Promise Not To Tell(3)

His job was to ensure that Cutler, Sutter & Salinas prospered. When the door had opened a short time ago, he’d hoped that the representative of a corporation or maybe a lawyer needing discreet services for a wealthy client would walk into the office.

Instead, Virginia Troy had entered the small reception lobby, bringing with her the long shadows of the past.

He hadn’t recognized her, of course. She had been one of the youngest kids he brought out of the burning barn all those years ago – a wide-eyed little girl so traumatized by the events that she had not even been able to tell him her name for several hours. Cabot, who had been orphaned that night, had supplied him with Virginia’s name.

Virginia was thirty-one now. No wedding ring, Anson noted. That did not surprise him. There was a cool reserve about her. She wasn’t exactly a loner, he concluded, rather someone who was accustomed to being alone. He knew the difference.

She was the kind of woman who caught a man’s eye, but not because she was a stunner. Attractive, yes, but not in a standard-issue way. She wasn’t one of those too-beautiful-to-be-real women like you saw on TV. Instead there was something compelling about her, an edge that was hard to define. Probably had something to do with the bold, black-framed glasses and the high-heeled boots, he decided.

Most men wouldn’t know how to handle a woman like Virginia Troy. Sure, some would be damned interested at first, maybe even see her as a challenge. But he figured that, in the end, the average guy would run for the hills.

A short time ago, when she had walked into the room, she had taken a moment to size up everything in sight, including him. He had been relieved when he and the expensive new furniture appeared to have passed inspection.

Although his name was on the door, technically speaking he was the office manager, receptionist, researcher and general gofer. Max and Cabot were the licensed investigators in the firm. Both had complained mightily about the stiff rent on the newly leased office space, as well as the money spent on furnishing the place, but Anson had refused to lower his newfound standards of interior design.

Before embarking on his career in office management, he had never paid any attention to the art of interior design. But after hiring a decorator and immersing himself in the finer points of the field, he had become convinced that the premises of the firm had to send the right message to potential clients. That meant leasing space in an upscale building and investing in quality furniture.

The result, however, was that Cutler, Sutter & Salinas now had to start making some serious money.

Virginia crossed her legs and gripped the arms of the chair. Anson knew that she was ready to tell him why she had come looking for him.

“I own a gallery in Pioneer Square,” she said. “One of the artists who occasionally exhibits her work with me died a few days ago. The authorities have ruled the death a suicide.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Anson said.

“I’m not sure what to believe. That’s why I’d like to hire you to investigate the circumstances.”

The door opened before Anson could ask any more questions. Cabot walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee – one balanced on top of the other – and a small paper sack emblazoned with the logo of a nearby bakery. He was slightly turned away from the desk because he was using the toe of his low boot to close the door. He did not immediately notice Virginia.

“The Coffee Goddess said to tell you she’s got a new tattoo that she might be willing to show you if you’ll let her surprise you with one of her own custom lattes,” he said. “Evidently she’s tired of you ordering regular coffee instead of one of her specialties. Says you need to be more adventurous.”

Anson felt himself flushing. He cleared his throat, but before he could warn Cabot that there was a client in the room, the client spoke.

“Some things are best appreciated in their purest, most essential forms,” Virginia said.

Cabot turned very quickly to confront her. Anson stifled a sigh. Confront was the operative word when it came to Cabot. Not that he was confrontational in the sense that he was always looking for a fight. If anything, he usually came across as unnaturally aloof and unemotional. It took a lot to make him lose his temper, and on the rare occasions when that happened, you didn’t want to be standing in his vicinity.

The issue was that he regarded anything or anyone new, unknown or outside his normal routine, as a potential problem at best and, at worst, a threat until proven otherwise. The result was that he confronted situations and people until he could decide what to do about them.

He also had a bad habit of being attracted to women who thought they needed a man to rescue them. Unfortunately, that type of woman was attracted to him – but never for long. Anson had observed that needy women were happy enough to use Cabot for as long as he was useful, but sooner or later they found themselves dealing with the whole man, not just the rescuer part. And Cabot was nothing if not complicated. His relationships, such as they were, usually ended badly.

The swift, sure way he moved to deal with Virginia said a lot about the man, Anson thought. Most people would have lost the top cup of coffee with such a sudden turn, but Cabot had excellent reflexes and an innate sense of balance. He’d had those talents from childhood and had honed them over the years. Some men ran or lifted weights to stay in shape. Cabot had a black belt in an obscure form of martial arts.

He contemplated Virginia now with a cool, calculating gaze. People often got nervous when Cabot fixed his attention on them. It was the primary reason why Anson or Max usually took on the task of dealing with new clients. Those seeking the services of an investigation agency were already uneasy when they came through the door. There was a general consensus that Cabot might scare off new business.