Page 42 of Things We Left Behind

It took three excruciating minutes of small talk about the weather and her son’s sudden interest in watching other kids play video games on YouTube for me to pry the coffee out of Holly’s hands.

I was only on my second priority folder, a background check on a gubernatorial candidate in Pennsylvania, when “that investigator” riffed a two-­fisted knock on my glass door. I gestured her inside.

Nallana Jones was a private investigator whose deep pockets were lined by clients like me who could afford to pay a premium for dirty work. Today, she was dressed like a middle-­aged suburban mom out for a power walk in dumpy sweats and a bulky belt bag. She was wearing a short, brown wig under a car dealer baseball cap. Her pink sweatshirt saidI Love Maine Coon Cats.

“You look ridiculous,” I said.

“That’s the idea. Nobody gives Middle-­Aged Maude a second look when she hits the treadmill at their mistress’s gym.”

“I take it this is for someone else’s job?”

“Yep.” She produced a flash drive from her belt bag and set it on my desk. “This came in from my girl in Atlanta yesterday. The backups are already in the cloud. I also added a little juicy footage from your guy’s arrival in town this morning. Right place, right time. Whatever you plan to do with this info, it’s solid. There’s no way he can wiggle out of it.”

“Impressive as always, Nallana.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” she said, slapping her knees. “Anyway, I gotta jet. There’s a certain twenty-­two-­year-­old who’s about to meet herfifty-­eight-­year-­old, married sugar daddy for a personal training session. I can’t be late.”

“I’ll call you when I need you again.”

She tossed me a two-­finger salute and sauntered out the door.

I inserted the drive into my secure laptop and scrolled through the files. There were over two dozen pictures and a handful of video files as well. Each one was enough to destroy a man’s career. I printed two of the better stills, copied the files to a new, secure folder in my own backup, then wiped the drive.

I picked up the phone and dialed Lina’s extension.

“What’s up, boss?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm so subtle I wasn’t sure it was actually there.

“I might have a job for you,” I said.

“A real one or another gopher task?”

“Just get in here.”

Seconds later, she appeared at my door. I waved her in and gestured for her to take a seat.

Her long legs ate up the space between the door and my desk. She sank into the chair and crossed one neatly over the other. “How do you not get fingerprints all over all that glass?” she asked, staring at the pristine surface of my desk.

“I refrain from getting sloppy. Which is what I’ll need you to do.” I slid the two photos across the desk to her. “Do you know who this man is?”

She studied the pictures. “The guy who looks like he was born in an ascot is Trip Armistead, our client and current member of the House of Representatives. I have no idea who the topless dancer is, but I’ll shave my head if she’s eighteen.”

I glanced at my watch. “You have twenty-­three minutes to take these photos and the information in the secure folder to build a compelling anonymous tip to be sent to the reputable news organizations of your choice.”

“Are we actually pressing Send, or are we using it to scare the shit out of our old buddy Trip?”

“The latter.”

The man had the backbone of a crustacean. One quick snap was all it would take.

“Fun. I’m in,” she said, rising from her seat.

“Why haven’t you accepted the job?” I asked.

She paused, then lowered herself back into the chair. “Does it matter?” she asked cagily.

“I won’t know until you tell me. Is it the compensation? Does Nash have an issue with you working for me?”

“The compensation is fair. The work seems like it’s interesting from the glimpses you allow. Nash is thrilled that I get to be home every day.”