Chapter 9: A Partner Calls

MAIZIE AND I WERE A BIT LATE getting started this morning and rolled into the office about 9:00. It was good to get out and walk again, though I found that I needed to take it a bit slower in the light rain this morning, but the cup of coffee at Tovoni’s left me with a pleasant buzz. Riley grabbed a towel and rubbed Maizie down quickly as I put my hat and coat in the closet. She cooed over the dog, rubbing her and talking about how she shouldn’t have to walk in this nasty weather. By the time she was done, I was getting a little bit jealous. It was going to be a long dreary day. Maizie settled down on her bed after she’d dragged it halfway across the room to put it behind the sofa next to the heat vent. Smart dog. I almost joined her.

“Riley,” I started, “what are the results from the file recovery on Simon’s computer?”

“Not good,” she answered. “The computer was definitely altered the day before we got it. But whoever did it used a blanking program. The disc was optimized and all unoccupied sectors were written over with zeros. I’ve been poking around, but it was a professional job.”

“That puts it out of Brenda’s league,” I muttered. “She must have taken it somewhere after she deleted the files she didn’t want me to see. There was nothing on the computer about Simon owning a private jet.”

I gave Riley the hard drive from Mr. Oksamma and told her to have a go at it while I tried to make sense of the twenty-one names and numbers from Simon’s computer.

Riley came in about 11:00 and plopped herself down on the edge of my desk. I looked up at her and she leaned back on one elbow like a lounge singer on a piano bar—her favorite vamp pose.

“I know who hit you Saturday night.” I looked up at her. What was she playing at?

“I already knew who hit me,” I said cautiously.

“Not the kind of guy who takes kindly to older men messing around with his girlfriend, is he?” Riley asked. I nodded. “I wonder what he’d do if he found out his girlfriend was planning to run away with one of those older men—say an older man who set her up with her own business.”

I leaned back in my chair appreciating the view of Riley sprawled out across the edge of my desk.

“Okay,” I said, “spill it. What were you investigating yesterday?”

“Angel Woodward,” she answered. That was progress. I didn’t know what her last name was. “Dag, there’s more going on up there than meets the eye. When you go up there you just see girls catering to men who can pay them well.”

“Ah, I see,” I smiled. “You’ve become an expert on the ‘hostess’ industry, eh? So, how’s tricks?”

“You want to know what’s going on?” she scowled at me.

“What did you find out, Riley? You know I’m all ears.”

“All except the part that’s eyes.” She grinned, but she didn’t shift her provocative pose. “These girls are smart cookies. I’ve learned about several of them over the past few days talking to Cinnamon and then with Angel. Did you know that Cinnamon is a marketing director at a local pharmaceutical corporation? Sierra is a field sales rep for a medical products firm. Allison is an insurance claims adjuster. Portia owns a string of independent coffee stands and employs over twenty people. Diva is a software developer. The girls Cinnamon named who work up at the condo are all are college-educated, several have master’s degrees, and one is a PhD doing cancer research. And you know what? They all got jobs or businesses through men who are clients at the condo.”

“Nice work,” I said. “But you missed Angel, who is a travel agent and makes all Simon’s travel arrangements for him.”

“Hey! You didn’t even know her last name yesterday,” she said.

“I didn’t know her last name until you just mentioned it,” I fessed up. “So are you suggesting that the condo is a front for a secret society of college educated women who are using their contacts there to take over the economic structure of Seattle?” I asked. “That’s very Hollywood.”

“No,” Riley said, “I’m not suggesting that. I’m just saying that there are an awful lot of really smart women who are using more than their brains to break through the glass ceiling. Whether they ever use last names in the condo or not, they know who their clients are. They could do a lot of damage if they got upset. For insurance against ladies being upset, their clients are very nice to them.”

“What about Angel?”

“Yes, then there is Angel,” Riley continued. “Based on mathematic extrapolation of a limited sample-set, I believe that we could safely assume that Angel does a business of about $15 million a year and pulls down about $1.5 million in commissions and fees.”

“As a hooker?” I exclaimed.

“No, as a travel agent,” Riley said. “She’s not a hooker, at least not in the way that she defines it. She books travel, escorts businessmen on their business dates, and sells ATM travel cash cards. It is a very, very lucrative business.”

“Why on earth would she be working up at the condo in addition to that kind of a business?” I could not put this together.

“Well, it’s probably not for the extra thousand or so a week in unreported cash that it brings in,” Riley quipped. “That might motivate some of them, but most figure they could make six figures on their day-jobs. They figure that the condo puts them in the presence of very powerful men being very powerful. And if a powerful man likes you, he makes the way easier for you outside the condo, in the real world. He puts in a good word for you with a friend who knows someone who happens to be looking for a marketing executive.”

“So Angel goes there to make contacts for her executive travel agency.”

“No, I don’t think so. The contacts get made for her. Simon Barnett set up her business and makes sure she has an unending supply of clients. She’s there for Simon.”

“The ladies sure didn’t impress me like that when I was up there,” I said shaking my head. If Riley was right, most of the women I met in the condo pull down more money each year than I do.

“Oh, they impressed you all right,” Riley said sweeping her hair back off one side of her face as she turned to look at me with a sleepy-eyed grin that reminded me of Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. But it was Riley, and she was continuing.

“You never notice us for what we are. Here we are in all our beauty and brilliance, and you say ‘Here, recover the data off this laptop,’ or ‘Pick up dogfood on your way to chauffeur me tonight.’ We practically throw ourselves at you and you never realize the treasure you have right here in your hands.”

Did I mention Riley can be a regular drama queen? Well, she wasn’t exactly in my hands. More like lounging on my desk. But I have to admit, she gave me an idea, and even if it was an evil one, I couldn’t help myself. I’d just found out yesterday that I was going to die before Christmas if I didn’t get a heart transplant. And frankly, on a day to day basis, the chances of a transplant seemed slim.

“All right Riley,” I said standing up from my desk. “I’ve wondered what you were really made of ever since I met you. It’s time to put your money where your mouth is.” She looked shocked, but then she recovered and went back on the attack.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

I said, “Maizie, guard the office while Riley and I go out for lunch.” Then I turned to Riley again as I slipped into my own coat, “I know just the place. It’s not far from here.” As we left the pier, I put up my umbrella and used one arm to pull Riley close to me so she wouldn’t get wet. I could feel her tense a little. Oh, I do know a little about women… at least this one.

We walked down the Waterfront past the Aquarium in silence. Riley was tense, and she was surprised when we turned in at Pier 57—The Bay Pavilion. I unfurled the umbrella and led her to the end of the pier where there’s a huge game arcade and a merry-go-round.

I bought two $10 rolls of quarters and handed one to her.

“All right, Riley. Let’s see how hot you really are. Most tickets at the end of his roll of quarters gets lunch from the loser. And I’d like fish & chips if you please.” I could see her visibly relax at last as a smile broke out across her face.

“Well, plan on buying your own when you pick up my calamari,” she laughed. Then we hit the games. It was a riot. We did a side-by-side Skee-ball challenge, but soon discovered that even though I beat her by 10,000 points, the machines paid the same number of tickets. It was on to various coin drops, car racing, gator-beating, and even a dance contest. I about dropped on that one and conceded the tickets to her. When we were done, I had only 175 tickets to her 310. Well, she’d be just insufferable now. We bought various candy lollipops with the won tickets and headed toward the exit.

“Wait, Dag,” Riley said. “I want a picture. Let’s take it in the picture booth.”

“Go ahead,” I laughed. “I think I can dig up another dollar.”

“No, together. I want a picture of the two of us together.” I was surprised.

“I don’t think the two of us will fit in that little booth.”

“Oh, come on. People do it all the time.”