And it would have Hugh Guthrie’s name written all over it.
Chapter 18
Chase Martin was waiting at my office when I returned. He was waiting by the door, phone in hand, hair a mess. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, if ‘disheveled’ was ever a word to describe someone still wearing the very best designer clothes that money could buy. But there was a world-weary look about him from the stress and pressure. His posture was slumped and he looked worn down and fatigued. His normal smug arrogance was currently absent. I wondered how long it would last. It was a look that I had not yet witnessed on Chase. But then he needed taking down a few pegs so I can’t say I particularly felt sorry for him in this moment. For Millie, yes, always, but not Chase. He had caused enough hurt, pain and misery in his time to warrant more than a fair share himself, and he was now finally getting a taste of it too. And by the looks of it he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Something had clearly got to him. And I was curious to find out what.
“Tell me you’ve found her, Jack.”
There was stress in his voice, almost a desperate panic.
“Let’s talk about that inside.”
I opened my office door with the key, swinging the door wide open.
My office was in a good location, in the Loop, amid the hustle and bustle of good old Downtown Chicago, the beating heart of the city. Its very essence. There was no signage on the street, no listing in the building directory, nor, heaven forbid the yellow pages, and only my name on a small nondescript plaque on the door. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never see it. My office was on the second floor, and strategically so, mostly to prevent any curious walk-ins off the street. You know, the sort of people who weren’t really looking for a private investigator, but on seeing a sign for one decide to come in and waste time with stupid questions about following their partner, husband or wife, whom they suspect of having an affair. That sort of work might be the mainstay of your average yellow pages P.I. but it sure wasn’t mine, nor was it the type of business that I wanted or would ever accept. That sort of thing was amateur hour, anyone could do it with a half decent camera and a video recorder. The cases I took had a bit of punch to them, which was the way I liked it.
People came looking for me. That’s the type of work I wanted. Those desperate for assistance who could really utilize my skill set, which when you’ve been in the game as long as I had, was extensive. And if they really needed to find me, and they persevered in doing so, then they’d manage it, sure enough.
Inside my office door was the foyer office, filled by a long desk with two computer monitors, usually where Casey sat. It was the most organized and tidy section of our workspace. Not that to an outsider’s eye it really appeared that way, until they saw the bombsite of my own little corner of the office. There was a worn old couch next to the door, and a potted plant next to that in a constant state of dehydration from lack of consistent watering. The poor thing was in a permanent state of barely clinging onto life as a result. I should have chucked it in the trash but I sort of admired its tenacity and so would drown it in water to try and bring it back from the brink, only to forget about it again until it looked like it was once more about to give up the ghost.
I had the pleasure of traveling to Ireland a number of times, a stunning place with hilarious people, who explained to me how much a ‘pot plant’ livens up the office. I instantly assumed that they meant a marijuana plant—and I’m sure that would liven up any office. It wasn’t until a week later, when an elderly lady talked about her ‘pot plants’ at home that I realized that pot plants were the same as potted plants here.
To the side of the room was a white board, filled with my incoherent scribbles, and a number of post-it notes. Trying to plot out the links between suspects, evidence and the victim, seeking to order these into some sort of coherent logical way that ultimately would identify the perpetrator. Not that I was succeeding so far with this case. Things were foggy to say the least.
To the back of the room was another door, the one to my separate office.
I led Chase into my office and offered him a whiskey.
I could see he thought I worked in a pigsty. It was written all over his face. But I didn’t care what he thought. Or anyone else for that matter. They could take me as they found me or get the hell out.
“How can you drink at a time like this?” His hand went to his forehead.
“What’s changed?” I questioned as I dropped a cube of ice into the glass, slowly rotating it in my palm so the liquid spiraled in the glass, releasing its malty aroma. “You seem more frantic.”
He paused, and almost fell down into the chair opposite my desk. “I took the money out of the bank. All of it. My hard-earned money.”
I felt my jaw harden, and my fingers tightened around the glass.
“Right. The money,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Of course.”
I moved around my desk and slowly placed my drink down on the table, before sitting down.
“It’s in the safe in my penthouse. One million dollars in cold,
