wicked cool, and I realized I needed a jacket with an inside pocket if I were ever to be taken seriously. I usually kept my laminated PI license in the back pocket of my jeans, where it got bent and crinkled and thoroughly mutilated.
The other agent did the same, taking my hand in one of his and flashing his ID with the other simultaneously. They were very coordinated. And they looked like brothers. Though one had a few years on the other, both sported light blond crews and transparent blue eyes that, in any other situation, wouldn’t have been nearly so creepy as I was finding it.
“I’m Agent Foster,” the first one said, “and this is Special Agent Powers. We’re investigating the disappearance of Mimi Jacobs.”
At the mention of Mimi’s name, Cookie knocked over a pencil cup. That wasn’t so bad until she tried to grab it and sideswiped a lamp in the process. While pencils and other writing paraphernalia went flying, the lamp fell halfway to the floor, stopping to crash against the front of her desk when she grabbed the cord. Reacting to the sound, she pulled too hard, and the lamp ricocheted back up, crashing into the back of her computer monitor and knocking off the ceramic wiener dog Amber had given her for Christmas.
Subtle.
After a five-minute trailer of
“Certainly,” Agent Foster said, eyeing Cookie like she needed to be locked up.
As I led the way, I flashed her my best incredulous look. She lowered her eyes. Thankfully, the wiener dog landed in the trash can atop a cushion of papers and didn’t break. She fished it out, keeping her gaze averted.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a Mimi Jacobs,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee as they took a seat in front of my desk. Cookie was excellent at keeping the coffee fresh and the hugs warm. Or maybe it was the coffee warm and the hugs fresh. Either way, it was a win — win.
“Are you sure?” Foster asked. He seemed like the young cocky type. I wasn’t particularly fond of the young cocky type, but I was trying really hard to get past my first impression. “She’s been missing for almost a week, and a notepad with your name and number scribbled on it was the only thing on her desk when she disappeared.”
She must have written my name and number down when she talked to Cookie. I turned back to them, stirring my coffee in doe-eyed innocence. “If Mimi Jacobs has been missing for almost a week, why are you just now coming to me?”
The older one, Powers, chafed, probably because I’d answered a question with a question. He was clearly used to getting answers with his questions. Silly rabbit. “We didn’t think much of the note until we realized you were a private investigator. We thought she might have hired you.”
“Hired me for what?” I asked, fishing.
He shifted in his chair. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“So, she wasn’t in trouble? Maybe with the company she works for?”
The men glanced at each other. In any other situation, I would have shouted eureka. Internally, anyway. But I felt as though I had just handed them the perfect scapegoat. They knew more and were not about to tell me. “We’ve considered that, Ms. Davidson, but we would appreciate it if that information were kept between us.”
So, not the company. One possibility down, twenty-seven thousand to go.
Apparently satisfied, they both stood. Foster handed me a business card. “We need to insist that you contact us if she tries to get in touch with you.” His tone held the slightest hint of warning. I tried not to giggle.
“Absolutely,” I said, leading them back out. I stopped before opening the door that separated Cookie’s office and mine. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, and you have to leave now.”
Foster cleared his throat uncomfortably when I hesitated a moment more. “Right, okay. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
As they stood waiting behind me, I turned the knob slowly, jiggled it a little, then opened the door. Cookie was typing away at her computer. If I knew her, she’d been listening in on our conversation through the speakerphone.
“Ms. Davidson,” Foster said, tipping an invisible hat as they walked past.
After the agents left, Cookie turned an exasperated expression on me. “Jiggling the knob? That was subtle.”
“Oh, yeah, grace. Could you have knocked anything else over?”
She cringed at the reminder. “Do you think they suspected anything?”
So many possibilities came to mind:
“But, shouldn’t we be working with them instead of against them?” she asked.
“Not at this precise moment in time.”
“Why not?”
“Mostly ’cause they’re not FBI agents.”
She sucked in a soft breath. “How do you know?”
“Really?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to explain was how I could tell when someone was lying. For the thousandth time.
“Right,” she said, shaking her head, “sorry.” Then she gasped. “You knew they weren’t real FBI agents?”
“I had my suspicions.”
“And you led them into your office anyway? Alone?”
“My suspicions don’t always pan out.”
She thought about that a moment and calmed. “True. Remember that time you tackled the mailman and —”
I held up a hand to stop her. Some things were just better left unsaid. “Cancel looking into the business stuff,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’d bet my virtual farm that’s a dead end. Concentrate on finding a connection between Mimi and Janelle York.”
“Besides the fact that they went to high school together?” she asked.
“No. Let’s start there. Dig into both their backgrounds, see if anything stands out.”
Just then, Uncle Bob walked into the office. Or, well, stormed into the office. He was always so stressed. It was probably time for us to have
“If you’re going to be a grumpy bear,” I said, pointing to the door, “you can just leave the same way you came in, Mr. Man.” I twirled my finger in circles, motioning for him to do an about-face, make like a sheep, and get the flock outta there.
He stopped short, eyeing me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “I’m not grumpy.” He sounded offended. It was funny. “I just want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into now.”
It was my turn to be offended. “What?” I asked. “Why I never—”
“No time for your theatrics,” he said, shaking a finger. That’d teach me. “How do you know Warren Jacobs?”
What the heck? Word traveled fast in the crime-fighting world. “I just met him this morning. Why?”
“Because he’s asking for you. Not only is his wife missing, but a car dealer he stalked and threatened to kill was found dead last night. Call me crazy, but I think there might be a connection.”
“No.”
“CB for short?” When I only got a glare, I asked, “Then can I see him?”
“He’s being questioned right now and he’ll probably lawyer up any second. What’s going on?”
Cookie and I glanced at each other then spilled our guts like frogs in biology lab.
We told Uncle Bob everything, even the writing-on-the-wall thing. He took out his phone and ordered one of his minions to check out the diner. “You should have told me,” he said after hanging up, his tone scolding.
“Like I’ve had a chance. But since we’re on the subject, there are two men posing as FBI agents to get to her. And they want her bad.”
Alarmed, Uncle Bob — or Ubie as I liked to call him, though rarely to his face — took down their description.
