The Porn Identity

Chapter 5

       Sanz had an office in Avondale that was small and understated for someone so wealthy. He said he hated flashy displays of luxury, but he still drove a beamer. Pretty new one, too. And there was a picture in his office of him onboard the small boat he owned that he kept docked at the nearby marina...In fact, I'm sure I heard him say he set his office up on this side of town for the days when he left work early to go on his fanciful leisure cruises up and down the river.

       But none of that was my nosy-ass business, I'm just a naturally observant person.

       I observed, for example, as Sanz pulled his checkbook out of his drawer, and sat on the edge of his large executive desk as he looked through my pictures on his tablet.

       "That's disappointing," he said as he scrolled. "I was hoping there was fraud."

       I snorted out a laugh. "Why?"

       The way his eyes cut when he looked up at me was hilariously devious. "I haven't been to trial in a while. I'm bored."

       I'm not a hundred percent sure he's kidding. "Pics are good then?"

       "They're excellent." They were clear, concise, and the target's face was visible in almost every shot. Unfortunately, they proved that Randy Cairn's back was really broken. That meant Sanz' clients, some construction firm, would have to keep paying that worker's comp. Oh, well. "Too bad they'll tank my case."

       "Well, I'm sure someone's committing fraud somewhere."

       "Mmm." He acknowledged me with a little nod then set down his tablet and started hastily scribbling in the checkbook. "Make this out to Harper Investigations?"

       "Yes." Sanz had hired me last month to collect proof about some other person pretending to be ill for the benefits. I'd caught her jogging around the park when she'd claimed severe lung disease from years working in a glass factory. Sanz was so pleased with my work he started calling regularly when he needed me to discreetly trail someone. Being in his rolodex was as good as being on retainer, and that meant semi-stable P.I. gigs.

       "So, it's good?"

       "It's great."

       "That's why you hire me."

       "That and you're the cheapest P.I. in the city." He ripped out the check in one swift movement and held it out.

       "For now." I grabbed it and shot him an easygoing grin. "Just wait. My star's rising. Soon I'll be able to compete with Wolff."

       "Wolff Investigations would eat you alive."

       He's not being mean, he just really wanted to make that pun. "Very funny."

       "Thank you. I get my humor from my abuelito." He stood up straight and sighed at the thought. "You know, he came here from Cuba with nothing but the clothes on his back and a good sense of humor."

       I did know that. Mostly because he talks about it all the time—especially Cuba. Don't get this man started on Cuba, we'll be here all day.

       "I need to get back to work." I grabbed my purse from where it sat in one of his upholstered armchairs and shoved the check inside. As I turned to go, I paused. "Can I ask you a question?"

       He raised a well-manicured eyebrow, immediately suspicious. "A legal question?"

       "Yeah."

       He strolled around his desk and stared intently at a crystal paperweight. "I charge two hundred an hour."

       I rolled my eyes. "Come on, man."