Was someone pranking him?
For the first four minutes of his interview with prospective client Alton Beacher, Zach couldn’t quite decide.
It was the kind of elaborate joke Ben would find funny, but Ben was not about to invest energy (or money) in making Zach look foolish given that he already thought Zach looked like a fool for struggling to keep his dad’s PI business afloat. Ben was probably right. Tactless, as usual, but probably right.
Nobody knew the dire financial situation of Davies Detective Agency better than Zachariah Davies, former accountant turned lead investigator.
Turned only investigator.
In the midst of these bleak reflections, Alton Beacher’s light, slightly affected voice trailed off. The silence that followed was punctuated only by a faint chatter of Davies’s receptionist (and Zach’s kid sister) Brooke, coming from behind the office door. Judging by the giggles, Brooke was not speaking with another client.
Not least because they didn’t have any other clients.
He’d spent the last month making new contacts in Monterey County, paying visits to insurance companies, lawyers, the risk-management directors of local municipalities, and anybody else he could think of who might need the services of a private investigator. Eventually, some of that footwork was bound to pay off, but so far nada.
Beacher’s pale brows drew together in a frown as he waited for some sign of life from Zach.
Zach pulled himself together. He lifted his coffee mug, took a stalling-for-time swallow, said finally, “Let me get this straight. You’re hiring me to pose as your boyfriend while I investigate a series of death threats you’ve received over the past couple of weeks?”
If he sounded skeptical—well, who wouldn’t sound skeptical? For one thing, Beacher was wearing a gold wedding band. For another, well, this was as far-fetched as anything in those goofy PI novels Zach used to devour as a kid.
No, actually, it was more like something out of a screwball comedy movie from the 1940s. This could not be a serious job proposal.
Could it?
Beacher’s “Correct,” sounded stiff and a little defensive.
“Really?”
“Surely, you’ve run into this kind of situation before? You’ve been in business twenty years.”
Right. Did Beacher actually think Zach had been working as a PI when he was ten years old? Cracking the case of Ms. Gordon’s missing Wall Street Journal in between Little League practice and mastering common factors and multiples?
In fairness, Davies Detection Agency had been around for twenty years. Zach tried to imagine his bluff, gruff ex-cop dad being asked to pose as someone’s boyfriend and nearly choked on his coffee.
No question Pop would have said hard pass to the Beacher case. Though less politely.
“What made you choose us?”
What Zach really meant was why pick a little indie operation rather than a large security firm with all the bells, whistles, and resources someone as rich as Alton Beacher would presumably expect. But Zach already knew the answer. A big, classy company would laugh Beacher right out of their expensively appointed lobby.
For one fleeting instant, Beacher looked uncomfortable. “To be honest, I was going to try that place at the other end of the shopping center.”
Zach set his coffee cup down very carefully. “Carey Confidential?”
Beacher nodded curtly. “But I didn’t like the look of the man. Those beady eyes. That sarcastic smile. No.”
Oh my God. Zach would have given anything, ANYTHING, to see Alton Beacher ask Flint Carey to be his pretend boyfriend. And the beady-eyes comment? That was pure gold.
But Beacher was right about the sarcastic smile. Flint did have—could have—an unpleasant smile when he thought you were being a bigger ass than usual. His eyes weren’t beady, though. They were hazel, that elusive combination of brown-green-gold, and disarmingly long-lashed. Maybe a little narrow, especially when he laughed, which admittedly, was rarely.
Zach said gravely, “He’s a tough customer, that guy,” ignoring the feeling that somewhere, somehow Pop was shaking his head at him.
“Then I saw your sign, and it seemed like a…a…”
“Sign?” Zach offered.
Beacher smiled. “Well, yes.”
“The thing of it is, we don’t really offer the kind of services you seem to req—”
As if to head him off, Beacher reached into the chest pocket of his abstract squares Patrick James sports shirt and pulled out a money order. He pulled out a second money order and laid it on top of the first. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth…a total of twelve money orders, which he slid across the desk.
Zach adjusted his glasses, glanced down at the amount of the top money order, and then could not look away. It was as if his eyes were magnetized by the figures written in that precise, angular hand.
$1,000.
Twelve money orders for one thousand dollars each.
Twelve. Thousand. Dollars.
He found his voice. “Now I’m worried.”
Beacher laughed. “Why so? I did my homework. The going rate for a good PI in California is about two hundred dollars an hour. Five hundred if special skills are involved, and I think we can both agree special skills are required for this job. So, for two-plus days’ work…I’m sure you can do the math.”
Oh yes. If there was one thing Zach was good at, it was doing the math.
“Just to be sure we’re on the same page. I’m not a bodyguard.”
“I already have a bodyguard.”
Really? Where? But Zach wasn’t going to argue. “That’s probably a good idea.”
“I need someone to figure out where these threats are coming from as soon as possible. I don’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“I’m flattered you think I can figure out who’s behind this in two days, but—”
“I don’t think that for a moment. This is simply an advance to cover the weekend at Pebble Beach.”
“Right,” Zach said blankly. It was possible he’d missed a few details during the initial minutes of their interview, but he was damn sure he hadn’t missed that detail.
But it was true what they said, money did change everything, and it was with renewed attention that he studied his client, sitting unblinking in the blinding glare of California’s autumn sun streaming through the tinted office windows.
From the oversize rubber soles of his Alexander McQueen leather sneakers to the snipped tips of his blond classic side sweep, Alton Beacher, the handsome, aggressively Nordic-looking fortysomething owner and CEO of the Beacher Toy Company, exuded money and privilege.
Which was exactly what Zach needed right now.
Money, that is.
Even with the sky-high prices of Ensenada del Sello’s commercial real estate, the short stack of money orders lying on his desk would cover their lease for the next three months and the tuition of Brooke’s junior year of college. It wasn’t the answer to all Zach’s problems, but it was the answer to the most pressing.
If it seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
Still. That money.
Zach picked up the Cross-Townsend pen he’d bought Pop last Christmas, drew the yellow legal pad his way. “Okay, Mr. Beacher. Let’s start with the threats.”
“Alton, please.” Beacher gave Zach an odd smile. “I imagine we’ll have to get used to addressing each other by our first names if our little ruse is going to work.”
Zach cleared his throat. “Right.” He was no actor, but how hard could it be to feign interest in a guy you weren’t all that interested in? Hadn’t he managed to do it with Ben for those last six months while he struggled to steel himself to end things? Beacher was not his type, but he was handsome and rich, and maybe Zach would get a couple of nice meals out of their…dates. Pebble Beach for the weekend might even be fun. Maybe?
Nothing he could ever talk about, of course, because the first thing Alton Beacher had done when he walked into Zach’s office was have him sign an NDA. That had probably been the point at which Flint’s sarcastic smile had appeared.
Anyway, everything was contingent upon how far this ruse was supposed to go. If it was supposed to continue into the bedroom, then no.
As hard as it would be to pass up all those thousands of beautiful dollars. No. No way. Like Pop always said, a guy had to be able to face himself in the mirror every morning.
Zach repeated firmly, “About those threats?”
“They started two weeks ago. At first, I didn’t make too much of it. Silly jokes or hate mail aren’t unknown to a man in my position.”
Zach’s brows rose as he jotted down this information. It was hard to imagine what hate mail the owner of a toy company would receive. Still, given the current social climate, anyone whose circle of acquaintanceship stretched wider than their immediate family could probably expect to receive hate mail eventually. He’d received a couple of doozies from Ben, though Ben had never threatened him with bodily harm.
“Email or snail mail?” Both could be prosecuted as state or federal crimes. As could threatening phone calls. Funny how many people didn’t know that.
“Mail. Post. They always came by post to my home address in the shape of toys.”
“Toys?”
“Correct.”
“Did you—”
Zach didn’t have to complete the question. Beacher opened his leather messenger bag and produced a small gold box, no more than six inches tall, which he set on the desk.
Casting Zach a grim look, Beacher pressed a button, and a flimsy plastic clown sprang from the box, bouncing gently back and forth on springs. The clown held a business card in its tiny mitts. Printed in block letters were the words: YOU ARE DEAD.
Tiny clowns bearing death threats. Because this case wasn’t weird enough already.
“Cute.” Zach tossed his pen aside, pulled a pair of plastic gloves from the desk drawer—undoubtedly pointless, given that Beacher had handled the toy barehanded how many times? He picked up the little box. “This is how it started?”
The jack-in-the-box was a cheap, mass-produced novelty item manufactured by Old Timey Fun Ltd.
“No.” For the first time, Beacher seemed uncomfortable. “The first one was a crossword puzzle. The answer cells were filled in with words like murder, blood, pain, death, payback, etc. It was clumsy, lazy. Not a true crossword puzzle. The entries were unkeyed.”
“Unkeyed?”
“Unchecked. Uncrossed. The answers didn’t intersect.”
“Gotcha.”
Beacher sighed. “As I said, I get my share of hate mail. I simply assumed someone was being more creative than usual, and tossed both the crossword and the envelope it arrived in.”
Zach grimaced, but in fairness, he’d have probably done the same.
“A week later I received a doll’s severed head with the eyes gouged out and the hair burned.” Beacher propped Exhibit B on Zach’s desk. The doll’s ripped eye holes seemed to gaze accusingly at Zach. “Then two days ago, the jack-in-the-box arrived. I decided that level of…commitment should perhaps be taken seriously.”
“I think you’re right about taking this seriously. But why hire a private investigator? Why not go to the police?”
Beacher shook his head. “The police are better at prosecuting than preventing. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, not n—”
“I’m a businessman, Zach. I can’t afford the scandal of a police investigation. I need someone to handle this quietly, discreetly.”
“Sure, but—”
“Besides, there’s still the other thing.” Beacher raised his eyebrows meaningfully, reminding Zach of the part of this job he was least thrilled about. The part that took the case from weird to wacko.
“Right. The, er, dating game. I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing a wedding ring, Alton.”
For the first time Beacher’s smile reached his pale-blue eyes, briefly warming them. “Thank you for noticing.”
“Um, my pleasure?”
Beacher laughed. “I admit, the idea of hiring an investigator who could also pose as my companion only occurred to me a little while ago.”
Zach asked warily, “How little a while ago?”
Beacher shrugged. “When I was sitting in your waiting room, listening to you argue with your former boyfriend.”
Zach winced. Their Del Sello Center office space was not just small, the walls were practically see-through. They were definitely hear-through, and had he realized they had a prospective client waiting, he’d have declined to take Ben’s call.
“Of course, it’s rude to eavesdrop, and I apologize, but I do think our little…charade will work to both our advantages.”
Zach opened his mouth, but his gaze fell upon the mutilated face of the severed doll head. He pressed his lips together.
“Granted, I could only hear your side of the conversation, but that was enough to persuade me that you’re a patient and…empathetic young man. Too much so, I imagine. I’m neither of those things.”
“Good to know.”
“It’s difficult to explain without making myself sound worse than I am.”
Yeah, probably not. It wasn’t just about what Zach wanted. He had to think of what was best for Brooke and for his mom as well. This scheme sounded shadier by the second.
He reached to push that little stack of temporary solutions back toward Beacher, but Beacher covered his hand with his own.
He said quietly, “Please hear me out.”
Zach stared down at the well-shaped hand gripping his own with surprising strength. Beacher’s nails were trimmed and buffed, his palm soft and well-cared for. A platinum Rolex gleamed on his tanned wrist.
Zach withdrew his hand, sitting back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
Beacher’s pale gaze bored into him. “I want desperately, desperately to divorce my wife. But it’s complicated.”
It always was, as Zach, working in an industry where more than fifty percent of the business had to do with divorce and marital discord, could have told him.
“Zora is truly…unstable. For years she’s accused me of having affairs with other women and done her best to punish me accordingly.”
“Have you had affairs?” Zach wasn’t judging. He just needed to know the score.
“No. I’ve never been unfaithful. Frankly, I wouldn’t dare. I have been miserably unhappy. As has Zora. That’s the most ridiculous part of this. She’s an unhappy as I am. I honestly believe she hates me. But anytime I try to bring up the topic of divorce, she threatens to destroy me. Destroy me personally and financially.”
“Does she have the power to do that? Destroy you financially, I mean.”
“Unfortunately, yes. When I first started out, I was broke. I had no capital. Zora’s family invested heavily in my company. And profited accordingly, I might add. I’ve tried many times through the years to buy Zora out, but she won’t sell. She wants that hold over me. I think she’d prefer to bankrupt us both rather than allow me my freedom.”
“I see.”
Beacher’s sigh spoke volumes. “That’s not even the worst of it. She’s also threatened numerous times to kill herself if I leave her. Kill herself in such a way that I’m framed for her murder.”
Zach blinked. “That’s…pretty extreme.”
“Zora is the definition of extreme. And no wonder. The whole family, the Kaschak clan, are certifiable. Believe me when I say this is no idle threat on Zora’s part. You’ll understand when—if—you read the dossier I’ve compiled. Anyway, when I was sitting in your lobby, it suddenly came to me. If I were to come out as gay, everything would be different.”
“Would it, though?”
Beacher leaned forward in his eagerness, and Zach had to stop himself from rolling his chair backward. It wasn’t that Beacher was unattractive, but something about the guy…
Possibly the whole pretend-to-be-my-boyfriend-to-decoy-my-maybe-suicidal-wife thing?
“Yes. Yes. Zora is very insecure and competitive. She can’t bear the idea of losing me to another woman. But losing to a man? That’s not about her. That’s about me.”
“She’s still short a husband.”
“Yes. But it’s a loss her ego can survive.”
Zach nodded, though he wasn’t convinced by Beacher’s reasoning. Granted, Beacher knew Mrs. Beacher and Zach did not.
He had to ask. “Are you gay?”
Beacher got a funny expression. He licked his lips as though his mouth was suddenly dry.
“I…”
“Forgive me if this feels intrusive, but what I mean is, would there be any truth to this…scenario? Have you had gay relationships in the past?”
A tiny, barely perceptible wince from Beacher. “No. Not yet, at any rate. As I said, I wouldn’t have dreamed of being unfaithful. But that doesn’t mean…”
Zach waited, but Beacher didn’t finish his thought.
Finally, Zach said, “Of course not. I really only bring it up because, well, if your plan is to succeed, we’d—you’d—have to be convincing in your role.”
Beacher smiled a slow, strange smile that sent a little frisson of unease rippling down Zach’s spine. Beacher’s light gaze studied Zach’s face, dropped as if to assess the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, and though Zach was seated behind a very sturdy desk, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being stripped naked and assessed from head to foot.
He was not shy nor insecure about his looks, but that kind of auction-block appraisal wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
Beacher continued to smirk in that troubling way, saying lightly, “No need to worry. That won’t be a problem.”
