Old Poison by Joan Francis

was no such
thing. All the food was supplied by convention center catering.
    Feeling unbelievably foolish, I fought my
way back through the crowd to the Enviro-Medic Research booth. At
the spot on the convention floor where the booth had been, there
was nothing left but a large green stain on the floor and the sack
with my video of Professor Evelyn Lilac.

    * * * * *

TEN

    Monday morning I had bits and pieces of
eleven cases pending. By Friday, I had mailed nine final reports,
with invoices attached. This burst of energy and efficiency was my
way of ignoring the one case that had me stumped. Mr. Borson,
Professor Evelyn Lilac, Guillermo Jesus Montegro Y Monteblan, and
Ken and Judith Hoffman had all flat-out disappeared. I was left
with part of a retainer and a very unpleasant question. What had
been Borson’s real agenda?
    I had broken my own basic rule: Only work
for attorneys where cases are filed and everything done through
legal procedures. With a layman client you can get blind-sided by
your client’s hidden agenda. Private investigators who ignore this
end up in the wrong kind of newspaper headline: “MAN KILLS
ESTRANGED GIRLFRIEND. ADDRESS SUPPLIED BY PRIVATE EYE.”
    The fact is, if Borson had just tried to
hire me that first day, I would have turned him down. He had played
me expertly, introducing himself inside the courthouse, baiting me
with my own curiosity, and sucking me in with two seemingly
innocent meetings. “Just try the first assignment,” he had said.
“If you don’t like the work, you will never hear from me again.”
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
    Hard work on other cases allowed me to
ignore the question until Friday night, when Sam and I were having
dinner at the Ocean Way Grill. A young man walked up to me and
asked, “Are you Ms. Diana Hunter?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was supposed to deliver this package to
you here at seven p.m. Sorry, I’m a little late.”
    The kid turned to leave and did not respond
when I said, “Wait, who told you I would be here? Where did this
package come from?” He kept right on going and was out the door in
a dozen running steps.
    I looked at Sam. He put his napkin on the
table and lumbered his big body out the door. He returned in about
five minutes. His only comment was a shake of his head. The kid had
disappeared.
    Eyeing the unopened package he asked, “You
want to have a demolitions guy look at it before you open it?”
    I smiled. “No, I know what’s in it. A CD and
a wad of cash. I just don’t know how in the hell Borson knew I
would be here at seven o'clock.”
    Sam shrugged. “We can check your phone and
apartment for bugs, but with the equipment today, he could
eavesdrop on you with no hardware in place. Chances are we won’t
find anything. Let’s just go to your place and see what we
got.”
    Neither of us spoke as Sam drove us the
eight blocks to my building. As we climbed eight flights of stairs,
however, he did mumble something unflattering about my choice of
residence.
    I pressed my thumb to the security button
Sam had installed on my door. After reading my print, the system
unlocked the dead bolts and I opened the door.
    Yeabot rolled over to the entry and greeted
us with, “Hello, Mother. Hello, Uncle Sam. Mother, you have two
messages. Would you like to hear your messages now?”
    Sam studied his handiwork for a moment, then
said, “You know, Diana, if you keep living in this dump, you’re
gonna get hit. It’s a bad part of town.”
    “Sam, I already have Yeabot to protect me,
as well as the security system you put in. No, thank you, Yeabot.
I’ll hear messages later.”
    “Would Mother and Uncle Sam like a
scotch?”
    “No thanks, Yeabot. Just rest. We’ll call
you if we need anything.”
    Still frowning at his own thoughts, Sam
said, “Yeah, well, you know what trouble I’d have if anyone knew
about Yeabot. I think I better upgrade its security system a
little. Maybe I could also work on some sensors that would pick up
on anyone listening