A missing Darcy and a meeting with Russell Simington had taken that uncomfortability to new heights.
The taxi driver, a small Asian man who didn’t speak a word to me, navigated the streets of the city with the care of a wounded bull. The plane ride was nothing compared to the lightning-quick lane changes, rocket-like acceleration, and indifference toward red lights.
The taxi pulled up to a three-story building that appeared to be waiting for a breeze to knock it over. The drywall on the outside was chipped away, a window on the top floor was boarded up, and the wooden door looked about two hundred years old. A small sign next to the door read “Gill and Gill.” Law firm, crack house. Same difference.
I paid the silent man his money and stepped out into the wet, heavy morning air. The taxi exploded away from the curb, its tires screeching on the damp pavement.
I pushed open the old wooden door. I was in a short, low-ceilinged hallway book-ended by another door at the opposite end. A frosted glass pane in the middle of the door had “Law Offices” stenciled on it.
I opened that door into a room the size of a Geo Metro. A young woman looked up at me from behind a cluttered desk. Her hair was dyed jet black, with a purple streak right through the center. Each ear held a multitude of earrings. Her eyes were heavily lined with eyeliner and mascara, and her lipstick was nearly as dark. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the hair and makeup.
“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding like she didn’t want to.
“I’m looking for Darcy Gill.”
“She’s not in,” she said.
“Know where I can find her?”
“No. I wish I did,” she said, annoyed.
“Is she still in San Diego?” I asked.
Surprise and curiosity appeared on her face. “I don’t know. Who are you?”
“Noah Braddock. She came to see me yesterday.”
She stood up. She wore a long-sleeved black sweater and black jeans that looked too big for her skinny frame. She looked me over like she was seeing me for the first time.
“She’s not with you?” she said, her voice now sounding like she cared.
“She was supposed to meet me on the plane. I was on it. She wasn’t.”
She stared hard at me for a moment, her eyes cold and unfriendly.
“Shit,” she said.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Miranda,” she said, her eyes on her desk now, thinking. “I’m her paralegal.”
“Who’s the other Gill in the firm?”
“There isn’t one. Darcy thought it sounded better than just her name.”
“Ah.”
“When did you last talk to her?” I recounted our conversation on the beach. “And she was gonna meet you at the airport, right?” “She said she’d be on the plane. I told her I wasn’t sure what I was doing.”
Miranda nodded. “Yeah. I talked to her right after that. She said you were kind of a dick.”
“I’ll be sure to ask her about that. So she didn’t come back last night?”
“If she did, I haven’t talked to her,” she said. “But she had reservations on the morning flight. I left a couple of messages on her cell, but she never called back.”
It didn’t feel right. Darcy had come down to San Diego for one reason—getting me to San Francisco. It made no sense that she would miss the flight. If anything, I had half expected her to show up at my house and escort me to the airport.
“Do you know where she was staying?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Miranda said. “I need to make a couple of calls. She may have just got caught up with something else.” She pointed a finger at me. Her nails were black. Shocker. “And you need to get over to Quentin to see your dad.”
I bristled. “His name is Russell Simington, and I don’t know that he’s related to me.”
She held up her hands in mock apology. “Right, dude. Sorry. Not like you don’t look just like him or anything.”
Darcy had said the same thing, and I didn’t feel any better hearing it a second time. “You’ve seen him?”
“Of course. It’s the only thing we’re doing now.”
“You and Darcy are the whole office?”
Miranda started looking through the papers on her desk. “The whole office.”
“And you’re a paralegal?”
She snorted. “That’s my title. I’m third year at Hastings. Secretary, paralegal, investigator, office manager. I do it all.” She pulled a piece of paper from a stack. “Here we go. Eleven thirty is check-in.”
“For what?”
