“I…I’ve brought a cash retainer,” she said, reaching into a tiny, expensive-looking designer purse to pull out a thick sheaf of Benjamins. “Ten thousand.” She set it on my desk and drew her hand back quickly as if she’d been concerned about being bitten.
Like I said, the smile makes people uncomfortable.
“You’re hiring me for vengeance,” I said quietly. “You don’t get to decide how the scales get balanced. I do that. I’m sure someone of your sophistication can see why.”
“To protect us both in case the cops get involved,” she said, nodding.
Honestly, it was more because if you’re seeking to unleash someone like me on another human being, your judgment probably isn’t in the best place to start with, and I sure as hell wouldn’t trust her judgment over mine. But I nodded and took the money. “So be it. I need his name, picture, Social Security if you have it.”
“Maurice Petty,” she said firmly. She licked her lips and looked at me. “If you give me your number, I’ll send you his picture.”
I gave her a smile that promised things I had no intention of following up on, passed over one of my business cards, and said, “I’d like that.”
“I don’t know his Social Security,” she said, taking up her phone. It too was pink and bejeweled. “Maurice does all the numbers things.”
My phone chirped. I looked. I’d received a photo of nakedSheryl standing in front of a mirror and turned just so as not to be entirely revealing, the arm of the hand holding her phone pressing her breasts against her chest.
I glanced up at her.
“Oh,” she said. “Was that not the right picture?” She glanced at her phone and blushed artfully. “How embarrassing. I must have tapped the wrong one. Here.”
My phone chirped again. This time I had a picture of a whip-lean older man with streaks of silver at his temples.
“I hope you won’t think me terribly inappropriate, Mister Grey.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Mrs.Petty,” I said. “Such a thing doesn’t change my opinion of you in the slightest.”
Sheryl Petty didn’t close the door all the way, and Viti rose to shut it behind her and lock it. My secretary slash driver slash subcontractor locked it and turned to face me, her expression disapproving.
“She’s so…obvious,” Viti seethed.
“She’s smarter than she’s letting on, and meaner than she looks,” I said. “What did you get while we were talking?”
“Sheryl Petty, née Montecrist. She was Miss Illinois until that scandal with the university football players,” Viti said.
“Oh, I remember that, I think. While ago.”
“Seventeen years,” Viti confirmed. “She lost her tiara, went into exotic dancing, two convictions for solicitation, disorderly conduct, reckless endangerment, misdemeanor assault, possession of narcotics, six months in county. Her husband—”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maurice Petty, who used to be Maurice Petralucci. He’s one of Gentleman John Marcone’s accountants, left over from the Vargassi days.”
“The creative one,” Viti said. “Going after him may put you at odds with Marcone.”
“Except he’s the creative one,” I said, waving a hand. “Marcone will have cutouts built into their relationship in case the IRS feels froggy someday.” I waved the stack of bills. “And I have a living to make.”
“One wonders where she got the cash if she’s been cut off as she claims,” Viti noted, taking up her phone.
“One does indeed,” I replied. “Get me an address for—”
My phone chirped, and Petty’s address appeared on the screen, ready to be followed.
I tossed Viti the cash, grabbed a coat and a cap, and headed for the door.
Viti quickly squared and began counting the money. “Do you want me on this?”
“Keep digging on both of them,” I said. “See what you can find out online. I’ll call in after a bit.”
Viti walked back to her desk. “Are you going to subtract him?”
