“Well, Quinn’s been phasing out private clients, and this one’s definitely on the block. Alex is taking a look at the numbers, but my gut says the guy’s a mess. His company’s hemorrhaging stockholders like rats from a sinking ship, and guys who cheat on their wives lie like shag rugs. The liability’s too high for us to keep untrustworthy clients.”
“How do we know he cheats?” I hadn’t read the client file yet, and wondered if fidelity was part of their profiles.
O’Malley gestured inside the restaurant. “The waitress said he brings a different woman in about once a week. Last one just left, actually.”
I tried to shrug off the unaccountable feeling of disappointment at the thought that the lovely bird with the spectacular rear-view had already been claimed.
“The account breech that called us here is going to complicate things, since he’s still technically our client, but hopefully we can sort that out soon enough. Come on, you should meet him, get a feel for what he’s made of.”
I followed O’Malley inside the hole-in-the-wall, and wondered how any man, much less a married one, thought he could shag a girl after a date here. The waitress was in her early twenties, and had the pouty bottom lip that made me think she practiced it in a mirror. The bloke I assumed was Quimby sat at a table in the corner, scrolling manically through his phone. He was probably about my age, and handsome enough to make up for being short in a tall man’s world. His date had looked like she was over six feet tall, and this bloke didn’t seem like he had the confidence to pull that off. A mystery to ponder some other time, perhaps.
We approached the table and Quimby looked up with a wide-eyed expression that had shades of panic in it. His quick glance dismissed me and landed on O’Malley.
“It’s gone!” he squeaked. His voice sounded as though someone had his stones in a vice.
O’Malley didn’t say a word, just arched in eyebrow and waited. A good tactic, and one I used often with squealers. I wondered idly if he’d ever been with the police.
Right on cue, Quimby answered the unasked question. “My money! It’s gone!”
The waitress looked over at us from the salt shakers she was refilling and I gave her an easy smile. She looked away quickly and went back into the kitchen.
“Calm down, Mr. Quimby,” said O’Malley as he pulled out his phone. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Eze the details while I get our tech person on the line.” O’Malley pronounced my name with the proper “Azay” inflection that told me he had a good ear for language or music.
Quimby continued talking to him as thought I wasn’t in the room. “I have an account at National. It’s been emptied.”
“How much is missing, Mr. Quimby?” I asked.
He looked startled at my accent, then glared and spoke to O’Malley again. “I had a half a million dollars in that account!”
O’Malley turned his back and walked away a few steps to speak on the phone. I knew he was doing it on purpose, and it seemed to infuriate Quimby.
“So, five hundred thousand is missing?” My voice was deep, and I usually spoke softly enough that people had to lean closer to hear me – a useful tool for gathering information about everything from personal hygiene (unfortunately) to lipstick or blood splatter on a collar.
Quimby glared at me. “Who are you?”
“Gabriel Eze with Cypher Security.”
“I don’t know you. I’m going to wait until he’s off the phone so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
I adopted an at-ease posture and studied the table Quimby had shared with … someone. I had no proof it was the lovely bird, but she was who I pictured sitting across from him. A barely-touched glass of sparkling water with a wedge of lime sat in a small puddle of ice-sweat on the table. She’d had at least one sip, but the sides of the glass were wet enough to make fingerprints unusable. She wore some sort of lip balm rather than lipstick, which, for some reason, made me think of pretty young girls and athletes instead of mistresses.
The chair had been pushed quite a way back from the table, as though a tall person had been seated there. I studied the chair-back and saw a few strands of long brown hair caught in a crack in the wood. Again, totally circumstantial – the hair could have been there for months – but the bird outside was a brunette, with thick hair she’d worn down past her shoulders. I pictured it up in a sloppy ponytail, or long and loose, spread across a pillow, and I shook myself sharply and concentrated on Quimby again.
Why him? Why would she choose him? Unless …
“May I see your phone, Mr. Quimby?” I asked just as O’Malley returned to the table.
“I’m not giving you my phone!” He spat.
“Give him the damn phone, Quimby, we have to talk.” O’Malley sounded tired and disgusted. No mean feat for a man I’d only ever seen behave in a completely professional manner.
The tone startled Quimby, and he shoved the phone across the table at me, sliding it through puddles left behind from wet glasses. I didn’t pick it up. Like hell was I going to wipe the water off on the tailored suit.
The phone was unlocked and on the home screen, so I navigated to the call icon. The screen opened to a blank contact, containing a phone number and no name. I memorized the number and then searched the recent call list. There were three missed calls from “home,” then about twenty minutes later, O’Malley’s phone call. So, the wife calls multiple times before the mistress gets here? I took a screenshot of his call list, airdropped it to myself, and then navigated back to the home screen and slid the phone back across the table.
O’Malley was just barely keeping his temper in check, as evidenced by the jaw muscle flexing with every clench of his teeth. “Exactly how much is left in the account that you claim no one knew about?”
Quimby’s voice was back up to squeaking levels. “Two hundred-fifty thousand dollars.”
I started chuckling as I dialed the number I’d memorized from his contact list. “Half,” I said under my breath.
“You think it’s funny to have a quarter million stolen from an account I worked damn hard to fill, Easy?” Quimby squeaked angrily. Calling me Easy rather than correctly pronouncing Eze with long “a” sounds was exactly the cheap shot I expected of him. I also noted that he said fill, not earn, but I ignored him as the ringing phone in my ear was picked up by an answering machine.
“You’ve reached the Divorce and Bankruptcy Specialists of the greater Chicago area. Please leave a message after the beep.”
My chuckle turned into full on laughter as I jerked my head at O’Malley, indicating we should leave.
“We’ll be in touch, Quimby,” he said, to the cocky bastard as he followed me out of the restaurant.
“What’s so funny?” O’Malley asked as I climbed behind the wheel of the SUV.
“It was the wife, and she must have used the girlfriend to do it.”
I had yet to figure out what Dan O’Malley thought of my work for Cypher Systems during the month I’d been employed there, but for the first time I got the sense that he might be impressed.
“Well, good for her,” he said as I pulled away from the curb. “Serves him right for cheating.”