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Inside the brownstone, the lobby area was deserted. A desk and a couple of chairs. No receptionist or waiting clients. The decorating reminded him of most military offices, unremarkable and rather drab. Not a problem. After graduating college he’d spent ten years in the army he’d loved. Drab was a preferred color.
Tension rippled through him and Spencer drew in a deep breath before ordering himself to stay calm. He already knew Colby wanted him on his team. The rest would be nothing more than technicalities. This wasn’t an interview, it was a negotiation.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from somewhere down the hall. Spencer had about decided to head that way when Jim Colby appeared.
“Right on time.” He raised his steaming cup. “Coffee?”
“Coffee would be good.” Spencer had already downed three cups but he could definitely use another. The caffeine helped him battle the need for additional fortification. What he now had to consider forbidden fortification.
“Follow me.”
Colby led the way to a small kitchen that Spencer presumed would serve as an employee lounge. Refrigerator, microwave, sink and a couple of cabinets. His would-be employer passed him a brimming mug.
“Thanks.” The coffee tasted as good as it smelled.
“My office is upstairs.”
Spencer nodded and followed Colby to the second floor. Though the brownstone’s decor hadn’t been updated in a couple of decades, the architecture made it comfortable and interesting in a classic sort of way. The location wasn’t one of the most desired in the city, but the neighborhood appeared in the early stages of revitalization. A year or two from now and the streets would be teeming with thriving businesses and highly sought-after lofts. Colby’s selection of the location was probably a strategic one.
A sleek wooden desk and leather chair, along with a couple of upholstered chairs for clients, were already stationed in Colby’s office. Unpacked boxes of office equipment as well as supplies were scattered about, along with the necessary filing cabinets. Looked as if the boss was well on his way to settling in.
“I’m still getting organized,” Colby said as he took the chair behind his desk. “I’ll be interviewing receptionists this morning. I hope we’ll have someone to answer the phone by lunchtime.”
We. Anticipation spiked before Spencer could stop the possibly premature reaction. “What’s your current body count?” Might as well get a handle on the personnel arrangement and chain of command before he made any kind of commitment beyond this impulsive appearance.
“So far, two. Me,” Colby said with a pointed look at him, “and you.”
His answer surprised Spencer. So he really was getting in on the ground floor of a new venture. “What’s your operational plan?” Learning the exact nature of what he was getting into here was the first order of business. He wasn’t about to be caught off guard again in this lifetime.
“I hope to hire at least three associates.”
Associates. Not investigators. This nudged Spencer’s curiosity.
“What types of cases do you plan to take on?” The answer to this question was key in many ways. The clientele at any firm was the primary factor in how the firm was judged by others. Though he seriously doubted that Lucas Camp would recommend him for a position within a firm that wasn’t on the up and up, Spencer hadn’t missed the look in Jim Colby’s eyes when he’d talked about helping those whose troubles went beyond the law’s boundaries.
“Pretty much whatever walks through the door.” Colby set his coffee aside. “In the beginning it may be necessary to take cases we’ll choose not to take later on. Right now our primary objective is to get our name out there. To let people know we’ve set up shop. This business thrives on word of mouth more so than any other means.”
Made sense. “What’s the plan on case authority? Will you expect to be kept in the loop on all decisions relative to a case once it’s assigned?”
“When we take on a client, I’ll make a decision as to who is the best man for the job. If it’s your case, I’ll expect you to lay out a plan of action and then keep me up to speed on how it’s coming along. Otherwise, the ultimate moment-to-moment decisions are yours to make.”
Spencer nodded. Sounded fair to him. “What about salary?” Since Colby’s business was just getting off the ground he wondered how lucrative a proposition this could possibly be.
“We’ll all be working for the same base salary, including me,” Jim explained. “Whatever profits we net, we’ll split evenly among the associates.”
Now there was an answer he hadn’t expected. “Like a partnership?” Surely that wasn’t what he meant. No firm allowed the new hires to start out as equal partners.
“Exactly. We’ll all share the burden of cost and we’ll all share the bounty.”
Once he’d absorbed that surprising response, Spencer moved on to his next question. “Do you have other associates in mind already?”
“I’ll be interviewing a candidate this afternoon. If I’m lucky, she’ll be coming on board also.”
A woman. Spencer had wondered about that as well.
“Renee Vaughn,” Jim went on. “She’s a former assistant district attorney from Atlanta.”
At one time Spencer had considered a law degree. He’d gotten his bachelor’s degree in political science, but he’d opted for the military instead of law school. Maybe that had been his first mistake.
“I have an office set up for you,” Jim said, dragging Spencer from his unproductive thoughts. “If you’re prepared to get started this morning, I’d like you to work up a history for me. Cover your basic skills, any specialized training and the locations where you’ve worked or been assigned. I’ll keep a file like this on all associates for use in determining what cases each is best suited for.”
Made sense.
Spencer stood. “Show me the way and I’ll get right on it.”
Accepting his statement as a yes, Jim nodded. “All right then.”
The associates’ offices were located on the first floor along the corridor just past the lounge. There were four small offices and a room Jim indicated would be a supply room. At the end of the corridor was the building’s rear exit that led into an alley that would serve as a personnel parking area.
As the first associate hired, Spencer got his pick of the offices. He opted for the one on the left side of the hall next to the lounge since it had a window with a view of the neighborhood park across the street.
When the first receptionist candidate arrived for her interview Jim left him to get started on a detailed work history. Typically, that came first, in the form of a résumé, but this situation appeared to be hardly typical.
Maybe that was the reason Spencer felt at home for the first time in more than two years. He’d learned that he couldn’t count on anything typical or run-of-the-mill. The everyday was no longer reliable.
Do not go down that road.
All he had to do was keep his eyes forward. No looking back. There was no undoing the past, no matter how wrong. His military career was over. Period. He had an opportunity for something new here. He had to keep that goal in mind if he was to have a future. At the rate he’d been going that prospect had grown pretty dim of late. But that was behind him now.
No looking back.
1:00 p.m.
WILLOW HARRIS sat in her rental car for over half an hour. Most of that time was spent attempting to work up the nerve to make the first move. It wasn’t that she was afraid for her safety. The neighborhood wasn’t that great, but it wasn’t any worse than the one in East St. Louis where her former P.I.’s office was located.
Waiting… working up her courage, she did a lot of that lately. In the beginning sheer adrenaline had driven her, overriding any second thoughts or hesitancy. She’d pushed and pushed and searched and searched without the first consideration for her safety or anything else.
But it was different now.
Another anxiety stalked her like a ruthless killer in the dark.
Fear.
The fear of dashed hope. Each time she moved on to a new investigator her anticipation of finally getting her son back renewed… only to be sucked completely out of her when failure crashed down upon her shoulders all over again.
She’d spent all weekend attempting to locate someone who might be able to help her. Her gaze focused on the street in front of her car. The story had been basically the same with each agency she’d called.
I’m very sorry, Ms. Harris, but that’s a case we don’t feel comfortable taking on.
Just when she’d been ready to give up, the last guy she’d called—a low-rent one-man operation she’d almost skipped over in her online Yellow Pages search—had told her about a rumor he’d heard. A new shop was opening up in Chicago. There was a buzz going around that this one would be different from all the others.
So here she was, in Chicago sitting outside a place that might very well be her last hope.
The Equalizers.
Her low-rent P.I. had waxed on about how this place planned to take covert investigations to the next level. The Equalizers would accept the less desirable or riskier jobs that no one else wanted to touch.
Since the firm had only just opened, Willow couldn’t be sure if the plan to take on any and all cases was out of necessity or not, but she was here.
She was desperate.
Her savings and investments were dwindling fast. This place might very well prove her final hope in more ways than one. There wouldn’t be enough money to hire anyone new if this one failed.
An ache twisted through her, making her want to curl up into a ball of defeat. No. She had to be strong. The only way she would ever get her son back was if she didn’t give up, if she tried harder.
Determination rushed through her on the tail of a burst of adrenaline when Davenport’s words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. Who said there was anything wrong with that? Miracles manifested themselves in many ways. She’d been taught that concept her whole life. That was one part of her upbringing she needed to hang onto.
Willow got out of the car and strode across the street to the entrance of the brownstone designated as number 129. The painted wooden sign hanging next to the door announced the name of the business in bold strokes.
The Equalizers.
Well, she would just see if the firm could live up to its fledgling reputation.
Acting before she could think of another reason to waver, she opened the door and went inside. The sudden warmth reminded her that she’d gotten cold sitting in her car with the engine turned off for all that time. A winter chill had blasted the midwest last night, causing major delays in several airports. Thank goodness Midland hadn’t been one of them. Once she’d made up her mind to come, she would have done so even if she’d had to walk.
A receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk. Her back was turned to the door while she typed away at her computer. Several chairs and accompanying tables bordered the room. Magazines were fanned across the top of one of the tables. No plants or goldfish tanks. No heavy stench of cigarette smoke as she’d encountered in many of the agencies she’d visited. Just empty and quiet, like Davenport’s office had been, except for the receptionist’s busy fingers on the keyboard.
The decorating scheme left something to be desired, but the place was neat and clean. She could appreciate that after the last couple of places she’d visited in the past forty-eight hours.
Since the receptionist didn’t make the usual overture though she’d surely heard the door close, Willow stepped closer to her desk and spoke up. “My name is Willow Harris. I’m here to see the man in charge.” She purposely left off the phrase if he’s available. She’d come too far to accept any kind of excuse. The idea that he could be out of town banded around her chest and squeezed. Booking the first available flight and rushing here might have been a mistake, but she’d had no choice.
Her situation wouldn’t wait. She’d waited too long already.
Please let him be here.
Rather than offer a customary greeting, the receptionist frowned as she gave Willow a thorough once-over with assessing brown eyes. She appeared less than pleased at being interrupted from whatever she’d been doing on the computer. Maybe she wasn’t the receptionist at all. She could be one of the investigators who had decided to use this computer for one reason or the other.
“Is he in?” Willow prompted after another awkward moment elapsed. And here she had thought she’d already seen the most bizarre and unprofessional this business had to offer.
“How do you know the person in charge isn’t a woman?” The woman tucked a handful of sandy-brown hair behind one ear and gave Willow a pointed look.
Too taken aback to be embarrassed, Willow struggled a moment to come up with an appropriate response. “Well… who is in charge?” Maybe this woman didn’t work here at all.
“Mr. Jim Colby,” the woman behind the desk said with a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more a fleeting tick. “Do you have an appointment?”
Willow looked around the small reception area. There was no one else there. Unless Mr. Colby already had a client in his office or was expecting one momentarily, she didn’t see the point in the question. But then she remembered the discreet way Davenport had operated.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have an appointment. I flew in from St. Louis this morning in hopes that Mr. Colby could make some time for me.”
“Calling first would have been smarter.”
Willow reminded herself that she needed to get past this woman and to the man in charge. Giving her any advice on how a proper receptionist conducted herself might not be conducive to making that happen.
The truth was the woman was right. But Willow managed to keep her voice calm. “I know. I apologize for just showing up like this, but the matter is urgent.”
The receptionist, who didn’t wear a name badge or have a name plate on her desk and who looked utterly unimpressed, smiled another of those unsmiles. “I’m new here. I’ll have to check his calendar first.” She flipped through the calendar taking up space on the oak desktop next to the telephone. Not a single page she previewed had anything at all written on it.
“He appears to be free,” the receptionist announced. “Just have a seat, Ms. Harris, and I’ll find out if he can see you today.” She gestured to a chair.
Willow settled into a chair and tried to slow her mind’s frantic churning. Exhaustion simply wasn’t an adequate description of just how tired she felt. It was, however, the only word she could think of at the moment. This man—Jim Colby—had to help her.
The receptionist buzzed her boss on the intercom, using the handset to keep his end of the conversation private. A couple of pauses and yes sirs, and then she placed the handset back in its cradle.
“Up the stairs and the first door on the left.”
Evidently that was a yes to the question of whether or not he was available. Willow offered a polite smile, deserved or not. “Thank you.”
The woman didn’t say anything, not even a “You’re welcome.” She swiveled in her chair and resumed her work at the computer. Mr. Colby needed to seriously consider public relations classes for his receptionist.
The desperation clawing at Willow’s heart was the only thing that kept her from walking out, considering the vibes she’d gotten so far. If she’d wasted the money coming here… if she’d made a mistake…
She blocked the thoughts. Stay focused. There hadn’t been any other choice. This was her last hope.
A man she presumed to be Jim Colby waited in the doorway of an office in the upstairs corridor.
“Ms. Harris.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Jim Colby.”
She placed her hand in his and he gave it a firm shake. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Colby.”
“Can I get you some coffee or water?” He directed her into his office as he made the offer.
Expansive oak desk, a credenza and lots of file cabinets along with numerous unpacked boxes took up most of the floor space in the office. Mr. Colby had, literally, just set up shop. “Ah… no, thank you,” she abruptly remembered to say in answer to his question. Though she appreciated that he appeared determined to be polite, getting right down to business was her priority at the moment. She sat down in one of the upholstered chairs and waited for him to do the same on the other side of his desk.
He studied her a moment, intense blue eyes looking right through her as if she were an open book published in easy-to-read large print. His assessment, however, appeared far less suspicious than that of his receptionist.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Harris?”
This was the hard part. How did she adequately relay the volatility and urgency of her situation as concisely as possible?
“It all started four years ago,” she began, without allowing the gut-wrenching memories that attempted to bob to the surface to do so. She’d learned long ago not to revisit that past. It was too hard to maintain her sanity otherwise. “I was traveling on business in Kuwait. I met a man and we had a… sort of whirlwind romance. We married only a few days later.”
She didn’t see any reason to give him the trivial details of her lapse into stupidity. She’d relived those days over and over again already in an attempt to pinpoint something—anything—that should have served as a warning to her. So far she’d found nothing.
“Two years ago we had a child, a boy.”
Something in his expression changed when she said boy. She already knew what he was thinking. A boy was a far more prized asset than a girl, even in a country as liberal and progressive as the State of Kuwait, making her quest a far more difficult one.
“Eight months ago I realized I couldn’t live the way my husband wanted me to for a moment longer.” It was not nearly as simple as that, but she knew from experience that he would ask questions until he had all the information he needed. No need to go into the gory details until she knew whether he intended to take her case or not. “I decided that a divorce was the only option. I could return to my home in the States and put those years in the Middle East behind me.”
