“Good detective work is of the utmost importance,” I say to my receptionist as she is typing away at her desk. “The most important thing is to be aware of all the clues around you. Like eggs hidden for an Easter egg hunt, they are waiting to be gathered. You’ve just got to look in the right spot.”
“But how do you know where to look?” Ginger asks me.
“First off, you have to be aware of what normal looks like. Like, does Mr. Smith always leave work at 5:10pm? When you are driving to school in the morning, do you always pass the armored truck driving south on Hwy 22? Is young Alexanders’s profile picture typically of him wearing a mustache?”
Alex, or young Alexander as I referred to him, is Ginger’s crush.
“You must be aware of what is routine, what is normal, what is regular, and then you must notice when it changes. Only when you figure out that something is different can you start to determine the cause. Most of the time, it’s very logical.”
Ginger nods at me.
“But darling, we must get to work. That’s how any detective improves. By doing. Any new e-mails today?”
But first, before the e-mails, a profile on Ginger:
A college freshman, she works for me part-time three days a week. I was reluctant to hire her on account of how her name makes it sound like she’s a stripper, but I figured if that were at all true, I should save her from a future of poles and nightly one-dollar bills, and I ought take her under my wing. Besides, Ginger is completely unlike her name. For one, she has black hair. Ginger is secretly in love with Alex McCall, who also attends the nearby university. I often catch Ginger reading his Facebook profile instead of doing the internet research I ask. Even still, she is a pretty adept receptionist.
 |
| Ginger likes to read these books for inspiration. |
Ginger scans through the in-box and pulls up an envelope of interest. “Here is one. A woman named Amanda Harper is concerned that her husband might be cheating on her. He’s been staying at work late and taking a lot of business trips.”
I sigh. That’s the problem with having a woman-run detective agency. Other women are always coming to you, asking for advice like you are host Joey Greco from the cable show Cheaters. I rarely get work like robbery or missing persons.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yes. A message from Mr. Elijah Storm of Storm Enterprises. It’s rather insulting, but a request just the same.”
“Well, what does it say?”
“Miss Rossen, I have been informed that your detective agency is small and inefficient, and that…” Ginger pauses and I watch her face turn an angry shade of radish red.
“And that what, Ginger? Just say it.”
“and that your receptionist used to give lap dances to high school teachers, but you have the only detective agency in town so I guess you’ll have to do. I’m afraid that someone in my company may be leaking information to foreign companies, and I need to find out who the culprit is and what kind of damage they’ve caused. I don’t want anyone to know that I am investigating, so don’t call me. I’ll call you. Don’t e-mail me at work, either.
Sincerely,
Mr. Elijah Storm
President.”
Ginger looks at me like she’s about to cry. She’s a straight A student, and I know lap dances have nothing to do with it.
“The nerve of that asshole!” I say. “To insult me and my receptionist, and to expect me to do detective work for him? I have half a mind to e-mail everyone in his company and to tell them to watch out, because he’s about to spy on them.”
“So what’s our first order of business, Miss Rossen?” Ginger is always trying to get the ball rolling.
“E-mail Mrs. Harper back. Make an appointment for her to come in tomorrow for an interview, so we can start the preliminary work for her concerns. Then do some research on this Elijah Storm fellow. I want a full profile on him before he calls. Ginger, I’m talking everything. I want college news articles, names and ages of relatives, property records. I want to know how many bathrooms this pretentious fool has in his house. Everything.”
I’m already starting to pull costumes out of the disguise closet.
“And what are you going to do?” Ginger asks, confused.
“Me? I’m going to pay a secret little visit to Storm Enterprises. Mr. Storm doesn’t want to see me there, and he won’t.”
“Wait. You are going to spy on the client? What good will that do?”
“Ginger, in order to get an accurate picture, you’ve got to observe everything. Even the things that don’t seem important.”
What I do next is pull on my favorite short blond wig, the one I call “The Soccer Player’s Wife.” Then I change my make up and clothes. I grab my notebook and video camera and I’m nearly out the door.
“And Ginger?”
“Yes?”
“No checking Alex’s Facebook page while I’m gone.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Once I’m in the car, I punch Storm Enterprises into my GPS. During stop lights, I Google the company so that I know what sort of cover I should have when I arrive. The business is located on the West side of town, and since I have to cross the bridge, it takes me a while to get there. Plus, I’ve got to stop at the cake shop on my way.
I pull into the parking lot and park on the far side of the building. I tie on the apron I bought at the cake shop, apply some lip gloss, and stack the four white boxes of cupcakes in my arms. Storm Enterprises specializes in nanotechnology, and today they are having a launch party for one of their new designs. It’s catered. Or at least, I hope it is.
I walk straight into the front entrance, and I see a receptionist. I figured they wouldn’t let just anybody walk wherever they wanted.
“Hello, I’m with the rest of the caterers. For the launch party? Can you tell me which room to set up in?” I smile and all of the expensive orthodontic work my parents paid for shows.
The receptionist is female, dressed in a plaid shirt, and looks really annoyed, like maybe I’m interrupting her Facebook Farmville time.
“Room 207. That’s on the second floor.”
And here I thought it might be in the basement.
“Thank you,” I say, and hurry towards the elevator. But what I do when the receptionist isn’t looking is I ditch the elevator and take the stairs. I fully plan on exploring. The annoying part is I have to carry all these cupcakes around with me in case I get caught.
During my self-guided tour, I mostly take note of whose office is whose, and what sort of things are on the walls, and what people are wearing. When I get to room 215 I find what I’ve been looking for: Elijah Storm’s personal office. There’s a tiny side panel window so I casually walk by and peek to see if anyone’s inside. The light is off. What I do is try the door handle but of course it’s locked. So then I scan down the hallway to see if anybody is coming. I set down the boxes of pastries and sort of squish my face up against the glass so I can see as much of his office as I can.
As you might expect from a man named Storm, most of his office is gray. Gray leather chairs, gray marble desk, gray carpet. I hear a bit of talking, so I quickly pick up the boxes and turn in the other direction.
Two young men spot me. “Hey, are those for the party?” the one in the brown suit asks, clearly interested in butter cream frosting.
“Yes,” I reply.
“You can bring them down here. Room 207.”
| Sometimes cupcakes can actually make a really good cover. |
I follow the men into a spacious conference room. I see there is a table of food already set up. I take my cupcakes to one of the corners. A tall man in a gray suit is bent over, filling his plate with capers. As I set down the cupcakes, I accidentally brush his arm. He turns and looks at me, eyes a sparkly shade of gray-blue. I try not to stare at his beauty.
He smiles and says…
But first, before the dialogue, a profile on Elijah Storm:
Six-foot-two, blond hair. You already know about the eyes. 29 years old. Started his own business at age 19. Mother: Charisse T. Storm, age 56. Father: Jackson E. Storm, age 58. Sister: Elisa M. Knottage, age 31. Hometown: Irmo, South Carolina. Attended Syracuse University 2000-2004. Ran track. Property records indicate a 2 story house on East Marius Street. 4 bedrooms, 3 baths. No wife.
All of this was in the text message Ginger had sent me shortly before I entered the Storm Enterprises office building.
Mr. Elijah Storm smiles at me and says, “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?”
“I encountered a bit of a delay. My apologies.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. If you had been early, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have met you. I’m Elijah.” He sticks out his hand and expects me to touch it.
“Emily,” I improvise. Then I smile awkwardly as I shake his hand. It’s warm and strong and distracting. I pull out of his grip.
“So which one of these is best?” Mr. Storm asks as he scans the cupcakes.
“I always fall for the almond frosting myself.”
“Almond it is then.” He places a cupcake on his plate. “Are you sticking around for the presentation?”
I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t ask most caterers this question.
“I’m afraid I’ve got other deliveries to make.”
“That’s a shame.” He winks at me. “Maybe next time.”
Even though it’s just a wink, I can’t help but feel something’s been stolen from me. Like a piece of dignity. Also, I’m feeling rather confused. Elijah Storm sends me an e-mail with a rude introduction, but then he is quite congenial about the fact that his cupcakes arrived late? And okay, he didn’t actually order any cupcakes, and he didn’t realize that his cupcake deliverer is also his detective, but still.
“Have a great party,” I say, and I make a dash for the exit. But I don’t exactly leave yet. I spy on Elijah Storm through one of the tiny windows for a while.
“Did you get my text?” Ginger asks when I get back to the office, which is actually just the spare bedroom of my house.
“Yes, thank you, Ginger.”
“I’ve got more information. I’ve printed it all up and put it in a file.” She hands me a manila folder with E. Storm labeled on the tab.
I browse through it quickly, with intentions of looking at it more thoroughly this evening.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“Nothing conclusive, but it was worthwhile. Oh, and I brought you back a cupcake.” I drop a little box on her desk. “You’ve just got fifteen minutes left on the clock. Why don’t you go home early. Maybe Facebook chat with that boy you like so much.”
“Thanks, Miss Rossen.”
“And Ginger?”
“Yes, you can call me Joelle, really. I’m not a teacher anymore.”
“Yes ma’am…er, Joelle. See ya tomorrow.”
What I do after Ginger leaves is I get on the computer and search Facebook myself, for one Elijah Storm.
“Damn!” I say to myself, after my search yields nothing but an African-American man named Elijah Storm who went to Bible college, lives in California, and works for EMI Music Publishing. I log off, tilt my chair back, and begin to read through the file Ginger composed for me.
The next day I meet Mrs. Harper in the office at one o’clock, and she tells me all of the information I ask for. I have Ginger sit in with me so she can watch and learn. Really, I want her to start taking over all the infidelity cases I get, because I find them all so boring. Just when Mrs. Harper is inviting me over to search her house for clues among her husband’s things, the phone rings.
Ginger answers it. A moment later she says, “Um, Miss Rossen? I think maybe you ought to take this? Mr. Storm calling.”
I try to hide my sour face from Mrs. Harper. “Excuse me, just a minute, will you? Ginger will continue with your concerns.”
I leave the office (okay, spare bedroom), and pick up the line in the kitchen while Ginger dialogues with Mrs. Harper about her husband’s routine trips to the racquetball club.
“Hello, this is Detective Rossen speaking,” I say in my most businesslike voice.
“Ah, Miss Rossen. Elijah Storm here. I hope you were expecting my call.”
“Indeed I was, sir.”
“So what sort of preliminary steps need to be taken? Shall I come in?”
“Actually, Mr. Storm, I assure you some preliminary steps have already been taken.” I sort of laugh to myself a bit at the joke only I understand. “Mr. Storm, I have a question for you though.”
“What’s that?”
Why are you such an asshole? But what I say is “Why does someone who runs a nanotechnology company need my help solving this case? Surely you have some sort of minuscule camera or tracking system you could slip into the drinking water of all your employees or something.”
Elijah Storm feigns a laugh. “Fair enough question, detective. Of course I’ve taken preventative measures…Do you want to take the job or not?”
“To be honest with you, your initial e-mail contained both insults and poor punctuation. I’m not entirely sure that you are a man I would like to assist.”
“Whatever your going rate is, I’ll triple it,” Mr. Storm says. This sentence sounds a bit illicit, but I understand his meaning. Money has a way of apologizing. And I do need to pay for this year’s Christmas presents.
“Fine then, Mr. Storm. Can you come to my office today?”
“No, I’m busy. But you may come to Storm Enterprises today. 3:15.”
I know, right? He’s the one who was just pushing to get into my office. “I normally charge extra for meeting clients outside of my office. And besides, I thought you didn’t want anyone in your company to know that you were in the process of investigating?”
“Damn. You’re right. Well listen, is $100 enough to make an outside visit? And do you speak Swedish at all?”
“Um. Yes to the money, no to the language.”
“I’ve got a massage scheduled for later in the afternoon. Just tell the receptionist that you’re there to assist Ingrid. Dress like a masseuse.”
I’m about to protest, but I realize the line’s gone dead. On one hand, Elijah Storm is turning more and more into an elephant sized ass, on the other hand, this is probably the most interesting case I’ll get in a long time. If I don’t go to Storm Enterprises today, I’ll have to be the one to spy on Mr. Harper at the racquetball club. If I go see Mr. Storm, then I can delegate the Cheaters episode to Ginger, and she can get some quality practice in reconnaissance.
I go back to the office where Ginger is just finishing up the details with Mrs. Harper. I assure Mrs. Harper that we will have accurate results on her case in a matter of days, and to try to relax in the meantime. After she leaves, I say to Ginger, “I’ve got to go meet our jerk client. I need you to go to Mr. Harper’s work and follow him to the racquetball club, if indeed that is where he goes. Watch everything. Who he nods to, who he talks to, who his playing partner is. Pull on something athletic from the disguise closet. No 80s sweat bands or off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. This isn’t Flashdance.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And Ginger? No stopping by the coffee house to visit Alex during his shift.”
“Of course.”
I check the clock and see that I have a bit of time before I need to leave for Storm Enterprises. So what I do is a bit of thumbing through the file on E. Storm. I get on-line and look up some local elementary schools, check a few names, and make a call.
“Hello, this is Angela at Storm Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”
“Hello,” I lie, “this is Mrs. Pearson from Wayside Elementary calling for Tiffany Roberts.”
“I’m afraid that Mrs. Roberts is with our company’s president at the moment. Could I take a message?”
“Yes. Tell her that Jackie needs to be picked up from school right away. This message is really of the utmost urgency.”
After I hang up, I go to the disguise closet and dress in a black pencil skirt and black top. I put on a pair of stilettos and find the smartest pair of glasses I have.
I arrive at Storm Enterprises at 3:11, walk up to the receptionist (Angela) and say, “I’m here to assist Mr. Storm. He called me in as his regular personal assistant had to leave early.”
Angela eyes me up and down. She clearly doesn’t remember me as the blond cupcake caterer from yesterday. “What’s your name?”
“Joelle Rossen. He’s expecting me.”
I watch as Angela lifts the receiver and dials Mr. Storms’ office. “I have a Joelle Rossen here to see you, sir. Uh huh. Yes. Okay.”
“His office is room 215. That’s on—”
“Yes, the second floor, I know. Thank you.”
I actually take the elevator this time and head straight to Elijah Storms’ office. When I get there I see through the side window that the lights are dimmed. I tap on the door.
“Come in,” yells a muffled voice.
Once I enter, I am utterly horrified.
Towards the back of the office is a wheelie bed, like the kind the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy use to push ER patients around on. There is a blond woman dressed in white, and she is hammering on the back of a mostly naked man. I mean, he hasn’t got his shirt on. And okay, there is a towel over his bum, but still. Mr. Storm’s face is sunken into one of those face cradle things. Ocean beach sounds are playing softly in the background, and I can smell the scent of lavender oil.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Miss Rossen, is that you?” Mr. Storm asks, on account of how he can’t see anything but the floor.
“Yes. But I thought you said you were free at 3:15.”
“My apologies. Ingrid arrived early today. But I can multi-task. Have a seat there, and we can chat while I’m getting my knots worked out.”
“Ummm,” I say uncertainly. “Are you sure these matters should be discussed right now? With your masseuse present?”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. Ingrid only knows Swedish. And my sister Elisa lived with her during her study abroad trip to Sweden. Ingrid’s practically another sister.”
I’m still really hesitant about the whole thing, but I decide to stay. I mean, I am getting paid extra for this horrific experience. As a security test I say, “So, Ingrid. Do you buy all your furniture at Ikea?”
The blond woman looks at me, shakes her head, and says, “Jag förstår inte engelska.”
“So Mr. Storm, where shall we start?” I say to the back of his head.
“Before we even start, maybe you could help me with one other thing. My PA seems to have gone missing. I haven’t seen her since two o’clock. And I’ve got a lot of work for her to do.”
“Mr. Storm, your personal assistant, Tiffany, had to go pick up her daughter at school, due to a suspected lice outbreak. I told your receptionist that I’m here as your PA for the rest of the day.”
“I thought I told you to come as an assistant to my masseuse?”
“Yeah, well, my blond wig was dirty. And frankly, sir, I’ve thought this through more than you. In order to solve this case, I’m going to need to be here daily, so I can watch everything. I’m going to need access to everything. That’s why you’ve hired me as your second personal assistant. No one will be suspicious.”
“What? You can’t be my PA. You won’t be any good. I need Tiffany back.”
“It’s a guise, sir. Tiffany will be back tomorrow.” Plus, I would make an excellent personal assistant. But I don’t say that.
“Oh. Alright then. As long as I don’t have to pay you for being both a detective and a personal assistant.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I take my notebook out and settle into the chair I’m sitting in, which is opposite my client’s massage table. “So, Mr. Storm, tell me about any suspects you have, any odd things that have happened lately.”
I listen to him give me the scoop on the inside doings. But let’s just be honest, if this were ice cream, this scoop would make a child sized cone. The man seems oblivious to everything. As Elijah Storm continues to talk, I get distracted because Ingrid’s just poured a huge glob of oil onto his back, and she’s working it all around his muscles, which are quite toned. His body glistens, and I start to laugh to myself about what would happen if he got put into a giant frying pan right now.
At 4:10, Ingrid, who’s actually been touching the guy the whole time, says “Gjort.” I take this to mean she’s finished. Mr. Storm lifts himself off of the table and I see his face for the first time. Second time, actually. His face has this really great U-shaped indent on it, thanks to the cradle. He’s also got some extra wrinkles formed that weren’t there yesterday. But you think that’s distracting? Try looking at his abs. I try to shield my virgin eyes, but what I notice are all the masculine muscles he’s got stored there. In fact, I think he’s trying to flex right now. Pretentious fool.
Mr. Storm makes sure the towel or sheet or whatever is wrapped securely around his waist before standing up. Then he turns to Ingrid, shakes her hand, and says “Tack. Skicka mig en räkning som vanligt.”
Ingrid’s wheeling her massage bed out the door, but then she turns to me and says “Kommer,” with a motioning hand.
“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.” I follow her out and wait in the hallway.
But first, before the masseuse leaves, a profile on Ingrid:
Blond, as you know. Tan, of course. Very Swedish. After a messy divorce with her husband, she moved to America eight months ago at the suggestion of Elisa Storm. She is struggling financially but is very intelligent, as she was a chemical engineer in Sweden. The language barrier is preventing her from finding a good paying job. This is surprising considering 89% of Swedes know English. What’s her excuse? Ingrid comes weekly to Mr. Storm’s office, and she attends ESL classes through the YWCA.
After about seven minutes Mr. Storm opens his office door, this time fully clothed.
“Elijah Storm. Nice to finally meet you.”
I stick my hand out and shake his. He’s still got the horseshoe indents on his forehead.
The next day is the day Ginger has off, so I go through the file on Mr. Harper to see what she’s found. I pop by the Harper’s house in the early morning (Mr. Harper is gone of course) to poke my nose around for some clues. Then I get to Storm Enterprises by nine o’clock, dressed as a personal assistant, wearing my disguise glasses.
The morning is pretty much a bore as I follow both Elijah Storm and Tiffany around to meetings. But the good thing is, is that during the all-staff meeting, I get to take detailed notes on everybody in the room, even though they all think I’m taking minutes. I see this really hot guy who works in Graphics, but I try not to get distracted. You know, even though he’s the only one in the room wearing jeans and a black utility jacket, with a band tee underneath. I guess if you work in the art department you can get away with those kinds of things.
I go to Storm Enterprises every day for the next few days, which brings us to Thursday. While I don’t have a glaring list of suspects, I do have an accurate picture of the information leak. I’ve collected data on which foreign companies have stolen nanotechnology designs from Storm Enterprises, and I have the suspected time span of the leaks. The problem is, no one in the company has so much as Googled any of the companies who stole information. No one took business trips or vacations to the area of interest, and I’ve tapped everyone’s phone calls.
To be honest, I’m sort of suspecting Ingrid. I know she went through a bad divorce and moved continents, but she has the perfect opportunity. I mean, she comes into Elijah’s office weekly. They talk in Swedish to each other for an hour. I bet he tells her all sorts of things about the company. I went to get a massage once, and the masseuse practically wanted me to share my entire life story with her. Besides, if Elijah was so willing to discuss the investigation in front of Ingrid, how many other times has she been privy to secret meetings? I bet she hears everything. And that whole no speaking English thing is probably a ruse. I don’t have any conclusive evidence on her, but she is definitely a person of interest.
Later, when I’m at home cooking dinner, Ginger calls.
“Miss Rossen, I have an update for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m at the gym right now, tailing Mr. Harper, you know?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And he plays with this guy named Sam Porras on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and with a man named to Tyler White on Mondays and Saturdays.”
“I know all of this, Ginger. You wrote it up and put it in Mr. Harper’s file.”
“But today is Thursday, and Mr. Harper is not playing with Sam Porras.”
I understand that Ginger is excited that she knew the normal, regular, routine, and that she noticed a change, but really? Unless Mr. Harper started playing tennis with Anna Kournikova, does it really matter?
“So who is Mr. Harper playing instead today? Is it someone you’ve seen before?”
“You’ll never believe this. He’s playing racquetball right now with Elijah Storm.”
I about choke to death on my own spit.
“What do you mean Mr. Harper’s racquetball partner is Elijah Storm?”
“What I mean is right now they are at the gym, wearing protective eyewear and Nike spandex. It’s Elijah Storm. I’m 100% sure.”
I think to myself, what does this mean? Because what are the chances that the two people I am doing cases for are connected somehow? Unless a mutual friend recommended me to both of them? Elijah never mentioned to me Mr. Harper as his friend or acquaintance. And Mrs. Harper hadn’t said anything about Elijah Storm.
“Video tape them,” I tell Ginger, because I’m going to want to watch their interaction later if I don’t get there in time. I mean, are they friends or what? “I’m on my way.” My plan is to get there in time so that when the two men are done playing racquetball, Ginger can follow Mr. Harper and I can follow Elijah Storm to wherever he goes next. The plan seems a bit stalker-esque, I know, because most of the time I don’t spy on my own clients. It’s just such a strange coincidence that they know each other.
When I get to the gym, I find Ginger video taping from the second floor balcony, which sort of looks down on the racquetball courts. Mr. Storm and Mr. Harper both have no idea they’re being watched.
“Anything interesting?” I ask when I arrive.
“Mr. Storm is leading by seven points.”
We watch the two men for a bit, and it’s honestly kind of an eye sore, what with all that spandex. It doesn’t really matter that Elijah is super-fit, nobody wants to see all of that. Once the men head to the locker room, Ginger and I make our exit out of the gym ahead of time and get in our cars, ready to tail them. My receptionist and I are both connected with our Blue Tooths (er, Blue Teeth?) so that we can communicate what we see each man doing.
After we narrate to each other the twists and turns of our respective trails, Ginger informs me that Mr. Harper has arrived at his residence, and she can see him through the kitchen window, where he is greeting his wife (in a pool of sweat, no doubt). Ginger tells me she has an Anthropology final exam to study for, and can she please go home? I tell her good work, good luck, and see you tomorrow after your test. I continue to follow Mr. Storm, and after his stop at the dry cleaners, he goes home as well. I watch as he pulls his Lincoln into his three car garage and shuts the door. I wait about twelve minutes, then get out of my car, walk up to his doorbell, and push the button. I’m a tiny shred nervous, as I have never revealed to anyone that I have followed them home.
I hear foot steps padding down the hall, the door opens, and there is Mr. Elijah Storm, hair wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. And here I thought he showered in the locker room. “Detective Rossen,” he says, a bit too pleasantly. I force my way into the foyer.
“Mr. Storm, we need to talk,” I demand. I eye his glistening water dotted chest and add “after you put on your jammies.”
Once he has returned wearing a white Hanes t-shirt and grey sweatpants, I start to grill him like a George Foreman.
“Tell me the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lucas Harper.”
Mr. Storm looks at me really surprised, more surprised than having your private detective show up on your doorstep at 8pm when you are wearing nothing but terry cloth. He’s surprised like maybe I’m expecting that he tell me he is actually gay, and that Lucas Harper is his secret lover.
“How do you know about Luke?” he asks.
“I know everything, Mr. Storm. Over the past few days I have learned everything about your company, and in turn, everything about you. Now, please tell me about Luke Harper.”
“He’s a buddy of mine. We play racquetball together sometimes, have drinks at the bar occasionally…”
“How long have you known him?”
“About a year.”
“Where did you meet?”
“On an airplane. He was sitting next to me. We were both flying back from a business trip in Japan. I found out he worked in the same city as me. In computer engineering.”
“Has Mr. Harper ever been to the office building of Storm Enterprises?”
“Oh yeah, all the time. We talk about work a lot. Usually I invite him to our launch parties. He’s a good person to bounce ideas off of, and he has good connections.”
I ask the next question just to make him uncomfortable, even though I know the answer.
“Are you and Mr. Harper romantically involved?”
“What? No, or course not. I like women…I slept with one last week.”
He didn’t really need to mention the last part. First of all, I already knew. Her name is Claudia and she sent him a really sappy e-mail that I deleted the day I was his personal assistant. I didn’t think he needed that kind of emotional wreck in his life. I mean, if it weren’t an e-mail, I’m sure she would have dotted her “i”s with hearts. More importantly, she was only 19. I checked.
“Joelle, why are you asking me all of these questions about Luke Harper?”
“Because, Mr. Storm, you are a moron.”
“Excuse me?” An angry look starts to form across all of his beautiful, undeserved features.
“I don’t normally tell clients about work I’m doing with other clients, but I have been investigating Mr. Harper for another matter. In the past two months, he has made many business trips to both Tokyo and London. He works in computer engineering. You’ve had him to your office many times and he’s chummy with you. Think about it, Mr. Storm. He’s probably the one leaking all of your new developments.” I pull out the two files I had grabbed from the office earlier, the ones marked L. Harper and E. Storm. “All of the details you gave me coincide with the information I’ve gathered on Mr. Harper. You said that on September 18th, a company in Tokyo came out with a new technological design exactly like yours. Only they beat your deadline so everyone thinks they are the developers. Three weeks before that, Mr. Harper took a business trip to Tokyo.” I scan through the file. “He met with that exact same Japanese business.”
Somehow, I was able to piece all of this together during the 12 minutes I sat outside in the driveway of Mr. Storm’s house. In fact, I’m surprised I hadn’t made the connections earlier. Mr. Harper had covered his tracks well. I had no idea about the many visits he had made to Storm Enterprises, or about his close relationship with its president.
“Are you completely sure?” Mr. Storm asks me.
“I can do more verifying tomorrow, sir, but you can see here that all the dates line up. Same company in Tokyo, same company in London. He’s probably making a pretty penny off of the deal he has going.”
Elijah Storm’s face starts to turn blue. “The nerve of that asshole! I trusted that bastard! I considered him a friend, and here, all that time when we were bouncing ideas off of each other, he was just stealing mine. I’m gonna sue that effing prick for all he’s worth. I’m gonna have him arrested for this!”
For the very first time, I actually start to feel bad for Elijah Storm, despite his potty mouth. I mean, this whole time I’ve basically thought him a handsome moronic jerk, but it hurts my heart a tiny bit that he has such a double-crossing friend. And okay, Elijah shouldn’t have been such a moron in the first place, but still.
“I’m sorry, Elijah. But sometimes friends are really just out to make a buck off of you.”
The next morning I don’t dress up as a PA or go into the Storm Enterprises office building. Instead, what I do is write up a detailed invoice stating all of the charges this case is costing and fax it to Elijah. But on the bottom of the invoice I write in cursive “Cheer up, pal, at least you can take him to court with this evidence.”
Then I call Mrs. Harper and ask her to come in to my office. After that I text Ginger, who is at the university taking her Anthropology final.
How would you like to go from receptionist to assistant detective? You’ve earned it.
She responds immediately.
Wow! Like I can be Watson now?
I send my reply then do a bit of housework until Mrs. Harper arrives. When she shows up at the door, I have a cup of tea and a cupcake waiting for her, even though it’s only ten-thirty a.m. We settle into my office so I can give her the news.
“Mrs. Harper, I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve finished working on your case.”
She looks a bit nervous, but inches forward on the edge of her chair.
“Yes? What of Lucas? Is he two-timing me with that girl from his office?”
“No, Mrs. Harper, I’ve got good news for you. Your husband is not cheating on you. But he may be doing some jail time soon.”
This is amazing Joelle. Pretty sure you should write a book :)
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