Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. Suzann Ledbetter

Blankenship wheedled. “Double the manpower, double your billable hours. Maybe triple ’em.”

      Halve them was more like it. Jack needed Baby Huey under his wing like a duck needs a concrete flak jacket. “Sorry, but like you said, McPhee Investigations is a one-man agency.”

      “It wasn’t when it was Gregory, Aimes & Watkins.” Blankenship shrugged. “Okay, so Watkins was dead and Aimes’s wheel was throwing spokes before Chuck Gregory took you on. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have a license, much less your name painted on the window.”

      With uncustomary patience, Jack said, “I was in the right place at the right time.” His inflection relayed as opposed to you. “Chuck wanted to retire and he loved showing rookies the ropes. Me, I’d rather hang myself with them.”

      Desperation edged Blankenship’s laugh. “Come on, gimme a thirty-day trial. If it doesn’t work out, no hard feelings. At least I’ll have a month’s experience to add to my résumé.”

      Jack’s eyes rose to room 266’s window, then lowered to the dashboard clock. By the time Blankenship extricated himself from the passenger’s seat, Mr. and Mrs. Smith could waltz out arm in arm from the building’s rear entrance.

      He’d also bet McPhee Investigations hadn’t topped Blankenship’s list of employment prospects. The Park City telephone directory’s business pages advertised about two dozen agencies, including a pricey nationally franchised outfit. If the kid had a brain, he’d started there and worked his way down.

      “What I will do,” Jack said, stashing the camera equipment on the floorboard, “is give you some friendly advice, while I drive you around front to your vehicle.”

      “It isn’t here.” Blankenship yanked on the shoulder harness. “I took a cab so I wouldn’t blow your surveillance.”

      Well, well. That hiked Jack’s previous estimation a few notches. Not enough to hire him, but maybe the kid had a brighter future than he thought. Wheeling around the motel’s east side, he said, “Where to?”

      “1010 West Danbury.”

      Jack gripped the steering wheel tighter—1010 West Danbury was his office address.

      “I can’t wait to show you what I can do with a computer. The background check on you? Just a warm-up.” Blankenship played an air-piano solo. “Finger exercise.”

      Jack reconsidered a long-held supposition about predestination. To wit, days that started off swell were fated to free-fall into the toilet. Conversely, days beginning with a cosmic swirly would inevitably improve—though the increments ranged from microscopic to worthy of a parade with lots of tubas, bass drums and scantily clad majorettes.

      So far, this one was a crapper with an automatic flush.

      He didn’t need a computer geek. A trusted subcontractor provided information above and beyond Jack’s expertise or time constraints. Much as he sort of admired Blankenship’s chutzpah, he’d sabotaged his fledging career from the get-go. Ditto, no doubt, at every other agency in town. Giving him the hows and whys wasn’t Jack’s purview, but if the kid listened, he might wise up.

      “You’d do about anything to score an apprenticeship,” he said.

      “Yes, sir.” Blankenship grinned. “As long as it’s legal.” The latter inferred illegal activities weren’t off the table, depending on the likelihood of police involvement.

      “Then make a list of everything you’ve done to impress me, then do the opposite when you apply somewhere else.” Jack braked for a traffic light. “Starting with your wardrobe.”

      Blankenship looked down, thoroughly bewildered. “I paid a bundle for this shirt at a Sister Hazel concert. It’s a collector’s item.”

      “Frame it and hang it on the wall. The grungy jeans and tennis shoes? Garbage.” Jack adjusted his tie, a maroon silk with understated silver threads. “You want to be a professional, dress like one. Buy a razor and get a haircut. Want to work at a car wash? You’re all set.”

      “Easy for you to say. Got any idea how much clothes cost when you’re my size?”

      “So drop a hundred pounds.” Jack reassessed the belly garroted by the lap belt. “Make it a hundred and a quarter. Big as you are, one foot pursuit and you’re DOA from a massive coronary.”

      Blankenship’s face flushed beet red. “Sure, I’m a little overweight, but I was born with a really slow metabolism and—”

      Jack plucked two sesame seeds from his chin whiskers. “How many Big Macs did you slam for lunch?”

      “Three, but—”

      “Large fries?”

      “Yeah, but—”

      “Here’s a guess. You chased it down with a diet soda.”

      A horn honked behind them. Jack accelerated a half block, then joined the queue in the left-turn lane. “This is America, kid. Eat whatever you want, whenever you want, but find a desk job. Investigating’s too physical for a guy your size.”

      He hooked a right off First Street onto West Danbury. “Voice of experience. I stacked on seventy, eighty pounds driving a truck. Losing it was a bitch, but eating half as much, half as often did the trick. To put some distance between you and the fridge, sign up for some college courses—psychology, criminology, basic photography, Finance 101. Computers are fantastic, but not the be-all, end-all.”

      Another stoplight allowed a sidelong look. Blankenship glared out the windshield, as if picturing Jack’s entrails smeared like a dead june bug’s.

      “You think I’m an asshole,” Jack said. “Fair enough. I’ll stake tomorrow’s lunch money that I’m also the first one who’s taken the time to tell you what you’re doing wrong. Which is just about everything.”

      He ignored the tacit “Go fuck yourself” radiating from the passenger’s seat. “Don’t ambush a prospective employer when he’s working. Don’t background-check him, either. It screams zero scruples about running anybody and everybody through the mill just because you can.”

      The seat belt latch clicked open. Blankenship pushed himself through the door with considerably more grace and speed than he’d entered.

      Jack called, “Hey, I’m just trying to—” a slam juddered the window glass, then reverberated through the chassis “—help,” he finished, watching Blankenship jaywalk around an adjacent delivery truck.

      Gee, that went well, he thought. Evidently honesty really wasn’t always the best policy. It had, however, shored up the contention that mentoring wasn’t one of his specialties.

      On the other hand, the kid’s eight-block hoof to his car wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe allow pause for thought, not to mention counteract his six-thousand-calorie lunch. Or would, if Blankenship didn’t salve a wounded ego with a banana split at the diner next door to Jack’s office.

      The pedestrian crossing light flashed “Hurry up or die.” Blankenship materialized in the intersection, seemingly oblivious to the warning and the vehicle cranking a last-minute turn on yellow. The car’s tires whinnied on the pavement; its driver saluted Blankenship with an extended middle finger.

      The kid didn’t notice. Didn’t flinch when the car gunned past him, fortunate the side mirror didn’t pick his pocket as it roared by. Still walking, closing the distance to the curb, Blankenship’s eyes locked on Jack. His head turned, then tipped slightly forward when his neck craned too far for comfort.

      His unblinking stare didn’t project anger, defiance, disdain or the type of pity bestowed on those who’ve cast aside a golden opportunity.

      Stone-cold hate, Jack said to himself. And a promise to make good on it. He looked away, confused and a little unnerved by its intensity. Keeping his own expression impassive, he glided forward with traffic.

      He