So anyway, did I mention I’m an idiot?
Because boring lasted all of five days, then went out with a bang.
+++
Every evening, Dylan met with me. Between six and eight, when Ned Weatherby headed home and I followed at a discreet distance in whatever vehicle I could wangle, I would call my assistant. As soon as Ned turned down Ashfield Drive with its row of humongous houses, I’d hit #1 on my autodial. Dylan would meet me down the block from the Weatherby home — close enough that we could see the driveway, far enough away so that we appeared to be visiting elsewhere. And of course, always parked in a slightly different location.
Dylan would slide into the passenger seat and the two of us would go over what was happening at the office. A quick study, he knew not to bring the overdue bills along, not even the ones where the friendly reminders had turned considerably more hostile. Those would be taken care of soon enough anyway. Mostly he would fill me in on our other two cases that were on the board.
Why not do that whole thing over the phone, you’re thinking, rather than arranging this nightly tête-à-tête? Because I’d have starved to death. Mrs. Weatherby had insisted I conduct the entire surveillance personally, and given how much money she was paying me, I wasn’t about to quibble. So to keep continuity, I was reliant on Dylan to bring me enough stakeout food to get me through the night. When this case was over, I never wanted to see another wrapped burger or oversized shake as long as I lived.
Each evening as we met up, Dylan left his window down a little lower, and pushed up against the passenger door a little closer. By this fifth night, he was practically hanging his head out the window. “Gee, Dix,” he said, exaggerating a gag and waving a hand in front of his nose. “Wonder why you’re alone on a Friday night.”
Did I mention I desperately needed a shower?
It was just after seven and my mark was home. It had been a busy day for Ned, but I’d known that going into it. Jennifer had inked it in on the now grease-stained and worn itinerary she’d provided. Friday: meet with J. Poole 9am his offices, 11:30 lunch meeting with potential clients from Toronto — expected to go into the afternoon, 4:15 massage at gym/meet for racquetball if time permits.
Dylan picked up the wrinkled itinerary and looked it over. “Did you follow him into the massage?”
“Hardly!”
“Dix, I’m surprised at you,” he said. “And frankly, a little disappointed.”
I sighed. “It’s a restricted gym. Men only. Even the staff are men.”
He waited.
I opened the glove compartment and pulled out my fake mustache. “Good thing I can pass for a guy when I have to.” Which of course, is really quite easy — memorize a random fact about some big-boobed starlet, tell a good flatulence joke (and under pain of death, never use the word flatulence), and say, “How ’bout them Blue Jays/Leafs/Raptors?”. And of course, pray you don’t have to go for a pee.
Dylan lifted an eyebrow. “Tell me you didn’t give him the massage.”
“Hell, no. But I was the bungling incompetent trainee who delivered the towels to the room.”
He nodded. “Now, that’s the Dix Dodd I know and respect. And did our Mr. Weatherby behave?”
“Model customer. Just what you’d expect from a choirboy. He even kept his t-shirt on.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.”
This had surprised me. In fact, a lot of things I found out about Ned Weatherby this week had surprised me. The stories around Marport City always painted him as not just a shrewd businessman, but a bit of a prick about it. Before trailing him, I could have easily pictured this guy elbowing little old ladies aside if he spied a quarter in the middle of the street, or cheerfully drowning puppies if puppy-killing paid. But I’d witnessed no such bad conduct. If anything, Ned Weatherby was too good to be true. Literally. Because I’d seen too much to believe too good to be true could be true.
I watched as Dylan — a good six feet with a few inches to spare — attempted to get comfortable in the passenger seat of the vehicle-du-jour, a subcompact Hyundai. He put his left ankle on his right knee then down again. With one foot on the floor, he attempted to hike the other up on the dashboard, but that wasn’t about to happen. Finally, he just gave up and let his feet stay flat in the nut-crushing confines of the car.
Good. Served him right for so indelicately pointing out that I stank. It sort of leveled the playing field, seeing him sitting there with his folded knees nearly touching his chin. My satisfaction was short-lived, however, because he found the lever on the side of his seat and reclined it.
Oh, yikes!
In this half-reclining, totally sexy pose, he sipped his own super-sized drink and rattled the ice in the cup. “You’ll be pleased to know things are under control at the office.”
The office. Right. I paused to sip my drink. “The McGarvie case?”
“You nailed it. The guy was cheating with her best friend.” Dylan said. “Lori Lee McGarvie won’t be marrying that dog. She’s moving on and not looking back.”
“Your words?”
He beamed with pride. “Hers.”
“What about Roberta Street?”
“Hitting the road.”
Ha ha. I poked the ice in my drink with my straw. “Without her cheating boyfriend, I hope.”
“Actually, with Lori Lee McGarvie.”
“Excuse me?”
I blinked wide as Dylan flashed a sugar-eating grin. He locked his hands behind his head. “I have a sense about these things. And I just love happy endings.”
He did. Believe in happy endings, that is. Of course, if he stayed in this business long enough, he’d wise up.
Dylan nodded toward the house where Ned Weatherby had yet to enter. The millionaire was outside still, wandering around the gardens in the early evening light. He picked at the flowers and examined the shrubs. He pulled the rare weed that the gardener had missed.
“Why doesn’t he go in?”
“He does this every night,” I said, sticking my cold drink in the cup holder and wiping my condensation-dampened fingers on my jeans. “Fiddles around outside for a while. He’ll stay out there until the sheers pull back and Jennifer knocks on the window.”
“Regular green thumb, is he?”
“He’s a lot of things.” I hauled out the photographs from the week and handed them to him. Most of them were taken with a very sharp telephoto lens that would have given any paparazzi an orgasm. Ned in meetings with his staff looking annoyed at times, perplexed at others, never quite happy about the discussions on the table. Ned with his lawyer having a business lunch at Chez Lenore, and heading to the racquetball court after. Ned at the dentist, the jewelry store. But never at the Underhill Motel. And the closest he got to a blonde babe all week was his ready-to-retire secretary Luanne Laney, and she was more silver than blond.
There was one photograph that was out of place. A hellishly angry one that I’d shuffled to the bottom of the pile before handing the pics to Dylan. I watched his eyes as he riffled through them and came to this picture.
“This guy….” Dylan pointed to an older gentleman standing beside Weatherby in the photo. “This guy I’ve seen before.” The two were standing beside Ned’s BMW. And even from the still shot, the anger of the stranger was evident. His hands were fisted, his face red.