“So,” Germain says. “You call me out of the blue and tell me that Malcolm is your employer—I guess that’s what you’d call him, right? And you’ve seen him as recently as last week, which means he’s alive, unless he drove off a cliff in the meantime. And you’re a private investigator working alongside a police officer from wherever. That’s a mouthful.”
Clare smiles. Germain is studying her closely. Before leaving the hotel this morning, Clare had taken advantage of the well-stocked bathroom, the fruity shampoos and fancy hair dryer. She’d taken time she never takes anymore, putting effort into the curl of her hair, applying mascara and lip gloss she’d picked up in a drugstore along the way. Selecting jeans and a black sweater. Those looks of yours are currency, Clare’s mother used to say. Spend wisely.
“I said I worked for him, yes,” Clare answers. “Now I’m looking for him, yes. And that police officer from wherever? She’s a detective. Just like you.”
“And you really saw him a week ago?”
“Roughly a week ago. Yes.”
“He’s wanted in connection with the disappearance of his wife. You’re aware there’s been a warrant for his arrest in place for a long time?”
“I’m aware now,” Clare says. “I wasn’t a week ago.”
“And your detective friend wasn’t aware either?”
“By the time she was, he was gone,” Clare says.
Clare clears her throat and again takes Germain through an abridged version of her history with Malcolm. His hiring her, the cases, the relationship with Detective Somers that Clare formed on the last case. The story flies from her like a rock skimming over deep water, all the details about her escape from her marriage nine months ago, about her husband, Jason, and her own demons, left under the surface.
“Why does Detective Somers want you here?”
Clare shrugs. “I guess she doesn’t like unsolved cases.”
“Hm. Okay.”
Before Germain can continue, the waitress arrives and sets an oval platter of ribs and coleslaw between them. She returns seconds later with napkins and wipes, plates and forks, then the cutlery, everything dropped in front of them unceremoniously. Germain busies himself arranging the food for them, his face locked in a concentrated frown. Clare attempts to nibble a rib without streaking her face with sauce.
“I called you,” Clare says, “because my guess is that you haven’t had a real lead in a long time. I figured maybe we could help each other.”
“I’d consider you a lead.” Germain bites at a rib. “I mean, hey. A stranger shows up with a glossy PI business card and tells me she was in touch with one of my suspects as recently as a week ago? A suspect who disappeared deep into the ether? A guy with big ties to the Westman family? That’s a monster lead, if you ask me.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Germain sucks on the bone in a way that turns Clare’s stomach.
“And this stranger,” he continues. “You, I mean. You claim you didn’t know who he was. That you had no idea that this guy you were apparently working with was a suspect in one of the biggest missing persons cases Lune Bay has ever seen.”
“Lune Bay isn’t exactly cosmopolitan. And he gave me a fake name.”
“He gave you his real first name.”
“There are a lot of Malcolms in the world,” Clare says.
“You think? Johns, maybe. Michaels. But Malcolm?” Germain scratches his head, feigning contemplation. “I don’t know about that.”
“Yeah.” Clare rips open a wet napkin and uses it to rub her hands clean. “I guess we’ve both had our failings with—”
“Don’t you read the news?” Germain interrupts. “Most PIs should. Zoe Westman is somewhat of a household name, at least around here. Not to mention her father was shot to death in a restaurant. Jack Westman? Surely you’d heard of him. One of the biggest developers on the coast? Lots of money coming in and out of strange places. A business partner in jail for tax fraud. Your friend Malcolm was in deep with what is essentially a local mafia family. A lot of people would have recognized him from the papers.”
“Not where I’m from,” Clare says. “And he’s obviously good at going undetected, or you’d have caught him by now.”
Germain frowns, allowing for a pause in the tempo of back and forth. He is not wrong, Clare knows. After his true identity was revealed to her, it amazed Clare how much information on Malcolm she could find online. A better sleuth probably would have uncovered Malcolm’s backstory, the Westman connection, without his full name at hand. Clare’s leg bounces under the table. At one point in this exchange, she’d felt almost confident. But now the effort to wrest control of the conversation is rankling her. He might be young, but Germain is a natural at cutting her down to size.
“Look,” Clare says, meeting his eyes with as steady a gaze as she can manage. “I’m the first to say that I’m new at this work. But I’m good at it. I’ve had success. I won’t get in your way. I can fly under your radar, or maybe we can help each other.”
The waitress returns and removes the platter and their dishes. Clare watches Germain closely as he chats with her, his easy smile, the effusive way he compliments the food, touches the waitress’s arm. He knows his charm is a useful tool, a way to get him what he wants.
“You were saying,” Germain says once the waitress has left. “About flying under my radar? I appreciate that, I do. But I think I’d prefer
