Looking for Yesterday by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online Page B

slipped onto the stool next to him, said, “Jake Green?”
    He glanced at me, then looked away. His features were familiar from my files, but now fleshy and bloated.
    “Mr. Green…”
    “If you’re a bill collector, go away. I’ve only got twenty bucks on me, and that’s my drinking money.”
    “I’m not a bill collector.”
    “Then I don’t care who you are. Go away.”
    I slid one of my cards in front of him. “Caro Warrick has hired me to look into the death of Amelia Bettencourt.”
    He glanced at the card, shrugged. “I’m done with all of that. She got her acquittal, what more does she want?”
    “She’s coauthoring a book on the crime—”
    “Oh, shit, just what I need. Spread my name around, wreck whatever little I got built up here. You think it was easy, all that publicity? You think I liked having my face in the tabloids? All I ever wanted was a quiet, comfortable life. And I was on my way to having it, too. But the notoriety—my clients defected, I became nonproductive to the brokerage, so I bought the travel agency. Now the economy’s in the pits, and whoever’s traveling—mostly businesspeople—goes on the cheap. And there’s the Internet.…”
    “That’s a real run of bad luck. Especially losing Amelia. You were there that night. You found Amelia’s body and someone shot at you too. I know it must’ve been very difficult—”
    “Damn straight! One day I had a pretty good life, solid prospects, and the next day they’re gone, all gone.” He paused, apparently listening to echoes of what he’d just said. “Oh, God. Why can’t Caro let it alone?”
    “Did you know Ms. Warrick is in the hospital?”
    His startled expression indicated he hadn’t. “How come?”
    “Someone beat her, probably with a hammer. She’s in a coma.”
    “A hammer? Christ! Well, it wasn’t me.”
    Too quick to spring to your own defense, buddy.
    “I’m thinking it must’ve been somebody who didn’t want her to coauthor that book,” I said. “You have any idea who that might be?”
    “Pretty much anybody who was involved with the murder. Maybe somebody with something to hide.”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, the person who really killed Amelia.”
    “You were the one who directed suspicion at Ms. Warrick in the first place.”
    “Yeah, well, I’ve had time to think on that.”
    “To what conclusion?”
    “Why don’t you talk to her parents?” And that was all he’d say on the subject.
    6:45 p.m.
    The Warricks didn’t answer their phone, and I didn’t want to leave a message on the machine that would give them time to invent an excuse not to see me. Just as well—Hy and I had planned a quiet dinner for two at a favorite Czech restaurant in our neighborhood. At a little past eight, over chicken paprikash we talked of his travels and my doings since he’d left for Europe, talk that included work, but none of the specifics. Both RI and McCone Investigations had strict confidentiality rules—even between the respective owners.
    Over coffee and brandy he took my hand and asked, “You thought any more about my proposition?”
    Last September he’d suggested we merge our businesses. The benefits to me were great: it would give me access to a worldwide network of offices and operatives, and attract a larger and more lucrative clientele. Plus give me half ownership of a fleet of pretty slick jets. But I still had my doubts about ceding absolute control over McCone Investigations, even to Hy, and I wasn’t sure that a high-powered executive protection firm was a good fit with our personalized service.
    Now I reiterated those doubts to him.
    “We discussed all that before,” he said. “A merger wouldn’t mean either firm would lose its autonomy, but it would allow us to tap into each other’s resources more easily. And we’d enjoy better tax breaks.”
    Tax breaks. The holy grail of American corporations.
    “And,” he added, “we wouldn’t have to hold these dinner conversations where