Page 115 of Summers at the Saint
Whelan rinsed the grill pan and set it in the dish rack. “I guess that depends on you.”
A strand of her damp hair had fallen across her forehead and he tucked it back behind her ear.
The tenderness of the gesture was not lost on Traci. She sat very still, trying to process how she felt about that, and about what he was telling her.
Whelan waited, until he realized she was not going to take the bait.
“I told you I’m good at finding things out, but I never explained how I got so good at it. After I got out of the marines, a buddy from my unit and I decided to go into business together. The plan was that we’d do background checks on businesses pursuing government contracts. My friend had some connections in the business. We’d vet their employees and potential employees and make sure they weren’t felons or fraudsters.”
She looked up from her tea, intrigued.
“My buddy was the data guy. He could find out anything online. We couldn’t afford to hire investigators to canvass, so that’s what I did. Call people, show up on their doorsteps, ask nosy questions about their neighbors or their nephew or their friend who’d applied for a civilian job on a military base.”
“And?”
“It turned out we’d discovered a nice little niche market for ourselves. We hired some folks, all of whom I’d vetted first, of course. We started in California, because it has more military bases than any other state in the US—there are thirty-two, if you’re counting. And the business grew from there.”
Traci sipped her tea.
“We became crazy successful. Too successful. My buddy was married with three little kids and he never saw them because he was always on a flight to our next market, looking for that next deal. Two years ago, his wife gave him an ultimatum—sell out, or get out.”
“And that’s what you did?”
He grinned. “Yup. We made an indecent amount of money. My buddy and his family are living large in their dream house in Hawaii.”
She gave him a questioning look. “And you’re essentially a day laborer who makes, what? Fifteen dollars an hour? Doing backbreaking work in the broiling sun and driving an Uber in your spare time?”
“Living the dream,” Whelan affirmed. “But for your information, I’m a crew chief, so I actually make eighteen fifty an hour.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I’m easily bored. I’m single, don’t need a lot. This is good, honest work. At the end of the day, I can lean on a shovel and see a flowerbed I helped plant or a tree I pruned, and it’s something tangible.”
“That’s not really an answer,” Traci said.
“Okay,” he relented. “Your niece was murdered on this property, one week ago. I don’t see much happening with that investigation. I’m not saying the local sheriff is incompetent, but I am saying I don’t see much progress being made. My intention, unless you tell me to stop, is to poke around, ask questions quietly, and see what I can find out. I’ve got the perfect cover. I actually work on the property, and a day laborer in a work uniform can pretty much go anywhere, with maybe the exception of your fancy hotel, without raising suspicions.”
“You really think you can find out who killed Parrish?”
“I can try.”
Traci realized she’d been holding her breath, waiting for his answer. She exhaled now.
“There’s one more reason for me to hang around,” Whelan said. “I find myself endlessly fascinated with the potential to embarrass my beautiful boss.”
CHAPTER 54
The texts began landing in Olivia’s inbox at eight on Saturday morning. A series of dings alerted her. She rolled over in bed and grabbed her phone. Six photos in all, from an unfamiliar phone number. She sat up in bed and squinted at the photos, which were fuzzy, but apparently some kind of label, a yellow diagonal slash on a shiny white background.
Suprema Comfort Rest 2000.
“Ahh.” They were photos of the mattress labels from the new wing in the Saint. Sonja was an excellent housekeeper, but she was a lousy photographer.
Now what? She pulled Parrish’s bitch book from its hiding place and flipped pages until she reached the one with the cryptic entry that she assumed was about the mattresses.
??? why beds bad, just bought all new? Ck w/ pch. Ask CB?
At least, that’s how she translated the scribble. There was another line beneath that.
