what sort of threat she presents, and then get back to you. We can decide on next steps from there.”
“What do you charge for this sort of thing, Mr. Callister?”
“Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”
The deal breaker. Would he pay two hundred dollars a day for his services? No. But Elizabeth Traven was made of stronger stuff. “How be I pay you for a week? Throw in one hundred dollars for expenses. Would that be enough?”
Tree’s throat was dry. “I don’t see why not.”
She bent to pick up the plum-colored Gucci bag on the floor beside her. She opened the strap and withdrew a wad of one hundred dollar bills. Did the wives of jailed rich men carry their wealth around in Gucci bags? A little known fact about the rich in American life.
She counted out fifteen bills and laid them on the desk. Tree tried not to look at the money. Elizabeth Traven re-crossed her legs and returned the purse to the floor.
“Would you like a receipt?”
“No. But there is one more thing.” She studied him with pale eyes that Tree imagined might be able to see right through a person such as himself, a person trying to be one thing when he was something else entirely.
“What’s that?”
“In addition to purchasing its services, I assume I am also buying Sanibel Sunset Detective’s discretion?”
“You are, absolutely.”
“This business between us must remain strictly confidential.”
“That goes without saying,” Tree said.
“Does it?” She sat up straight. “Well, just in case, now it’s been said.”
“I’m going to need whatever information you have on Mickey Crowley.”
“Such as?”
“A photograph would help.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Her address?”
“All I have is where I dropped her off. MacGregor Woods on Barrington Court.”
“What about her husband’s name?”
“It’s Dwayne.”
“Dwayne Crowley?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“What about a description of Mickey?”
“Let me see. African American. About five feet, three inches tall. Slim figure. Rather attractive, in a dusky sort of way. Short black hair. Yes, and she has some sort of tattoo on her shoulder. A rose, I think.”
Tree retrieved his glasses from the desk and then spent some time writing down the information. “I’ll need your phone number.”
She rose to her feet. “I’m impressed you know about the Marx book.”
“The crazy days in Vienna before Karl and his brothers got into comedy.”
She aimed a level gaze at him.
“You’ve heard those jokes before,” he said.
“Let’s meet again next Wednesday, Mr. Callister. Here in your office. Hopefully, by then you will have some results.”
He watched her leave. Or rather he watched her behind moving beneath the material of the dress. He shouldn’t have been doing that, but he was a detective, after all. That’s what detectives did. They watched things.
9
T hink about it,” Rex Baxter said. “These are grown men wearing tights .”
Friday nights Rex presided over Fun Friday, which consisted of a group of local business people and their spouses gathered at the Lighthouse bar for drinks and, depending on the mood, dinner. Tree bought Freddie a glass of chardonnay as he listened to Rex in conversation with Todd Jackson.
“And not just tights. These guys run around in capes and masks. Can you imagine what the reaction would be if you walked out in the street like that?”
“I like Batman,” Todd said, sipping a Heineken. “And I liked the first Spider-Man . Didn’t like the others, though.”
Todd, polished a walnut brown, operated Sanibel Biohazard, “a crime scene clean-up company,” as he described it, that did a thriving business in the Naples-Fort Myers area.
“Batman’s a good example of what I’m talking about,” Rex continued. “How does he even get into that outfit? It’s skin tight, for God’s sake. Try getting into a skin-tight jumpsuit some time. See how long it takes you.”
“Somehow on the big screen
“What do you charge for this sort of thing, Mr. Callister?”
“Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”
The deal breaker. Would he pay two hundred dollars a day for his services? No. But Elizabeth Traven was made of stronger stuff. “How be I pay you for a week? Throw in one hundred dollars for expenses. Would that be enough?”
Tree’s throat was dry. “I don’t see why not.”
She bent to pick up the plum-colored Gucci bag on the floor beside her. She opened the strap and withdrew a wad of one hundred dollar bills. Did the wives of jailed rich men carry their wealth around in Gucci bags? A little known fact about the rich in American life.
She counted out fifteen bills and laid them on the desk. Tree tried not to look at the money. Elizabeth Traven re-crossed her legs and returned the purse to the floor.
“Would you like a receipt?”
“No. But there is one more thing.” She studied him with pale eyes that Tree imagined might be able to see right through a person such as himself, a person trying to be one thing when he was something else entirely.
“What’s that?”
“In addition to purchasing its services, I assume I am also buying Sanibel Sunset Detective’s discretion?”
“You are, absolutely.”
“This business between us must remain strictly confidential.”
“That goes without saying,” Tree said.
“Does it?” She sat up straight. “Well, just in case, now it’s been said.”
“I’m going to need whatever information you have on Mickey Crowley.”
“Such as?”
“A photograph would help.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Her address?”
“All I have is where I dropped her off. MacGregor Woods on Barrington Court.”
“What about her husband’s name?”
“It’s Dwayne.”
“Dwayne Crowley?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“What about a description of Mickey?”
“Let me see. African American. About five feet, three inches tall. Slim figure. Rather attractive, in a dusky sort of way. Short black hair. Yes, and she has some sort of tattoo on her shoulder. A rose, I think.”
Tree retrieved his glasses from the desk and then spent some time writing down the information. “I’ll need your phone number.”
She rose to her feet. “I’m impressed you know about the Marx book.”
“The crazy days in Vienna before Karl and his brothers got into comedy.”
She aimed a level gaze at him.
“You’ve heard those jokes before,” he said.
“Let’s meet again next Wednesday, Mr. Callister. Here in your office. Hopefully, by then you will have some results.”
He watched her leave. Or rather he watched her behind moving beneath the material of the dress. He shouldn’t have been doing that, but he was a detective, after all. That’s what detectives did. They watched things.
9
T hink about it,” Rex Baxter said. “These are grown men wearing tights .”
Friday nights Rex presided over Fun Friday, which consisted of a group of local business people and their spouses gathered at the Lighthouse bar for drinks and, depending on the mood, dinner. Tree bought Freddie a glass of chardonnay as he listened to Rex in conversation with Todd Jackson.
“And not just tights. These guys run around in capes and masks. Can you imagine what the reaction would be if you walked out in the street like that?”
“I like Batman,” Todd said, sipping a Heineken. “And I liked the first Spider-Man . Didn’t like the others, though.”
Todd, polished a walnut brown, operated Sanibel Biohazard, “a crime scene clean-up company,” as he described it, that did a thriving business in the Naples-Fort Myers area.
“Batman’s a good example of what I’m talking about,” Rex continued. “How does he even get into that outfit? It’s skin tight, for God’s sake. Try getting into a skin-tight jumpsuit some time. See how long it takes you.”
“Somehow on the big screen
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