“Too early to say. Let’s see where the day takes us.”
Maurice Petty lived in a luxury place in the Gold Coast. I hung around outside until he came out in a white tennis outfit carrying a bag and got into a town car waiting for him. I’d taken my bike into town, and I set out calmly into traffic to follow him.
I look human, but I’m not. My muscles don’t work the same way yours do. It wasn’t hard to keep up, not that anyone ever really got to drive around town terribly quickly. Whoever Maurice’s driver was, they weren’t trained security, because I pretty much had to stand out to anyone who was actually looking, keeping up with them on my mountain bike.
I followed them to a ritzy tennis club Maurice could have walked to in fifteen minutes. I tucked my bike into the closest space between buildings, where it would have a chance of not being taken if I was quick enough, and jogged to go see Mr.Petty.
I changed my face as I went. I had a default face I used that might have been the original. I wasn’t sure anymore. Being born with shape-shifting as a legacy gave me a certain number of advantages, but the largest was the ability to vanish into crowds whenever I needed to do it. That meant I had to do a little planning ahead.
“Excuse me, Mr.Petty?” I said to Petty in a friendly tone as he reached for the club’s front doors.
He paused and looked back, a tall, lean man maybe in his early sixties, with sharp, severe features and teeth that looked like they’d cost him at least six figures. He arched an eyebrow at me. “I am.”
“I wondered if you might have a moment to speak to me,” I said. “It regards Mrs.Petty.”
He rolled his eyes, took a slow breath, and exhaled through his nose. “Ah. So, we’ve gotten to this part.”
“What part is that?”
“I’ve been expecting either hired muscle, a process server, or a private investigator, hmm?” He opened the door to the club and waved his hand for me to precede him. “And since you aren’t large enough to be the kind of bruiser she’d choose, and you aren’t carrying an envelope, I’m going to assume you’re an investigator.”
“Sharp guy,” I said.
“Your name?”
“Not terribly important,” I said, and handed him one of my phony cards.
“Jake Stonehard,” he said, amused. “Sounds fictional.”
We went into the club, and he turned left into a small coffee shop. He greeted the barista, who began an order without being told, and then he went over to a table in a back corner of the shop, sat down, and invited me by gesture to join him.
“Very well,” he said when we sat. “What is she upset about now?”
“Money,” I said.
His mouth quirked wryly. “I’ll need you to be more specific.”
“She’s upset you’ve cut off her line of credit,” I said.
“Perhaps she should have taken a few dozen fewer lovers,” he noted. He waved a hand. “I’m not sure what she’s told you, but I can tell you from extensive experience that she’s unlikely to have been honest with you.”
I frowned. “If that’s the case, why not simply divorce?”
“Our prenuptial agreement,” he said. “If I end the marriage, standard divorce law will decide the division of assets.”
“And if she ends it?”
He smiled faintly. “She gets little. She has been trying to provoke me for years with her behavior.” He studied my face with sharp eyes. “She didn’t mention that part to you, did she?”
“She did not,” I said.
“She’s playing to form,” he noted. “What are you here to do?”
“Getting an idea of what’s going on,” I said.
The barista came over with a small cup of thick espresso and put it down in front of Petty. He didn’t look at her, picked up the cup, and eyed it. “In a clean cup, if you please,” he said absently, putting the cup down and pushing it toward her with his fingertips.
“Yes, sir,” she said in a very neutral voice. “My apologies. Just a moment.”
