CHAPTER THREE
Veronica struggled to her feet, mentally swearing at the sagging couch—there was no way to stand gracefully. She ended up doing an undignified little hop to catch her balance.
“Mr. Mars is actually on a leave of absence right now. I’m covering his caseload.” She held out her hand, and the woman hesitated for a moment before shaking it. “I’m Veronica Mars.”
“Petra Landros.” Her voice was low and musical, with the faintest trace of an accent. Veronica sized her up quickly, a detached, calculating part of her brain rapidly punching numbers. Armani suit, Jimmy Choos, diamonds in the ear-lobes, diamonds on the fingers. Crow’s-feet just starting to crease the corners of her eyes, but a body that was clearly the result of dark magic, Pilates, or severely restrictive undergarments. She looked vaguely familiar. Most important, she looked wealthy, like an opportunity to keep the lights on another week. Especially with Veronica’s special sliding-scale rich-bitch rates.
Petra frowned. “I’m sorry, how long did you say Mr. Mars would be out of the office?”
“He’ll be gone for the next few months.” Well, he wouldn’t be in any shape to go peeping through windows before then, so it wasn’t a complete lie. “But let me reassure you that we are committed to delivering the same excellent service that we’ve always provided to our clients, even in his absence.”
“And by ‘we,’ you mean … you, right?” Landros gave her a skeptical look.
Veronica had seen that look before—especially from female clients. It usually meant she was about to lose a job. Back when she’d been an amateur, the fact that she didn’t look the part had been an asset. It kept people off their guard, gave her freedom of movement. But now that she was the face of the operation, it was rapidly becoming clear that her petite frame and blond hair didn’t exactly win the confidence of her clients.
A sudden flare of irritation shot through her. Before she could stop herself she gestured at the window. “You see the sign that says ‘Mars Investigations’? Well, that’s me. I’m Mars. So yes. I mean me.”
Behind Landros, Veronica caught a glimpse of Mac pretending to hit her head on the desk. Maybe we need to hire a people person, she thought, her heart sinking slightly. But when she turned back, the woman looked amused.
“I know who you are, Ms. Mars. You’re the woman who brought Bonnie DeVille’s killer to justice. And you humiliated the sheriff on national television.”
Veronica shrugged. “Lamb humiliated himself. I just made sure he got airtime.”
Landros gave her a wry smile. “Yes, well, that’s the attitude that makes me wish your father were available. From what I’ve heard, he’s more … discreet. But the situation being what it is …”
Then a business card was in Veronica’s hand, and she had to fight to keep her jaw from dropping. Embossed along the left of the card was the red-and-gold logo of the Neptune Grand Hotel. Typed under Petra Landros’s name it read, simply: OWNER. And that was when she realized why the woman was so familiar. Petra Landros, the one-time underwear model who’d married the premier boutique hotelier in Southern California. Veronica remembered seeing her pictured in the glossy magazines she and her high school best friend Lilly Kane once pored over by the pool, pouting in a diamond-studded demi-bra. For a few years she’d been the trophy wife Veronica had assumed her to be—until her husband had died in a tragic skiing accident at the age of forty-six. And then, to everyone’s surprise, she’d taken over the company. At first the whole thing was treated like a bad local joke. But if Landros’s feelings were hurt, she was crying her way to the bank. She’d not only increased the Grand’s profits, she’d bought up a good chunk of the boardwalk and started construction on two new restaurants. Plus she’d elbowed her deceased husband’s own brother off the board with a ruthlessness that would make Leona Helmsley blush.
In other words, Veronica’s rates had just gone up dramatically.
“Why don’t you step into my office?” Veronica gestured to the open door.
Veronica’s office—Keith’s office—was brighter than the outer room, with two large windows facing east and south. The walls had been painted a sunny yellow, and her father’s model ships rested along the windowsills and on top of the filing cabinets. Landros walked ahead of Veronica, sitting down in one of the low chairs and crossing her long legs. Veronica had just enough time to exchange baffled glances with Mac before shutting the door behind her.
“So, what can I do for you?” Veronica walked around the desk to sit in her father’s low leather chair. Sunlight streamed through the big window behind the desk, catching every diamond Landros wore so that she glittered with each gesture.
“I’m actually here on behalf of Neptune’s Chamber of Commerce. You may have seen the news this weekend.” The woman pursed her full lips. “Our beloved sheriff has created something of a PR nightmare.”
“You’re talking about Hayley Dewalt’s disappearance?”
Landros sighed. “Of course. We asked Lamb to keep everyone calm. Instead he managed to make us look like a town of callous sociopaths. And now Trish Turley has her teeth in the story, telling parents not to let their kids go to Neptune for spring break.”
Veronica’s eyebrows shot upward. “I see. So you wanted Lamb to downplay Hayley’s disappearance, but not in a way that made it look like you care more about tourism dollars than, say, a teenage girl’s life.”
“You’re really not a saleswoman, are you?” Landros raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Her chair creaked slightly as she shifted her weight. “Look, I won’t bullshit you, Ms. Mars. My hotel and the tourism industry here in Neptune make almost forty percent of their total annual income during spring break. It’s not a piece of the pie we can afford to lose. So yes, we want this disappearance handled with some delicacy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t also want to find Hayley.”
Veronica leaned back in her chair, glancing out the window. Even from the comparative quiet of the office, she could hear the thrumming of car radios, the peals of shrill laughter, and sounds of breaking glass from the commercial streets a few blocks away. “It doesn’t sound like you’re losing too much business.”
“A few city blocks of teenagers do not a spring break make,” Landros said calmly. “This crowd is nothing compared to last year. We’ve had hundreds of cancellations over the weekend alone. That’s not just hundreds of canceled rooms, but hundreds of drinks that won’t be ordered. Hundreds of meals that won’t be eaten. Hundreds of swimsuits and flip-flops that won’t be purchased. Hundreds of scuba masks and kayaks and scooters that won’t be rented. And every day Turley is out there telling parents that Neptune is unsafe, telling them their daughters will be kidnapped or raped or murdered if they set foot in the city limits.”
“So you want me to …?”
“Find Hayley Dewalt.”
Veronica gave her a long, flat look. “Isn’t that what the sheriff’s office should be doing?”
Petra leaned forward, looking Veronica hard in the eye. “Do you honestly think Lamb will be the one to find her?”
“Does this mean the Chamber of Commerce is retracting their endorsement of Sheriff Lamb?” Veronica asked sweetly.
Landros pursed her lips. Veronica read the answer in the woman’s face. Lamb, inept as he was, was just too handy for the COC to cast away. He looked after their interests too well. They’d fund his campaign even while hiring Veronica to do the real police work. To them, it was worth the expense.
“Will you do it?” Landros asked, avoiding the question.
Veronica listened to the roar of the crowd. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she could see Hayley Dewalt—the clean-scrubbed brunette whose face had been on every TV station since last week—and felt a sharp pang. She hadn’t known Hayley Dewalt, but she’d known girls like her.
“My rate is two hundred an hour, plus expenses. I’ll need a daily retainer of seven hundred for the duration of the case. If I find Hayley, I keep all associated reward money, in addition to my fee.” Veronica’s voice was hard and flat. She laced her fingers together in front of her chin.