Into the Light (The Light #1)(65)

“You’re making me nervous. What are your questions?” I bit my lip.

“What do you know about real estate in Bloomfield Hills?”

“I know that some of the partners at Preston and Butler live there, and it costs more than I’ll ever have.”

“OK, have you ever heard of Motorists of America?”

I shook my head toward the phone, as if he could see me. “No, Foster. Is this for a story?”

“No, not really. Like I said, we keep an eye on our own.”

“Hey, I love you, but jump ahead. My mind’s so rattled with this case, I’m missing the point.”

“Motorists of America, MOA, was a retirement endeavor set up in the late sixties for employees of the big auto companies. It was a private option for members of UAW and Teamsters. It didn’t replace their union dues or retirement; it was billed to supplement it.” I had no idea where he was going. “That was fifty years ago. I’ll spare you the history. Let’s just say it was one of the many ventures that didn’t deliver. The funny thing is that I remembered it was something Mindy had mentioned, and recently I was doing a search and it came up.”

“Foster?” We’d already canvassed all of Mindy’s research. MOA hadn’t been there, so it must have been a while ago that she’d mentioned it.

“Give me a minute.”

Securing my lip once more to stop from telling him I didn’t care, I nodded.

“I can give you more detail, but obviously you want the CliffsNotes. MOA declared bankruptcy in the eighties. Operations stopped, but it wasn’t dissolved.”

My patience was wearing thin.

“After bankruptcy a company is unable to . . .”

“Foster, I really want to care. Are you saying this isn’t a story and somehow has something to do with me?”

“Jesus, Stella, listen a minute. MOA has a list of assets a mile long, valued in the millions, hell, billions. I don’t know. I just got started into all of this. The part that jumped out at me, the reason I even stumbled upon this, was because of a six-bedroom home in Bloomfield Hills.”

“Are you and Kim house shopping?”

“Like we could afford to live there. No, I may have been running some searches on Dylan Richards and his name popped up on a utility bill, gas, for that six-bedroom. His name was only there one month, and then it was changed, but you know how slow utility companies are? Their records last forever.”

What the hell?

I shook my head. “Let me save you any further trouble. It’s not my Dylan Richards; you’ve got the wrong one. Next, explain to me why in the hell you’re running a search on my boyfriend.”

“I suppose that’s possible, that it’s not him. What’s his father’s name?”

I bit my lower lip. “Um, Mr. Richards? We haven’t really made it to the parent part of this relationship. He doesn’t talk about them. Now answer my other question.”

“Bernard asked me to check him out.”

“Holy shit!” I covered my mouth and looked around the office. Apparently my outburst had gone unheard, or people were used to them. Not drawing attention, I lowered my voice. “Don’t. He’s a cop. We’ve only just started discussing allowing Fred to visit. Seriously, he’s a detective. I promise we’re good. He’s good.” I ran my hands down the length of my ponytail and twisted the end.

“Fred?” Foster asked.

“Never mind. Actually, this pisses me off.”

“Cool your jets. Bernard comes across all corncob-up-the-ass-ish, but listen, I’ve worked for him for a long time. He’s got good instincts and, well, he said he’d feel better if everything checked out.”

I straightened my neck and shook my shoulders. After pursing my lips, I asked, “And what else did you find?”

“Stuff I’m sure you know, criminal justice at Wayne State, straight to DPD where he spent five years as a patrolman before making detective and moving straight to narcotics and homicide. That’s a bit unusual, but the flags aren’t red, only amber. I mean, usually people start with less prestigious assignments. Your man went to the top. Personally, he’s been dating this hot investigative journalist . . .”

If Eddie weren’t happily married with two kids I might have been offended, but since he was I just laughed.

“Seriously,” he went on, “commendations, few complaints. The only thing that struck me as odd was the one-point-four-million-dollar home owned by MOA with his name on the gas bill. I’m diving deeper into MOA. I just wanted to ask if he had that kind of money lying around. Did a rich uncle die?”

“Foster, you’ve got the wrong Dylan Richards. I’ve been to his house. It’s a nice renovated two-story in Brush Park: backyard, fence, and plenty of shelf room for Fred.” I giggled. “He’s my fish. I hate leaving him. He gets depressed.”

Foster scoffed. “Well, Fred should be glad he doesn’t live at my house. I don’t know what my kids do to their goldfish, but I bet we buy a new one at least once a week. Kim said that when she enters the pet shop, all the goldfish try to hide behind the little castle.”

“OK, remind me not to let your kids babysit Fred.”

“Listen, Stella, I’ll look into this. You’re probably right, and don’t say anything to Bernard. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a nice guy. I’ll talk to you later.”