Another Side Of Midnight. Mia Zachary
Anna is a naturopath, a holistic and organic Earth Mother type. Her hair falls to the middle of her back and the only makeup she wears is beeswax lip balm. She doesn’t need anything else. Her freckled skin glows from good health and a positive attitude. Basically, she’s my exact opposite in temperament and outlook.
Anna says we get along because of cosmic balance, karma and the fact that we’re reincarnated sisters from ancient Mesopotamia. I love her anyway.
“So, Steele, I’m guessing you need a car?” Anna slid me an exaggerated glance. “I’ve got the sweetest little Corvette around back.”
Interested, I cocked my head. “Oh, really?”
She wriggled an eyebrow. “400 horsepower V-8 engine, 6-speed transmission, leather sport bucket seats, speed-sensitive power steering and a seven-speaker sound system.”
I rubbed my chin, checking for drool, and started to ask what color it was before I caught myself. I’m a big fan of the Magnum, P.I. reruns, mostly for the episodes when Tom Selleck takes off his shirt. But real private investigators don’t drive Ferraris. Or Corvettes, damn it.
“I’m just keeping watch on a guy claiming disability and a cheating husband. Better stick with a nondescript, late model sedan.”
“Boring.” Anna grinned. “Beyond.”
After storing the Harley in the service garage, Anna helped me pick out a metallic gray Honda Accord that ought to blend in just about anywhere. Anna gave me another quick hug. “Don’t forget about the iron. You have to take it with lots of vitamin C and some chelated zinc.”
“Yes, dear.” Anna will make somebody a great wife someday. In the meantime she keeps trying to save me from myself. Whether I want to be saved or not.
I tossed my helmet and backpack on the passenger seat and left in air-conditioned splendor. I played with the radio, finally choosing 97.1 KXPT, a classic rock station. After turning left onto Eastern Avenue, I drove back toward NorthVegas to check on a guy who’d filed a dubious workers’ compensation claim.
A friend at a big insurance company sometimes throws work my way. Kenny Asher had filed for total temporary disability from an injury on his job at Rose Trucking. He’d used all the right buzz words—slip, fall and twist. However, the insurance company, Fidelity Reliance, still wanted him investigated.
There was a For Sale sign in front of one of the townhouses. I cruised past slowly, a prospective buyer checking out the neighborhood. Fortunately Asher’s house was an end unit, so the second time around I parked a little ways down the street where I had a partial view of the back as well as the front.
What a freaking mess. If I were looking to buy, it wouldn’t be any of the houses in sight of Asher’s place. The yard was a patch of burnt grass decorated with rusted tools and children’s toys. The paint had peeled and one of the upstairs shutters was hanging loose.
As I watched, there were no signs of life. Odd, since the kids should have been home from school by now. I took my digital camera out of my pack and snapped a couple of shots. Then I settled in to wait. I figured I was good for about two hours since I hadn’t had much to drink. Surveillance is much easier for guys, if you know what I mean.
After about ten minutes, an older woman came out of the house next door to water the flower boxes. I got out of the car. She had a slight figure, with hair and nails as well manicured as her lawn. Despite the statewide push toward xeriscaping— plants with low water requirements—her small patch of grass was green and perfectly trimmed.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to bother you, but I saw the sale sign…”
She eyed me up and down. I probably should have changed my shirt. Oh, well. “You’re thinking of buying the Jacksons’ house? It’s a good choice. They’ve kept it up nicely and the inside was recently updated. Heather did the wallpaper herself.”
I held back a smile. There’s nothing better in this business than a nosy—I mean, well informed—neighbor. I nodded toward Asher’s house. “Yeah, it looks a lot better than that place.”
Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Yes, well, he’s never been the neatest of home owners.”
“Have you lived here for long, Miss…”
“Mrs. Sharp. My husband and I moved in over twenty years ago.”
“Then you know the neighborhood pretty well?”
She gave me a look that matched her name. “Young woman, I suggest you tell me what this is about. Because you certainly aren’t buying anything and neither am I.”
Aunt Gloria used to say, “If you can’t dazzle them with bullshit, then give honesty a try.” I offered Mrs. Sharp my hand. “I’m from Midnight Investigation Services. I’m looking into Mr. Asher’s work injury.”
“Work injury, huh?” She took my hand in a weak grasp. “I thought perhaps he’d been laid off again. Mr. Asher seems to have a terrible time with supervisors who don’t like him.”
Her tone said more than her words. Apparently Kenny was the type to blame everybody else for his screw-ups. “Did his current supervisor like him?”
“I doubt it. There aren’t many people who do. I just don’t know how Beth puts up with him. She’s a lovely girl and so good with the children.”
Mrs. Sharp happily agreed to take my card and call me if she saw Kenny push, pull or lift anything heavier than a beer can. The lady really did not appreciate his weeds encroaching on her rosebushes. I got back in the car, pulled a steno pad from my backpack and jotted a few notes that I’d include in a later report.
This one might take a while. Asher is probably a chronic couch potato. Talk to people at the trucking company. Find out if he’s filed for workers’ comp before. Start thinking of heavy things to have delivered to the house.
By now it was getting close to rush hour. Since I’d tended bar until two this morning, it was time to call it a day.
One of my favorite songs came on the radio. I turned up the volume and sang along. Badly. I can high kick in four-inch heels but, despite my mother’s best intentions and a year of voice lessons, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.
I sing anyway.
I WORK IN Sin City, but I live in Paradise.
Not many people know this, but the unincorporated township of Paradise is separate from the city of Las Vegas. The Strip, the University of Nevada and McCarran International Airport are all located within the township’s confines.
I turned onto Skyland Drive and slowed down in case any of the kids were out playing. My neighbor, Dave Ginsberg, waved to me as I pulled into the driveway. He was walking a busty blonde to her car. Probably another cheerleader since that’s the only type he seemed to entertain. I hoped this one didn’t go to UNLV… Dave really needs to start carding his dates.
My house is a twenty-year-old single story with white stucco exterior and a gray tile roof. It’s got three bedrooms, a pool in back and desert landscaping in the front. Unlike Mrs. Sharp, I’ve got the xeriscape stuff. That means gravel, rocks, cacti and no grass to cut.
After making sure the doors were locked, I secured Anna’s Honda in the garage. Accords aren’t exactly high on the car thief Christmas list, but I wasn’t going to take my friend’s generosity for granted. I set my helmet on an empty shelf and walked in through the laundry/utility room door.
I love my house. The only problem is I don’t spend enough time here, so I haven’t done much with it. I’ve bought some things for my bedroom and the home office, but I eat in the kitchen and rarely entertain. Maybe, one day when I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do, I’ll ask Jon to help me decorate since he did a pretty good job with the agency.
I walked to the far end of the house to the spare bedroom that’s set up as a home office. I dumped my backpack by my desk