Second Guessing Read online

  His perfect American accent disappeared with that last sentence, smoothly replaced with flawless Chinese. I recognize that as Mandarin but since I don’t actually speak the language, I have no idea what it was supposed to mean. But the stuff he said in English has just given me the last piece of the puzzle. His guy deals with the prominent guests. The ones with lots of money.

  The ones who wear things like ten-thousand-dollar tennis bracelets.

  “Your employee’s hiding something, Mister Chen. When I mentioned the bracelet I’m looking for his hand went to his pocket. That’s where he’s hiding the bracelet. Probably took it off her wrist when she wasn’t paying attention. He might have accidentally fell into her with a tray of food, or something, to distract her while he undid the clasp. For all I know, he’s been doing this to a lot of your customers without them knowing.”

  From the expression on Arnie’s face, I can tell that he’s been thinking the same thing. He seems like a smart man, with his command of big words and all, so he must know everything that goes on in his restaurant. If he was waiting for proof that his employee was stealing, I just gave it to him.

  I lean back against the dumpster, pretty pleased with myself. “He’s probably holding onto the bracelet until he can fence it. It’s worth quite a bit of money. Not something you bring to your basic pawn shop.”

  “No, sir,” the man says, waving his hands imploringly and making his gaudy rings flash. “This woman crazy. She does not know what she says!”

  Arnie’s hand comes up again, only this time when he does he snaps his beefy fingers, and his bodyguard springs forward. In a matter of seconds, he spins the guy with his rings up against the wall and deftly searches through all his pockets.

  And then he holds up the bracelet for me and Arnie Chen to see.

  He hands it over to me and I take it gratefully. I wish I’d figured out where it was before I went dumpster diving, but them’s the breaks when you’re a private investigator. Sometimes you have to get dirty before you can earn your pay.

  This is another story I’m not going to tell my friends, but for a very different reason.

  “Take him inside,” Arnie tells his bodyguard. “To my office. We have much to discuss.”

  I frown, wondering if I should say something, because I’m sure that ‘discussion’ isn’t going to be pleasant for the bracelet thief. I could try to step in, but it’s not my place to tell him how to run his business. I could argue that we should turn the guy over to the police, but it’s not my job to involve the cops when I find out someone broke the law. I’m hired by my clients to do a specific job and once that’s done, my involvement is over. I might forward the information to the police sometimes, when it’s serious enough, but it’s totally my call whether I do or not.

  In this case, I have a feeling the punishment that will happen inside that Chinese restaurant is going to be a lot more severe than anything the legal system could do to this guy. Not just for the theft, either. This guy crossed Arnie Chen by stealing from his customers. I still don’t know who this Arnie Chen is, but I can tell he doesn’t take it well when his employees are disloyal.

  Just before the bodyguard takes the guy inside, the man looks back at me. There’s no anger in those eyes now for me exposing him. There’s only fear.

  “Mister Chen,” I say, deciding that I can’t just let this happen without saying something. “Can you tell me what you’re going to do with him?”

  His grin in that pudgy face is almost cheerful. “With who?”

  “With the man who stole this necklace from my client.”

  “Why, Miss Stone. I have no idea what you might be referring to. There was no man here. Only you, and I. We have had a pleasant talk. Now I must bid you good day.”

  He turns away, whistling a tune. It’s that old song… the one about swinging on a star.

  In the alleyway, the sound of it echoes off the brick walls, giving me an eerie sense of foreshadowing.

  “Mister Chen?”

  He stops at the door, looking back at me with one bushy eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how you knew my name?”

  “Hmm, yes. It’s simple, really. I make it my habit to keep track of the more, shall we say, interesting people in Detroit. You, my dear, are one of the most interesting I have heard about. Ah, that reminds me. I nearly forgot.”

  Reaching into a pocket on the front of his shirt, Arnie takes out two red slips of paper and hands them to me.

  I count to three.

  Then I count to three again.

  There’s no future flash showing anything bad happening to me, so I take it to mean it’s safe. I’m not actually getting any future flashes at all. Nothing from Arnie Chen, at least. Odd. Must be all the adrenaline.

  I take the slips from him. On the front, in Chinese and in English, are the words ‘Meal Voucher. Admit One. Redeem at your leisure and enjoy!’

  “You’re giving me coupons for a free meal?”

  “Why yes,” he tells me. “Even private investigators must eat. Those are for you, and for a special friend. You are welcome at my restaurant any time. I’m sure we will see each other again soon. Yes. Very soon. Good fortune to you.”

  With another wide grin, he goes back inside the restaurant, and I hear the door lock.

  Well. That was the most unusual thing that’s happened to me in a long time.

  Which is saying a lot, in the life of Sidney Stone, P.I.

  Chapter One

  Two days later, I finally had the smell of garbage out of my skin.

  The five hundred dollars I made from finding the tennis bracelet was almost gone already. Most of it, along with a good chunk of my military pension, had gone to keeping my landlord at bay. He’s a pretty understanding guy. Usually. But no money in his hand makes him cranky. This will keep us on good terms for another month. The rest of my earnings are burning a hole in my pocket right now. For me, that means I get to splurge on a few things.

  Like a Shack Stack burger and a shake on a Sunday afternoon.

  Around the corner from my apartment is my favorite Shake Shack on the whole east side of the city. Maybe in the whole of Detroit. Well, actually its three streets over, and then around a corner. It’s a bit of a walk but it’s always worth it. Their peanut butter milkshakes are to die for.

  In the Marines we would do what we call humps, which are practice hikes done in full gear, including our FILBE packs and rifles, so walking a few blocks to get a milkshake isn’t much of a chore for me.

  You’ll hear me talk about my time in the Marines a lot. Do I miss it? Yes, I do. Not so much the part where we got sent to the far ends of the Earth, to places no one will ever hear about, stationed there to protect towns and people who usually didn’t want us around. No, I don’t miss that part at all. But I loved the life. I was born to be a soldier, I think. To protect the helpless. To fight the good fight. When I finally put in my papers for a discharge, I came back home and went into private investigations as a way to continue doing what I was good at.

  Helping people.

  Ask me the story of why I retired from the Marines sometime. As long as you’re buying the beers, I’ll tell you the whole thing.

  At the intersection, the walk light gives us the signal to cross the street but I stop, and grab the arm of the nice white-haired old lady next to me, keeping us both on the curb as a car whips around the corner against the red without even stopping. I’d seen it happening three seconds before the guy flipped us both the finger and kept going. Just enough time to keep us from getting flattened. If she or I had stepped into the crosswalk at that moment… it wouldn’t have been pretty.

  Sometimes living your life on fast forward, three seconds at a time, comes in handy.

  She looks up at me, pale blue eyes wide with surprise. “Thank you, young lady. I guess my guardian angel was watching out for us both. Bless you.”

  That earns a chuckle from me. I’ve been called a lot worse t
hings than a guardian angel before.

  I walk her across to the other side, and we chat about the weather, and if August will be as hot as July was, and how noisy the city’s gotten, and things like that. After we’re across and on the sidewalk, she thanks me again and turns left up the street. I’m going straight, so I wave goodbye. Nice woman. Most of the people in this city are. There are just a few exceptions that ruin our image for everyone. Those are the people I usually deal with in my line of work. It’s nice to meet the other ninety-eight percent sometimes.

  That’s one of the things I love about living in a city. You meet all kinds here. The good and the bad, the ugly and the… well, the uglier. I know dozens of people here on a first-name basis, and probably a couple hundred more well enough to smile and wave to in passing. And at the same time, you can disappear in a sea of faces here. In a city, privacy means something very different. Some people will trek out into the middle of a forest, or go mountain climbing, or canoe down river rapids to find alone time for themselves.

  In Detroit, all you have to do to be alone is step out your own front door.

  Of course, there’s some people who won’t ever have privacy no matter where they go. You know the woman in your favorite movie who was in those other movies too, the one you’d recognize in a heartbeat if she walked into a restaurant? Like say, the Shake Shack where I’m standing right now?

  Yeah. So does everyone else.

  Three seconds before two professional bodyguards in black suits and black sunglasses and white wireless earpieces step into the Shake Shack, I know they’re coming.

  From my place near the front of the line, I look over my shoulder, just in time to see the two men open the door and move to stand on either side. They scan the room in that way that police officers and soldiers and well-trained rent-a-cops like them do. They’re evaluating the room, and the people inside, and how many ways there are to get in and out. It’s what I’d do, if I was being paid to protect someone. Which means someone important is about to walk through the door. It happens sometimes in a big city like Detroit. I’ve seen Jennifer Hudson at Comerica Park, and Denzel Washington in Midtown, and Tom Selleck held a door open for me once at the Dunkin’ Donuts over on Anthony Wayne Drive. He gave me his autograph on a napkin, too. Nice guy.

  A couple of the other people sitting at the tables are looking their way now, too, because these two guys in their suits aren’t exactly subtle. The one on the right lifts his wrist up to his mouth and speaks into the microphone there, apparently telling whoever he’s working for that it’s okay to come inside. A moment later the door opens again, but the sunlight from outside is reflecting off the glass and making it impossible to see who it is…

  But then I do see it, with my future flash. I just can’t believe it.

  I know her.

  This person… I haven’t seen her since high school. I’d heard she was doing really well for herself, but it wasn’t like I’d spoken with her in all that time. We aren’t Facebook friends. I don’t subscribe to her Twitter feed. I read about her when she pops up in the news but I’m not part of her fan club. In fact, I never have been. She and I moved in different circles back in school. Now, we’re from different planets. I’m a private investigator. She’s one of the best-known actresses in the world. Maybe she hasn’t done a new movie in a few years now, but she’s still a household name.

  Into this little restaurant that specializes in hamburgers and hot dogs, walks the one and only Amelia Falconi.

  Even when we were teenagers, she was always tall and graceful in that way that some women are born to, but now she’s simply drop dead gorgeous. Her red off-the-shoulder dress flows just perfectly around her legs. Her hourglass figure has been featured in Shape magazine. I’ve read any number of things online about how she’s undergone plastic surgery to give her those high cheekbones and pouty lips and alluring almond eyes. I can say without question that’s nothing more than rumors. Every inch of Amelia is natural.

  Yeah, I know. It’s annoying when someone’s that naturally pretty.

  What was even more annoying was that she knew she was gorgeous, and she never missed a chance to use her good looks to get what she wanted. She was the head cheerleader, the class president, and to this day I’m certain the only reason she passed Geometry was because of the ‘private’ tutor sessions our teacher Mister Baskins gave her. Or rather, because of what she gave him during those sessions.

  So you can understand why seeing her here in a Shake Shack, in my home town, might be less than a thrill for me. Even if she is one of the most well-known actresses in the world, she isn’t someone I cared to ever run into again.

  I watch her for a moment, just long enough to see how she leans in close to the bodyguard on her left. He’s a broad-chested guy with a chiseled face and skin the color of dark chocolate. Seriously good looking. There’s a little quirk of a smile on his face too, even though he’s trying to hide it as he whispers something back to Amelia.

  She nods her head to whatever he’s saying, smiling for the people who have already noticed who she is, even though her eyes stay on him. That’s not the look a woman has for someone in her employ. That’s the look a woman gives a special guy when he says something… special.

  I don’t always need my special gift to figure things out. I’m a very good detective. In this case it helps that I’ve also been a woman with a special guy in her life. I don’t have someone like that right now, but that’s a feeling a girl doesn’t ever forget.

  “Order for Sidney?”

  The crewmember behind the counter, in her black shirt with the green burger logo on it, pulls my attention away from thoughts of the past when she says my name. She was holding a tray with my burger and fries and two shakes on it. When I reach for it, she looks at me funny.

  “I said order for Sidney.”

  “Right, that’s me,” I tell her, and then I hold up a hand when I can tell what she’s about to say. “No, it’s a girl’s name. Thanks.”

  Behind me, I can hear people calling Amelia Falconi’s name, asking for her autograph, telling her she’s amazing, and the noise is starting to hurt my head, echoing through my future-sense.

  I look at the food on my tray. I was going to eat here but if I did that, I was going to be right in the middle of the maelstrom of fans swarming the famous actress in our midst. I’d been looking forward to a leisurely meal, taking my time while I made some phone calls to a few of my contacts, looking for a new case. Considering all the noise, I don’t think I’ll be making any calls in here.

  Considering that’s Amelia Falconi standing over there, I don’t really care to stay here for another minute.

  Besides. I’ve got someone waiting for me back at the apartment.

  “Can I get that to go?”

  The employee with my order—a teenage girl with acne on her cheeks—gives me an annoyed glare, but she takes the tray back to put the food in a paper bag before handing it back to me without so much as a ‘thank you, come again.’ Guess I’ve worn out my welcome. Which means it’s time for me to go.

  Bag and one shake in my left hand, the other shake in my right, I skirt the growing crowd of people standing in the middle of the restaurant, gushing over Amelia Falconi, passing her napkins and scraps of paper for autographs while they take selfies with her. She’s eating it up, and I’m just as happy to go unnoticed by her.

  “Sidney? Sidney Stone?”

  Well. I guess not quite as unnoticed as I was hoping for.

  That voice of hers hasn’t changed much since high school. It’s a beautiful voice, musical even, and somehow she’s got a soft British accent even though she was born and raised on the other side of town from where I grew up. Her fans love it. I find it a little pretentious myself.

  I turn to her with a flat smile, enduring the gaze of everyone around Amelia, all of them wondering who I am, to be greeted by name by a genuine Hollywood star. Cellphone cameras flash. I have a feeling my face is going to end up all ov
er the internet by the end of the day, if it isn’t already.

  “Hi, Amelia.” I manage to keep my voice upbeat, but just barely. “What a surprise, meeting you here.”

  “I thought I heard them call your name up there.” Her laugh is downright charming, and annoying. “I wasn’t sure, though. Sidney is such a boy’s name, you know?”

  My expression freezes. “So people keep telling me.”

  Her eyes drop down to the food I’m carrying, specifically to the two large shakes, and even though she doesn’t say anything I can tell she’s judging me for the calorie intake. She’s got to be a size four, at most. I’ve got the sleek body of a three-time marathon winner, wavy blonde hair down past the curve of my jaw and baby-blue eyes and standing next to her I still feel like I’m standing in that dumpster. Not that I care.

  I just really wish she’d bumped into me in the gym. That’s all I’m saying.

  Still waving at everyone she takes a few steps my way with the help of her two bodyguards moving the crowd aside with practiced ease. “So what are you doing in Detroit? Last I heard, you joined up with the Marines.”

  “I was in the Marines, yes. I’m retired from that now.”

  “Oh? That must be a nice change of pace for you and your… husband?”

  I practically have to staple my smile in place to keep it from sliding away into a frown. “No. I’m not married. Never have been. I read somewhere that you’ve been married three times, though.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes I have. It’s hard being a movie star’s husband. Such a demanding life I lead, you know. Some men just aren’t cut out to be with a powerful woman.”

  My expression doesn’t just slip away when she says that, it cracks. Her life is hard? She is a powerful woman? I was a United States Marine, for the love of God. I didn’t just play one in the movies like she did, in that flick US-Emcee. And maybe she got a Golden Globe award for her performance, but so what? Acting ain’t doing.