Sneak And Rescue. Shirl Henke

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СКАЧАТЬ desk. She obviously didn’t like Sam’s appearance, either.

      “May I help you?” she said in a tone reserved for a vagrant who’d come to inquire if he could use the executive washroom.

      “Sam Ballanger to see Mr. Winchester. I have an appointment.”

      Looking highly dubious, the blonde checked the computer screen at her side to confirm. “That was for 4:00 p.m. It’s now—”

      “Look, Blondie, I can tell time. I was unavoidably detained by a couple of bozos who tried to run me down, then shoot me in your parking deck. Next time that happens to you, let’s see if that fancy ‘do’of yours doesn’t get a little messed up, okay?”

      Ms. Chandler, as the nameplate on the desk indicated, glared disbelievingly before she caught herself and forced a smile as genuine as the mauve silk floral arrangement beside her computer. “I’ll see if Mr. Winchester is still available. Please have a seat.”

      But only if I promise not to get grease on the upholstery. Sam walked over to the window and looked at the stunning vista, all blue skies, gold sand and green palm trees in the distance. Miami Beach with its Art Deco pastels beckoned from across the water, a faded diva ringed by garish new high-rise condos. Her kind of town. She’d known it since her first trip here when she was thirteen and stowed away in the sleeper of Uncle Dec’s rig. He’d been mad enough to chew nails when he’d discovered her at a rest stop in North Carolina. Turned the air blue with his cussing, she recalled fondly. By that time it had been too far to turn back without sacrificing a big payload in Miami, so he’d called her frantic parents and reassured them he’d take good care of his favorite niece. She’d been grounded for the rest of her freshman year, but it had been worth it.

      Her reminiscences were interrupted by Ms. Chandler. “Mr. Winchester will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.”

      The snotty receptionist looked as if she was trying to digest a bamboo stalk from one of those urns out front and walked as if another stalk was jammed where the Florida sun never shines. They moved down a long hall, footsteps muffled by two-inch-thick Karastan carpeting in a shade Sam would’ve described as Attica gray. Winchester’s nameplate was inscribed in polished brass on the door of the corner office. Of course. He was the senior partner, after all.

      Chandler knocked deferentially and was bidden to enter. She stood with her back pressed to the door, careful not to let Sam touch her when she walked inside. A tall silver-haired man with the narrow face and long, straight nose of a blue blood stood behind an immense walnut desk devoid of everything but a leather blotter and a set of Montblanc pens.

      “Ms. Ballanger?” He did not smile.

      “Mr. Winchester?” she shot back. “Pardon my appearance—and tardiness.” She paused to glance back at the Chandler dame, who was slowly closing the door behind her. Like to eavesdrop, don’t you, honey? When Sam heard the muffled sound of the latch click, she continued, “I was involved in an altercation in your parking deck. Can you think of any reason someone would try to stop me from taking your case?”

      He blinked. “Certainly not. What do you mean by ‘an altercation’?”

      So much for well-bred manners. He still didn’t offer her a seat. Even Chandler had done that much. She took one anyway, directly in front of him and he reluctantly lowered himself into the custom leather chair behind the desk. She gave him a quick rundown on the attack in the downstairs garage, studying his response. Hard to tell if he believed her, or even cared.

      “It could’ve been related to another investigation, but I’d appreciate it if you’d have the building security check their video cams at the exits between three fifty-five and four-ten or so.”

      Winchester shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. If you report this…even to the authorities, I’ll be dragged into something which has nothing to do with me. In fact—”

      Sam put up her hand. “Okay, just a thought. The Olds is probably being fed into a compactor as we speak anyway.” She decided to omit her little conversation with Patowski since she didn’t want to lose what promised to be a lucrative job. She’d dealt with uptight types like Winchester before and knew how to handle them. As for a couple of dozen wrecked cars in the bowels of the building, well, let their insurance companies handle that.

      “Who do you want me to retrieve and why?” she asked.

      He hesitated, then replied, “Jay did recommend you highly.” Although he still appeared skeptical, he continued, “My son, Farley, is missing. The boy probably thinks he’s on a secret mission for the Confederation of Planets, but my guess is that he’s still somewhere on Earth—with my stolen Jaguar and his friend Elvis.”

      “Elvis? Excuse me?” Sam couldn’t help the incredulous expression on her face.

      “Elvis P. Scruggs. And don’t ask what the P stands for,” he snapped. “My son is only seventeen and has been under the care of Dr. Reese Reicht for the past five years.”

      Sam waited for him to give her the rest of the story. He drummed a set of well-manicured fingers on the desk, as if debating. “Dr. Reicht?” she prompted.

      “He’s a psychiatrist. My son sees flying saucers, spaceships, even imagines he’s part of some kind of intergalactic war.” He pursed his thin lips in a tight line, then scoffed angrily. “A secret agent for the Confederation of Planets.” At her blank look, he explained, “Farley is a…a Space Quest fanatic. Has been ever since he was a boy.”

      “You mean he’s a movie buff—loves sci-fi films and television shows?” Weird, but not as weird as a pal named Elvis Presley Scruggs.

      “I’m afraid Farley’s situation isn’t quite as simple as being an avid fan.” Winchester grimaced. The drumming fingers stilled when he realized she noticed the agitated movement.

      Sam bet if he had any papers on his desk they’d be aligned in perfectly straight rows. She’d lay a lot better than even money that everything on his computer was organized in perfectly ordered folders and every single item could be pulled up in an instant. And he had a double backup system.

      “Farley has been known to use drugs—and I am not speaking of the medications Dr. Reicht prescribes.”

      “That could be serious. When did he disappear?”

      Winchester gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sometime in the past two days. I’ve been out of town on business. I returned late yesterday. The housekeeper informed me Farley hadn’t slept in his bed for the past two nights.”

      A real concerned parent here. Doesn’t want the cops. No idea how long his kid’s been missing. “Does his mother have any idea when he took off?”

      “I regret to say his mother passed away five years ago.”

      The loss of a pet guppy would elicit more reaction from most people so she didn’t waste time offering condolences. “Any idea where he went? Is this Scruggs with him?”

      “Yes. Farley’s been spending time with that illiterate cracker for weeks, perhaps longer.” The vagueness again irritated her as he continued, “Scruggs is from somewhere in the panhandle. Oh, I tried to put a stop to it, but my work requires me to be out of town frequently and my son has always been…difficult.”

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