The Maid's Diary(37)

A hot dislike oozes into his veins. He flicks the card faster between his fingers. Jon cannot bear losing. If he loses the COO job to that man, it means this whole move back home—this whole baby-family thing—has been for absolutely nothing. Losing it is not even an option. Jon figures Ahmed is in his very early thirties. Maybe even late twenties. Far too young for the responsibilities of running a brand-new world-class four-season mountain resort. It’s blatantly obvious this is not about skill and all about optics. Christ, just look at the man—he can’t even organize his own hair, let alone a resort. His shiny black locks are wavy and hang almost to his shoulders. Unkempt, in Jon’s opinion. Totally unprofessional. Like he just got out of bed after sex or something. And Ahmed has a beard. It gives him a certain smoldering quality that woman like Anna clearly find irresistible. He wears glasses, too. They bestow Ahmed with a pseudo aura of intellect. Jon thinks Ahmed looks like an owl in those round glasses. Fucking poseur. Jon has no idea why the young women at work flock around him. Can’t they see through the guy?

Jon’s mind turns to Mia Reiter—the hot banker babe he allowed to slip through his married fingers last night. He wonders how differently things might have turned out if he’d run after Mia instead of just watching her walk away.

His jaw tightens. Adrenaline pumps softly through his body. His breathing grows deeper, faster. He glances down at the card in his hand.

Preston Private Investigations.

Jon sets the card down on his desk. From his briefcase he extracts his laptop and opens it up. Into a browser he types in the URL displayed on the business card.

The landing page for Preston Private Investigations fills his screen.

A moving banner across the top of the page promises: “Fast Results. Full Range of Services. Discretion.”

Jon scrolls down the page.

Extramarital Affairs, Adultery, Infidelity, Unfaithful Cheating Spouses: These terms cause enormous amounts of stress for those who suspect a spouse’s activities. Name it whatever term you want, but statistics show that cheating is more common than most people think. Statistics also show that, unfortunately, once someone seriously suspects infidelity, more often than not, their suspicion is correct.

Jon glances up and once more studies his rival in his glass office. Ahmed is busy working on his computer again.

Enormous amounts of stress.

The website has got that right. That’s exactly what Ahmed Waheed is causing Jon. Stress.

What if I caught him having an affair? Something worse?

Jon considers what Henry said in the dimly lit pub.

Someone who specializes in such things. Ex-cop. Knows what he’s doing. When you call, ask for Jake.

Jon wonders what work “Jake” has done for Henry in the past. He watches as Anna-in-the-red-dress struts past his glass wall without so much as a glance inside. Let alone a mug of coffee and a smile.

His jaw tightens.

He spins his chair around so that his back faces the interior glass wall, and using his personal mobile, he punches in the number of Preston Private Investigations.

A woman answers. Jon asks for Jake.

A man with a gruff voice says, “Jake Preston.”

Jon clears his throat. “I—ah, this is Jon. Henry Clay recommended you.”

“And what can I do for you, Jon?”

Jon shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder, then explains that he’s got some competition for something that should rightfully be his. “I need to know what I’m up against.”

“You mean you need dirt? Something you can use to eliminate your competition?”

Words defy Jon for a moment. The implication, the reality, of what he’s asking is suddenly stark. He bites his lip.

“Look, Jon-without-a-last-name, if we agree to a business relationship, one thing you need to know about me is I don’t mince my words. I say things as I see them. Much easier to avoid confusion and misunderstandings that way. And it helps me to operate within the context of the law. For example, if you pretend you’re hiring me for one thing but want—”

“Yes,” Jon says quickly. “Yes, I want dirt. Intel. Anything I can use to undermine someone who is trying to steal my job.”

“Okay,” Jake says slowly. “That’s one of my specialties. If there is ‘kompromat’ to be found, I will find it. Can I email you a copy of our contractual arrangement and rates before we go further? Or would you like to do everything in person? It’s your preference.”

“I prefer in person.”

“Good call. This evening? Or afternoon? Where are you generally located, Jon?”

Jon swallows. He’s balancing on the tip of a black run. He’s leaning over. If he commits any further, he will start a racing ride of no return down to the bottom. He needs to be certain this is what he wants. He also needs to win. And in order to win, Jon is not beyond sabotaging competition. He’s not beyond playing foul. He was, after all, a top-level athlete who’d do anything to succeed at his game.

“I work in downtown Vancouver. I live in Point Grey,” he says.

“Does the Jericho Beach parking lot work for you?”

“Yes. Yes—that works fine.”

“Okay, Jon. What I need from you is the name of the subject you want investigated, plus any other information that might be relevant, or that might give me leads. Address, age, hobbies, gender, sexual proclivities—does this person have a partner, kids, siblings, parents? Who are their friends? Where do they hang out? A gym, a favorite pub, club. Do they drink, do drugs, attend a church—”