged out a moment. And then another. Then the sound of the front door opening broke the stillness, and a pair of footsteps moved through the reception area.
“I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time,” North said, “but you’re asking us to babysit. That’s not our specialization, and it’s not the right fit for us as an agency. As I said, I’d be happy to put you in contact with—”
Her cry began wordless and low, but it climbed to an earsplitting pitch. Celia’s hand tightened around elbow-macaroni Emery Hazard until the figurine cracked and broke. The bottom half fell and shattered against the floor, a starburst of macaroni spinning across the boards. Then Celia’s shriek ended, and for a moment she sat there, shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling as she sucked in air.
The change, when it came, reminded Shaw of those stupid Transformers that North liked: twist a piece here, push this that way, fold that. Celia’s back straightened. Her shoulders rolled back. Her chin came up. She opened her hand, shaking out the broken pieces of pasta that still clung to her flesh.
“I seem to have cut myself,” she said. “Do you have a tissue?”
Both North and Shaw were frozen for a moment. Shaw moved first, grabbing a tissue from the box he kept in his desk. Celia accepted it, dabbing at the blood. She fixed her senator smile on them. Forget Transformers, Shaw thought. Forget landmines. This was Shark Week.
The door opened. Gavin minced into the room, holding a Shameless Grounds cup that he handed to Celia with what almost looked like a bow—there was certainly some kind of animal body language, some kind of groveling, that Shaw would have loved to analyze further. He didn’t have a chance, though; Pari stormed into the room, a swirl of black hair and flashing eyes, the bindi a screaming red today.
“For my boss,” she said, gritting her teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile as she slammed a Shameless Grounds cup down in front of Shaw. “And for my other boss.”
Then she clicked out of the room, her heels sounding like the promise of nail gun to the forehead.
Gavin pranced away.
The door clicked shut.
Silence, and the perfume of good espresso.
“I think this would be a good point to end our conversation,” Shaw said.
Celia sipped her espresso, made a face, and set the cup down.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t help you,” North said. “I hope you have better luck with another agency.”
Smoothing the navy skirt across her legs, Celia watched them with glittering eyes. “Philip’s first testing appointment is this afternoon. I’ve already spoken to the head of school, and she knows that you’ll be helping out for the next few months. Gavin will provide your girl with the address for the school and a recent picture of Philip.”
“She’s technically not our girl because you can’t own a human being and because Pari would probably bury me in fire ants if she ever heard someone describe her as—”
“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” North said, “so I’m going to be frank. We’re not taking this job, Mrs. Chittenden. It’s time for you to leave.”
“Celia,” she said with that glad-handing smile. “Please.” Then she stood. “And you absolutely will do this job, and you’ll do it perfectly well, because if you don’t, the next time your private investigator licenses come up for renewal, I will make sure your applications are denied. You’ll be out of a job. Now, isn’t a little bit of carpool duty better than that?” She walked briskly toward the door. “Gavin will leave the check with your girl.”
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Austin Gwin, who pointed out that Michigan isn’t for lovers, taught me that all Acuras are front-wheel drive or all-wheel drive, and was vigorously in favor of the convention paying them in poppers.
Steve Leonard, who pointed out the need for more background information about Jadon, who remembered where North’s bedroom was in Declination, and who weighed in on boxers vs. boxer briefs.
Claudia Miselli, who checked (and double-checked) my Spanish for me, so that Nacho could seduce Shaw a little more effectively.
Cheryl Oakley, who gently notified me when she caught me repeating myself, who helped me eliminate a wandering (and pointless) husband, and who encouraged me to make the cameo couple easier to identify.
C.S. Poe, who reassured me when I was worried about stepping on toes, who kept me updated on the emotional rollercoaster, and who leant me her boys for a cameo visit.
Tray Stephenson, who caught so many little errors, who helped me reconsider which book Scotty was editing (and why), and who provided all this help while going through some pretty major life stuff of his own!
Jo Wegstein, who helped me keep track of fingerprints, who taught me the proper way to take off a pair of Redwings, and who pressed me on the issue of tamper-proof bottle caps.
Wendy Wickett, who offered her usual gentle nudges about italics, who helped me cut back on superfluous words, and checked me on thumbs and index fingers for phone security.
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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Gregory Ashe, Indirection
