Sanz had an office in Avondale that was small and understated for someone so wealthy. He said he hated flashy displays of luxury, but he still drove a beamer. Pretty new one, too. And there was a picture in his office of him onboard the small boat he owned that he kept docked at the nearby marina...In fact, I'm sure I heard him say he set his office up on this side of town for the days when he left work early to go on his fanciful leisure cruises up and down the river.

       But none of that was my nosy-ass business, I'm just a naturally observant person.

       I observed, for example, as Sanz pulled his checkbook out of his drawer, and sat on the edge of his large executive desk as he looked through my pictures on his tablet.

       "That's disappointing," he said as he scrolled. "I was hoping there was fraud."

       I snorted out a laugh. "Why?"

       The way his eyes cut when he looked up at me was hilariously devious. "I haven't been to trial in a while. I'm bored."

       I'm not a hundred percent sure he's kidding. "Pics are good then?"

       "They're excellent." They were clear, concise, and the target's face was visible in almost every shot. Unfortunately, they proved that Randy Cairn's back was really broken. That meant Sanz' clients, some construction firm, would have to keep paying that worker's comp. Oh, well. "Too bad they'll tank my case."

       "Well, I'm sure someone's committing fraud somewhere."

       "Mmm." He acknowledged me with a little nod then set down his tablet and started hastily scribbling in the checkbook. "Make this out to Harper Investigations?"

       "Yes." Sanz had hired me last month to collect proof about some other person pretending to be ill for the benefits. I'd caught her jogging around the park when she'd claimed severe lung disease from years working in a glass factory. Sanz was so pleased with my work he started calling regularly when he needed me to discreetly trail someone. Being in his rolodex was as good as being on retainer, and that meant semi-stable P.I. gigs.

       "So, it's good?"

       "It's great."

       "That's why you hire me."

       "That and you're the cheapest P.I. in the city." He ripped out the check in one swift movement and held it out.

       "For now." I grabbed it and shot him an easygoing grin. "Just wait. My star's rising. Soon I'll be able to compete with Wolff."

       "Wolff Investigations would eat you alive."

       He's not being mean, he just really wanted to make that pun. "Very funny."

       "Thank you. I get my humor from my abuelito." He stood up straight and sighed at the thought. "You know, he came here from Cuba with nothing but the clothes on his back and a good sense of humor."

       I did know that. Mostly because he talks about it all the time—especially Cuba. Don't get this man started on Cuba, we'll be here all day.

       "I need to get back to work." I grabbed my purse from where it sat in one of his upholstered armchairs and shoved the check inside. As I turned to go, I paused. "Can I ask you a question?"

       He raised a well-manicured eyebrow, immediately suspicious. "A legal question?"

       "Yeah."

       He strolled around his desk and stared intently at a crystal paperweight. "I charge two hundred an hour."

       I rolled my eyes. "Come on, man."

       He smiled. "Alright. Off the record."

       "Do I have a legal obligation to hand over my files if the police ask?"

       "Ask? No. Demand with a warrant? Yes." He scratched at the balding spot under the comb-over at the crown of his head. "Are the cops looking into me again?"

       "Do I want to know?"

       He shook his head. "It's cleaner if you didn't."

       There's that sense of humor again... I think. "It's another client. They asked. I refused."

       "That's your right."

       "There won't be repercussions?"

       "No. You didn't do anything wrong." He took one long finger and pushed the paperweight until it was perfectly parallel with the edge of his desk. "Now, if you're on stand, deny, deny, deny. That's how I got through anyway."

       "See, I need to go. You're trying to pull me into some mess." I slung my purse over my shoulder and turned for the door. "Call me if you've got more surveillance work."

       "Take it easy, Evie."

*************************

       Thanks to the unending construction work blocking the nearest on-ramp to I10, I was forced to take the scenic route back to work. Regrettably, it was still in the window of lunch hour. That meant traffic. Lots of traffic. I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and trying not to raise my blood pressure with an early afternoon curse-out of a certain Honda that was in a very special relationship with his breaks when Henry called.

      I answered with a smile; my annoyance forgotten. "Hey, you! Long time, no speak."

       He blew air between his lips, and I felt the weight of his frustrations. "You know how it is. Work, work, and more work."

       The last leg of his creative process had always been to lock himself in his office and push through the editing. It took a few hours with an article. A few weeks with a book. Currently he was on the edge of completing the sequel to his first novel. "Am I ever going to get to read this masterpiece?"

       "You'll get the first copy after my parents." He sounded unenthusiastic. That was typical. "How'd Saturday go?"

       There was finally a break in traffic, so I took the opening and sped around the Honda. "It was good. I think she liked me."

       "Of course, she did. Old people love you! Were you worried?"

       "A little. You never know." There was an ugly silence. Images of Henry's mother struck my mind as violently as lightening. Now, there was an old person who wasn't a fan. "Want to do lunch?"

       "Can't. I've got food coming. Besides, if Andy catches me too far away from my laptop she'll put her foot up my ass." Andy was his agent and a deadline fascist if Henry was to be believed. He pitched his voice up and mocked her. "'Strike while the iron is hot. We can't miss another deadline!'"

       "Sounds annoying."

       "It is. But it's my fault. I'm off schedule and completely behind."

       I chuckled and moved to turn onto University Blvd. "Hence, being locked in your house."

       "These publishers just don't understand artists. They want me to be able to pump stories out of my head like a machine!" He groaned. "If that wasn't enough my mom's getting on my nerves too!"

       "What'd she do this time?"

       "She's trying to hook me up with this girl from our church."

       I cackled at that. "Again? Didn't she learn the last time?"

       "I forgot I went on three dates with Julie Man! Three bad dates then she bad mouthed me all over church!" He gasped out a laugh at the memory. "Mom was so embarrassed."

       "After that disaster I'm impressed she was able to convince anyone to date you ever again."

       "This girl just moved here from San Francisco. Mom's trying to get the hookup before someone snitches."

       "Oh, sucks to be you."

       "She's completely lost faith in my ability to find a woman on my own!"

       "Well, to be fair—"

       "Don't even think about siding with my mother!" He heaved his way into my sentence on a wave of hot air. Must have been a rough day at the office.

       "Okay, okay!" I stifled another little laugh. Taste Teas appeared in the distance. "Well, don't let me keep you. It's good to hear from you—what the hell?"

       Outside Taste Teas a crowd had gathered just near the front door. A thrill of excitement thrummed through me before I realized I didn't run an amusement park so the likelihood of such a large crowd being positive were nil.

       "What is it?" Henry asked, his exasperation dissipated.

       "Commotion outside the shop."

        "Yours?"

       "Yeah."

       "Somebody die?"

       It's true. I haven't seen a crowd like that since Bo Conway dropped dead next to the condiments table. "Don't know...Talk later?"

       "Yeah."

       I forwent the back lot and pulled my car into an empty space out front. Once I cut the engine and the constant hum of the AC was gone, I heard her voice.

       "Please, I need to speak with Evie Harper!" She cried.

       Ah, hell.

       Ashley Pham stood wedged in the open doorway; her arms outstretched as Jackson tried to forcibly push her outside.

       "Lady!" He barked. "Quit playing in this door!"

       They were a comical pair. Or at least they would be if Jackson wasn't strong enough to accidentally snap off one of her little twig arms in the doorway. I foresaw a lawsuit in my future, so I grabbed my purse and hurried to handle the situation before it got out of hand.

       "Ashley? What the hell?" I said as I pushed through the crowd.

       When she saw me, she let go and she and Jackson stumbled forward a bit from the force. "Ms. Harper!"

       "What are you doing here?"

       "I need to talk to you." She brushed her wild hair out of her face then looked at me with pleading eyes. "I need your help."

        I looked around at the gathered crowd. A couple of people had whipped out cellphones and were pointing them toward us with looks of pure amusement. Just what I needed: bad publicity. "I told you I can't."

       "But—"

       "No!

       Jackson still stood in the doorway. He brushed at his shirt trying in vain to smooth out the new wrinkles. "Evie, this bitch tryin' to send me back to jail!"

       Last thing he needed was an assault charge when he's so close to the finish line. I held up a hand and shooed him back inside. "Jackson, I got it."

       He narrowed his eyes at Ashley. "Are you sure? I can—"

       "Yeah." I said more sternly. "Go ahead and take your break."

       He nodded and went back inside where I could see Pasha trying to wrangle customers back into some semblance of order and Devonte trying to straighten up some knocked over chairs.

       Ashley turned to me, a pitiable look across her face. "Listen—"

       "No, you listen. This is a respectable business." I might've stomped my foot for good measure but there were too many people, so I kept the theatrics to a minimum. "I don't need or want you coming around to make a scene when you can't get what you want!"

       "Please. Just give me five minutes."

       She looked so damn pathetic breathing hard and shaking from the stress. What could five minutes hurt?

       "Fine. Go wait for me in my office."

       She turned on her heel and slogged through the center of Taste Teas on grim spirits. From the doorway I signaled to Pasha to let her past. She frowned but went back behind the counter. I turned my attention back to the waning crowd. "Show's over."

       The rest of the looky-loos dispersed easily enough. I went inside, the change in temperature a welcome relief, and took my sweet time strolling behind the counter.

       Pasha watched me as I grabbed the electric kettle. "What are you doing?"

       "Giving her ten minutes to cool down."

       Hopefully the ten minutes it would take me to brew and prepare the tea would be sufficient enough of a time out. I don't relish treating adults like toddlers but when others move, I respond accordingly. Besides that, the ten minutes would give me a chance to catch my breath and figure out what I'm going to say to her.

       I flipped on the kettle and looked through the cabinet for an appropriate tea. There was a wide variety—I knew, I bought it—including mint, apricot, ginseng, chamomile, and a small bit of honeybush.

       I settled for lavender since it allegedly had calming properties and went to work. Hopefully, by the time I was done, my uninvited guest will have finished her tantrum and I could put this case behind me.