Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (5 page)

Lance shrugged. “If you knew him, you’d know he wasn’t bragging. This guy really believes he’s the best PI in all of California, and to tell you the truth—he might be.” At my look he went on, “Okay, maybe not the entire state. But definitely in Cruz, and maybe even up as far as the San Francisco area. Listen, don’t take my word for it—Google him.” He pointed at Nick. “But I’ll bet a month’s receipts that’s his cat.”

I turned away to finish preparing his burger. No way was I taking that bet, because
my
gut told me that Lance just might be right.

*   *   *

O
nce the lunch crowd had dissipated and Lance and Chantal had departed, I put the
CLOSED
sign in the door and pulled out my laptop. I typed “Nick Atkins” into the search engine. To my surprise, a plethora of sites came up. I clicked on a few. Some were murder investigations, others involved missing persons, and they’d all been successfully solved by one Nick Atkins. One of the sites had a photo of Nick, standing beside a young girl he’d found. I studied the tall, handsome man with eyes the color of a fine aged whiskey, lantern jaw, and Pepé Le Pew streak in his jet-black hair.

“Well, Nick Atkins, I’ll say this—you are one good-looking PI. The ones I worked with in Chicago sure didn’t look like you.”

I jumped as something furry rubbed against my arm. Nick purred like a motorcar as he rubbed against me, his head butting my chest. I looked into eyes the color of moonlight and absently stroked the thick black fur. Suddenly I stopped and frowned.

“That’s funny,” I said. “Nick Atkins has a small white streak in his hair right behind his ear and so”—I ran my fingers across the white fur shaped almost like an angel’s wing—“do you. Odd I didn’t notice this before. Now there’s another coincidence, huh? You seem to be full of ’em.”

Nick’s lips peeled back in what I imagined was a cat version of a grin. I gave him another quick pat on the head and set him down on the floor.

“Okay, Nick. I must admit, you’ve been pretty good company—you know, for a cat. But—you can’t stay here if you truly belong to someone else. I’ve got some store business to deal with today, but tomorrow, right after closing, you and I are going to go to this address I found”—I waved the paper in my hand—“and return you to your rightful owner. Okay?”

Nick looked at me for a full minute, then turned around and stalked off, tail and head both held high. “Yeah, okay, it’s true,” I said as his rotund bottom slunk underneath the damask tablecloth. “Chantal might have been the one who initially wanted you to stay but . . . if it does turn out Nick Atkins is your owner . . . I’ll be the disappointed one.”

He turned around, trotted back to me, rubbed against my leg. I leaned down to chuck him under the chin and he raised his head and closed his eyes. I heard a purr rumble deep in his chest as he accepted my ministrations. As I pulled my hand away, he turned toward me and yawned.

“Phew.” I waved my hand to and fro. “One thing for sure—if you end up staying here, Nick, we’ve gotta get you some breath mints.”

T
he next day right after the lunch crush ended, I closed the shop and hopped into my SUV. Since I’d had no luck finding a working phone number, I took out the paper where I’d printed the address I’d found online for Nick Atkins and propped it on the dashboard in front of me, then programmed it into my GPS unit. I’d barely turned the key in the ignition when I heard a slight rustling behind me, and a second later Nick hopped from the rear of the car into the passenger seat in front, his plumelike tail swishing to and fro double time.

“How did you—never mind.” I waved my hand. I’d been fairly certain I’d put him upstairs, but apparently—as with the laptop incident—I’d been mistaken. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s best if you come along. If you do belong to this Nick Atkins, it’d be best for us to make a clean break, y’know.” I cleared my throat. “It’s been great having you—bad breath and all—but as you know, I’m not a pet person, and I’m sure you’ll be much happier back where you belong. I mean, he carried your picture around with him, for goodness’ sake. He has to be missing you.”

Nick looked down his nose at me, then turned his back and devoted his time to staring out the passenger window at some birds in the tree overhead. I swallowed the lump that had arisen suddenly in my throat and backed out into the road. About fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of a small brownstone apartment building in the neighboring town of Cragmere.

I peered out the window at the number emblazoned on the front door. “Okay—427 Peach Street.” I tapped the paper with my nail. “This is where your master lives—or at least, it’s the most recent address Google has for him.” I opened my door and swung my legs out. “Come on, Nick. It’s time for you to go home.”

Nick sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his tail curled under his forepaws, and blinked twice.

I fisted my hands on my hips. “What? You don’t want to come in? You’re not anxious to get back to your home, your toys, the nice little fleece bed I’m sure you have?”

He blinked again and turned his head in the other direction.

I sighed as I exited the SUV and shut my door. “Okay, fine. Wait here. Play hard to get.” I walked around to the passenger side and tapped my fingertips against the window. “What happened? Did you and your owner have some sort of falling-out?”

Still no response. I straightened. “Well, no worries. Whatever may have happened, I’m sure once Mr. Atkins knows you’re out here, he’ll rush right out. I’m positive he’s missed you, and I’m sure you’ve missed him.”

Nick’s black nose twitched, and one ear flicked forward. Other than that, he gave no response, showed no enthusiasm whatsoever at the prospect of going home. I had to admit, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, either, and no one was more surprised by my reaction than me.

I walked up to the front door and pushed it open. I found myself in a small, fairly dark vestibule. I glanced upward, noted the overhead light, which had, apparently, burned out, and turned my attention to the bells that lined the wall next to the door. I ran my finger down the list of names—Atkins was nowhere to be found. I found the bell marked
SUPER
, and pushed it once, twice, three times before the intercom just off to the side of the row of bells blared to life.

“If you’re a salesman, you can just get your behind back outside. No one here wants any.”

I leaned forward. “I’m not a salesman. My name is Nora Charles. I’ve come inquiring about one of your tenants.”

A moment’s hesitation and then, “Which one?”

“Nick Atkins.”

There was complete and utter silence for at least a minute—possibly longer—and then the voice said, “Okay. Come on in. I’m downstairs.”

The buzzer sounded and I found myself in a dark, dingy anteroom with one dimly lit bulb overhead. The stairs were only a few feet away, and I hurried down them into an even darker, cubelike area lit by an even dimmer bulb. A door at the far end of the room opened, and a stout woman wearing a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe, hair in curlers, approached me. I fought back a sudden urge to giggle. All she would have needed was a green mineral mask on her face and a pointy hat, and she could have passed for the Wicked Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
.

Her snappy black eyes looked me up and down. “I’m Mrs. Rojas. Please tell me you are here to pay the deadbeat’s rent.”

Deadbeat? That didn’t sound good. “No, actually, I came here because I believe I have something of Mr. Atkins’s I’m sure he’d like back.”

Beefy arms crossed over her ample chest. “Yeah? And what might that be? Something salable, I hope.”

“Hardly. I believe I have his cat.”

“His—aw heck!” She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I wondered where he’d gone off to. Frankly, I was going to call the shelter or Animal Control, but as long as you’ve got him—” She shrugged. “I won’t bother.”

Shelter? Animal Control? It was my turn to make an impatient gesture. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Doesn’t Nick Atkins live here? The Nick Atkins who is supposed to be a private investigator?”

“He did live here. But I ain’t seen him for going on six weeks now. He’s three months behind in his rent, and I got responsibilities. My no-good husband ran up gambling debts larger than Texas before he ran off to Costa Rica with my hairdresser, and I’ve got to support myself and three teenagers, so . . . I ain’t making money on an empty three-room apartment. I rented it, packed up all his stuff, and what I couldn’t sell I’m waiting for Goodwill to show up and take away. You might tell him that, if you run into him.”

I shook my head, trying to process what Mrs. Rojas had just said. “He’s been missing for six weeks? Didn’t you report it to the police?”

She snorted. “Why? I could probably tell you what happened.” She held up one large hand and started to tick off on her fingers. “A, he probably shacked up with some broad. I’ve seen some of the women he hung out with, and let me tell you, they had ‘loser’ written all over ’em. B, he’s probably off following up some lead on some case. He told me, right before he disappeared, he had a real doozy he was workin’ on—thought it would bring him, now what’s the word he used? Oh, yeah. Notoriety. He thought it might make him famous.” She let out another snort. “Yeah, right. If I had a nickel for every time he said that—well, he’d be flush with me.”

I licked at my lips. “But throwing him out on the street—isn’t that a bit drastic?”

She sighed. “Honey, drastic is deliberately letting a perfectly good apartment sit vacant because you don’t know where the tomcat ran off to when I could be getting over a thousand a month on it. Besides, he’s not exactly homeless. He’s got his office space. Worse case I’m sure he can shack up there until he gets new digs.”

“Oh”—I breathed a sigh of relief—“he does have an office, then? I wondered, because when I Googled him, the only address that came up was this one.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably because the space is rented in his partner’s name.” Her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth. “Another poor, trusting sap Nick Atkins took advantage of, if you ask me.”

I looked up sharply, positive the surprise I felt was plainly visible in my expression. “Partner? Atkins had a partner?”

“Yep. Ollie was a good investigator in his own right, till he got divorced, and then his son tried to kill himself. Poor soul—he tried to drown his troubles in drink, until—and this is about the only good thing I can say about Nick—he took him under his wing. They went in business together, and Ollie’s been dry for two years now. Out of the two, Nick brought in most of the business, so if he’s down for the count, Ollie’s on tough times again. I just hope he can keep it together, ’cause—you see where I’m headed with this, right? Kinda hard to keep up with your bills when you don’t have payin’ renters.”

“Must be,” I murmured. “If you could just tell me . . .”

“Anyway, their office is in Castillo, on Clement Street, number 634. Tell Ollie—that’s short for Oliver, by the way—Norma sent you, and if he sees that no-good scum of a partner of his, he better not show his face around here unless he has the three thousand in back rent he owes—or else he can tell it to the judge.”

I started to retrace my steps back up the hallway. “I’ll give him the message. Thanks.”

“Wait!”

Mrs. Rojas disappeared into her apartment and emerged a few minutes later with a large box, which she summarily thrust into my arms. “Here you go.”

I looked down at the box and the jumble of items jammed inside. “What’s all this?”

“The few things I didn’t pack for Goodwill. The cat stuff, of course, and I think there were some journals of Nick’s in there—Ollie might want ’em.” She chuckled. “The journals, not the cat. I have a feeling you’re gonna be stuck with him.”

*   *   *

T
he offices of Sampson and Atkins were located in downtown Castillo, a town about a mile and a half south of Cruz. They were tucked into the basement of a converted firehouse that looked as if it had seen better days, although the neighborhood surrounding it bordered on—for want of a better word—upscale yuppieville. I pulled my Hyundai SUV into the asphalt parking lot behind the building and parked in the spot farthest away. I turned around and looked in the backseat. I’d folded it down and laid out all the toys from the box Mrs. Rojas had given me. Right now Nick looked content nibbling at a catnip mouse tucked between his toes, and I sincerely hoped he would stay that way. I locked the SUV and walked briskly to the building, then down the flight of stone steps to the lone oak door bearing the placard
SAMPSON AND ATKINS INVESTIGATIONS
. I noted as I rang the bell that someone had attempted to scratch out
AND ATKINS
. A few minutes later a buzzer sounded, and I pushed through the door into the dimly lit interior hallway. There were three doors, all unmarked, and I stood there uncertainly, doing an
eenie meenie miny moe
in my head, when the door on the left suddenly swung open and a tall, muscular frame filled the doorway.

“Oliver Sampson?” I asked.

Both eyebrows rose. “Uh-oh. You’re not the Pizza Hut delivery person, are you?”

I shook my head and took a minute to study the brooding hulk of a man who loomed over me. I placed his age as somewhere in the late forties, early fifties. He wasn’t what one would call handsome—certainly not in a conventional way—but his features had a certain amount of Humphrey Bogart charm, from the crooked nose right down to the firm jawline and the slightly buck teeth. His mocha skin had a leathery look to it—no doubt the result of years of alcohol consumption—and his eyes were a pale, pale blue, almost a washed-out gray. He was huge—built like a linebacker—and I got the impression he could be intimidating if the need arose. His eyes flashed and he gave me a quick once-over as he cleared his throat loudly.

“I’m Oliver Sampson, all right, and you’re not from Pizza Hut. Who are you? If you’re a bill collector, you want my ex-partner. And all I can tell you, lady, is there’s a long line ahead of you of folks looking for that good-for-nothing Atkins.”

He started to turn away and I found my voice. “I’m not a bill collector, Mr. Sampson, but I was hoping to have a word with you about your, ah, former partner?”

His gaze raked me head to toe. “What about him? If you’re another disgruntled girlfriend—although I must say, you don’t look like his type—sorry, I can’t help you. If he’s been working on something for you, well, I can’t help you there, either. Nick had lots of cases he worked on alone, and he wasn’t one to share details.”

“I’m not one of his lady friends, and I’m not here about a case. I’m here about the cat.”

He stared at me blankly. “The cat?”

“Yes. The black-and-white tuxedo. Someone told me they thought it might be his.”

Sampson’s pale eyes lit up, and he stroked at his chin with his long fingers. “Oh, you found Sherlock? That’s great. I wondered what happened to the little fellow.”

I frowned. “Excuse me—Sherlock?”

“Yeah. My boob of a partner got a huge kick out of naming the cat after the only detective he considered smarter than himself—fictional, no less.” He scratched at his ear and grinned. “So where did you find him?”

“Actually, he found me.”

He stared at me a moment, then pushed the door all the way open and made a motion with his hand. “Why don’t you come in? We can have a chat.”

I moved past him into a small room that held a single desk, a scarred file cabinet tucked into a corner, and two worn-looking leather chairs. Along the walls were several pictures that looked as if they’d been bought at bargain basement sales—a flower arrangement, a wooded hillside with a church and lots of fluffy clouds, a lake scene—there were also some framed photographs as well, and even though I only took a quick glance, I thought I recognized Nick Atkins in some of them. Oliver Sampson walked around to sit in the leather chair behind the desk, and motioned me to take the other chair. I slid onto the well-worn cushion and heard the chair hinges squeak.

“Sorry.” He granted me a small smile. “Redecorating is on my long-term agenda, but it’s not a priority right now. Can I get you some coffee, or water?” He inclined his head and I saw a low-slung cabinet, which apparently also doubled as a mini-fridge. A small black Keurig coffeemaker sat on top of it. I took note, too, of the small pile of Pizza Hut boxes stacked off to the left of the cabinet—apparently it was Sampson’s food of choice. A photograph of a good-looking young man wearing a cap and gown was tucked behind the coffeemaker—I wondered vaguely if this was the son whose attempted suicide had prompted Sampson’s spiral to the bottle. I shook my head and leaned back a bit in the chair, and the springs squeaked. I’d be damn lucky if they didn’t poke me in the ass.