2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Donna
Mocha stands in the middle of my new office with a roll of packing paper hanging from his mouth.
I balance a box against my hip and give him the side-eye.
“That had better be the only thing you’ve stolen.”
His ears lift.
He does not look guilty. Mocha has never looked guilty a day in his life. He looks pleased with himself.
I lower the box onto the desk and point toward the wastebasket. “Drop it.”
He keeps staring at me.
“Mocha.”
The paper falls from his mouth.
“Thank you.”
His tail hits the side of the desk hard enough to make the empty pencil cup wobble.
The office is still mostly boxes and packing paper.
I signed the lease three days ago after convincing myself that the uneven floor has character, the narrow front window lets in plenty of light, and the radiator probably does not make that noise all winter.
The landlord called the space charming. I called it affordable, and that was the end of the negotiation.
There are two rooms, if I am generous with the word.
The back room has a postage-sized counter, a laughably small fridge, and a coffeemaker.
The front room holds my desk, two chairs for clients, and a metal filing cabinet that took forty minutes and a lot of muscle to drag through the door.
Plus Mocha's bed, which he is ignoring in favor of supervising me.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him.
He gives me one quick whip of his tail against the desk.
“I appreciate the support.”
I open the box on the desk and pull out a stapler, three legal pads, a framed photograph, and a ceramic mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST DETECTIVE.
The mug was a gift from someone who thought it was funny.
It is funny.
That does not mean I plan to display it where clients can see it.
I carry it into the back room and put it beside the coffeemaker. I make a mental note to get some normal mugs to offer to clients.
Mocha follows, but the space is too small for both of us, so his shoulder bumps into my leg.
“You know this is technically a place of business.”
His nails click over the floorboards.
“You’re going to have to start acting more professionally.”
He walks past me and shoves his nose into the open box near the wall.
“Excellent start.”
I kneel beside him and pull out a folded blanket before he can decide it belongs to him. He sits back and watches me place it on the back of a small chair in the corner. To make it more homey, I guess.
At the moment, the office smells like fresh paint. The landlord had the walls done before I moved in, though he missed a strip near the baseboard and got paint on the window latch. I have already decided to put a chair in front of the missed strip and ignore the window latch.
There are more important things to fix.
Like the fact that the desk drawer sticks.
And the fact that I own exactly one lamp, and I'm going to need at least one more.
And the fact that my name is printed on a temporary paper sign taped to the glass because the real lettering will not be installed until next week.
DONNA COSTAPRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
I step into the front room and look at it from inside.
The sign is slightly crooked.
I leave it that way.
A woman passing on the sidewalk glances through the window. Our eyes meet for half a second before she keeps walking.
I resist the urge to wave.
Mocha comes up beside me and looks outside.
“There she goes,” I say. “Our first almost-client.”
His tail moves once.
“I agree. She seemed shifty.”
I turn back to the room.
The filing cabinet is against the wrong wall. I know it is against the wrong wall because every time I look at it, I want to move it. I also know moving it again will require more effort than I currently possess.
I put both hands on my hips.
Mocha looks at the cabinet, then at me.
“No.”
His ears tilt forward.
“We are leaving it there.”
He looks unconvinced.
“You didn’t help the first time.”
That is unfair. He did help. He stood directly in the doorway while I tried to maneuver it inside, which forced me to stop twice and shoo him away.
I walk to the desk and open another box.
This one holds the things that make the office feel official: blank contracts, intake forms, invoice sheets, business cards, envelopes, folders, and a printer that worked perfectly in my apartment and will probably refuse to connect to the wireless network here.
I take out the business cards and run my thumb over the top one.
Donna CostaLicensed Private Investigator
The card has my phone number, email address, and office location. Nothing else.
No old title.
No old agency.
No line explaining how someone my age ended up with enough investigative experience to open a business.
People will ask.
Some of them will ask with curiosity. Others will ask because they think twenty-five means inexperienced, careless, and easy to dismiss.
They can think whatever they want until the invoice is due.
I set the cards in a holder near the corner of the desk.
Mocha puts his front paws on the edge.
“Absolutely not.”
He lowers himself again.
“You have your own job.”
I reach into the box and pull out a dark blue vest.
His posture changes immediately.
Mocha knows the vest.
I hold it up, and he steps closer, calm now, waiting while I fasten it around him. The fabric sits securely over his shoulders, the patches visible on either side.
WORKING DOGDO NOT DISTRACT
He looks much more official than I do.
“That’s embarrassing for me.”
His mouth opens slightly.
“I’m glad one of us came prepared.”
I straighten the vest and run my hand over the fur at the back of his neck.
Mocha has been with me long enough to know when I am joking and when I am just rambling to keep myself going.
Today, he does not push.
He leans lightly against my leg and stays there until I take a breath.
The room is quiet except for the radiator ticking near the wall.
I look around again.
The office is small. The furniture does not match. Half my supplies are still in boxes, and I have no clients scheduled because I have not officially opened yet.
But it’s mine.
That matters more than I expected it to.
I have spent enough time in buildings where every door required clearance and every conversation belonged in a report. Places where someone else decided what counted as relevant, what counted as acceptable, and who could be sacrificed when the answer became inconvenient.
Here, the locks belong to me.
The files will belong to me.
The decisions will be mine too.
I pick up the framed photograph from the desk.
For a moment, I consider turning it over.
Then I place it in the bottom drawer and force the drawer shut with my hip.
“Later,” I say.
Mocha watches me.
“You’re very judgmental for someone who ate half a receipt yesterday.”
He looks away.
“That’s what I thought.”
A knock sounds against the open door.
I turn.
A man stands in the hallway holding a cardboard drink tray with two coffees.
He is around fifty, broad through the shoulders, with silver hair and wire-framed glasses.
I met him briefly when I signed the lease.
His accounting office is across the hall, and he introduced himself twice because he forgot he had already done it.
“Moving in?” he asks.
I look at the boxes surrounding me.
“That’s the rumor.”
He smiles and lifts the tray. “I brought coffee. Didn’t know how you take it, so one is black, and the other has enough cream and sugar to qualify as dessert.”
“I respect the planning.”
He steps inside, notices Mocha, and stops.
Mocha remains beside me, relaxed but attentive.
“This is Mocha,” I say. “He’s working.”
The man nods slowly. “Right. I won’t pet him.”
“Thank you.”
He sets the tray on the edge of the desk. “I’m Harold, by the way.”
“We met.”
His forehead creases.
“Nice to meet you, Harold,” I say anyway. “I’m Donna.”
I take the black coffee and hand him the sweeter one.
“This is yours now.”
“I was hoping you’d pick that one.”
He glances around the office. “Private investigator, huh?”
I stiffen. I know what people think of private investigators. “That’s what the sign says.”
“You do divorces?”
“Sometimes.”
“Missing people?”
“Yes.”
“Background checks?”
“Yes.”
“Murders?”
I lift the coffee to my mouth.
“Depends on the day.”
Harold studies me, trying to decide whether I am serious.
I let him wonder.
He takes a drink and nods toward Mocha. “Good-looking dog.”
“Don't tell him that. He’s already too cocky.”
Mocha’s tail taps once against the floor.
Harold smiles. “Well, welcome to the building. It’s quiet most days. The dentist down the hall plays music too loud sometimes, and the elevator gets stuck if more than four people are in it.”
“That feels like information the landlord should have shared.”
“He calls it ‘lived in.’”
“Of course he does.”
Harold laughs and heads back toward the hallway.
“I’m across the hall if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
He pauses at the door. “You open yet?”
I look at the crooked sign, the unpacked boxes, and the filing cabinet I still hate.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good luck.”
When he leaves, I turn to Mocha.
“He seems nice.”
Mocha looks up at me.
“Harmless, anyway.”
I take another drink of coffee and move behind the desk.
The chair creaks when I sit. The desk is too high by half an inch, and the window throws a bright rectangle of light across the floor.
Mocha settles beside me, his body pressed close to the side of the chair.
I open my laptop.
The screen comes to life, showing the new business email account and an empty calendar.
Nothing scheduled.
Nothing waiting.
Nothing chasing me.
I put my hands on the keyboard.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s build something.”
Mocha rests his head against my knee.
For the first time all morning, I stop moving.
The office still needs work.
So do I.
I reach down and scratch behind his ear.
“Tomorrow,” I tell him.
His eyes close.
I look at the crooked sign on the window and smile.
“Close enough.”
Another knock sounds against the open door.
Mocha’s head lifts from my knee.
I look up, expecting Harold to be back to introduce himself once again. I really have to remember to close my door from now on.
Yet again, a man stands in my hallway, around fifty, broad through the shoulders, with silver threaded through his dark hair.
But he is certainly no Harold, the forgetful, the uncertain.
This man looks as though uncertainty has never been a problem for him.
His suit is dark and expensive, fitted closely across his shoulders. There is no tie, but the open collar does little to make him appear casual. He stands just outside the office with one hand in the pocket of his trousers, taking in the boxes, the crooked sign, Mocha, and finally me.
His attention is intense without being openly rude.
Mocha rises.
The movement is quiet, but the change in him is immediate. One second he is leaning against my chair. The next, he is standing between me and the doorway, alert beneath his vest.
The man’s gaze drops to him.
“He bites?” he asks, a faint Italian accent in his voice.
“Only if you give him a reason.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
Mocha does not share his amusement.
I close the laptop and sit back. “Can I help you?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
His eyes return to the temporary sign on the window.
“Donna Costa?”
“Last time I checked.”
He steps into the office.
Mocha shifts with him, maintaining the same distance.
The man notices.
Most people either ignore the warning signs because they are nervous or focus on them so much that they forget there is a person attached to the dog.
This man does neither. He keeps Mocha in his peripheral vision while looking directly at me.
That tells me more than his suit does.
“You’re not open yet,” he says.
“Tomorrow.”
“I need someone today.”
“You may be in luck.”
This time, the hint of a smile reaches his eyes.
I take another drink of coffee, buying myself a second to study him.
He is handsome in a way that has probably served him well. Strong face. Dark eyes. A few lines at the corners that make him look experienced rather than tired. There is something easy in his posture, but it does not fool me. He is paying attention to everything.
People who are truly relaxed do not catalog exits when they walk into a room. Or lack of exits, as it may be.
His gaze flicks briefly toward the back room, then to the window and the street beyond it.
I notice because I do the same thing.
“You have a name?” I ask.
“Lorenzo Conti.”
I know the name.
I do not let that show on my face.
Mocha glances back at me, waiting.
I rest one hand against the side of his neck.
“And what does Lorenzo Conti need from a private investigator who is not technically open?”
His eyes settle on mine.
“Discretion.”
“That usually costs extra.”
“I assumed it would.”
He reaches inside his jacket.
Mocha stiffens.
Lorenzo draws out a business card between two fingers.
He places it on the edge of my desk instead of offering it directly.
I lean forward and pick up the card.
It gives me his name and Conti Enterprises beneath it. No title. Men who leave their titles off business cards usually believe people already know who they are.
I set it back down.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“I was given your name.”
“By whom?”
“Someone who believes you can help me.”
“Flattering.” I purse my lips. “Vague.”
“Julian Mercer,” he says simply.
That gets my attention.
Julian and I have history.
I wonder how much he shared with this stranger.
Not much, I assume. But referring Lorenzo Conti to me, he wouldn't have done that lightly.
He must be in serious trouble.
I study Lorenzo more carefully.
Lorenzo’s gaze drops briefly to the empty chair across from me.
“May I?”
I gesture toward it.
He sits.
Mocha stays between us.
Lorenzo looks at him, then back at me. “Does he always do that?”
“Only when he doesn’t trust someone.”
“Him or you?”
Not just handsome. Smart too.
I ignore his question. “What kind of help?”
There's no change in his expression. Not one iota.
“My son has been accused of murder.”