itâs too sleazy, whatever that means, Iâll quit. It wonât get boring for a while, at least, and Iâm not broke. I can manage. But I may have to pass a test or something. Do you know? Or do you know anyone who knows? You must use private investigators sometimes. For the sleazy stuff.â
âTouché. Be it on your own head, then. Go and see aguy called Jack Brighton. Iâll call him that youâre coming. Then go back to Longborough.â He gave her Brightonâs address and his phone number.
Chapter Twelve
Brightonâs agency, J.B. Investigations, occupied the second floor of a building on St. Clair Avenue, just west of Bathurst, in an office as featureless as Trimbleâs. Lucy watched the numbers carefully, and when she decided she was close enough, she parked in the Loblawâs lot, just east of Bathurst, planning to shop for a few groceries when she was finished with Brighton.
The private investigator was about thirty-five. There was nothing about him to indicate his trade: he might have been a real estate salesman, or a professor of sociology, or even a librarian.
âSorry about your cousin,â he said. âI met him a couple of times.â
âHow do you know about him?â
âBuncombe called me. To ask me to help you if you came by. So what can I do?â
Lucy said, âI want to take over the agency. Keep it going.â
âWhy?â
âIâm ready for a change.â
Brighton nodded. âSo you want me to tell you how to take away my business? Okay. What do you want to know? You get two licences from the Ontario Provincial Police, one for the agency, one for you. Thatâs all you need. You wonât get much business, though, so why bother? Come and work for me. Iâll teach you.â
âWhy should I work for you?â
âBecause Iâve got two totally boring jobs on right now that you could do. I need some help, and you wonât get any work on your own.â
âWhy wonât I? And if so, why would you hire me?â
âSame reason for both. Youâre a nice, respectable middle-aged lady in from Coburg to do a little shopping. People looking for an investigator want someone lean and mean-looking, like me. But I need someone who looks like you, like a collector for the Heart Fund.â
Thank God for The Trog, Lucy thought. Without him, thatâs what I am. âI already have a case.â She told him about her client.
Brighton stopped acting laid-back and listened carefully. At the end, he said,â Does he want pictures?â
âPhotographs? He didnât say anything about that. What on earth would he want pictures for? Pictures of what?â
âThey usually like pictures to show youâve been on the job. Agoraphobia. Thatâs a new one. Who is this guy?â
âI donât know. My client.â
âHe sounds like a flake. Watch it. She may not be his wife.â
Lucy felt at sea. âThen why is he paying me to watch her?â
âShe probably knows him, and would run if she saw him. Sounds a little kinky.â
âWhat shall I do?â
âTake the money. Tell him where she goes, but find out who she is. At some point you may have to do something.â
âLike what?â
âLike telling her sheâs being watched. And on whose orders.â
Lucy looked at Brighton closely. âYouâre making this up. Trying to impress me.â
He laughed, and blushed slightly. âAll right, but it does seem a little weird, doesnât it? If she is his wife, he probably suspects sheâs up to something on her night off.â
âThat would fit. What shall I do?â
âFind out a little about agoraphobia, is my advice. Check that they live together. And stay in touch. Let me know how itâs going.â
âBut find out about her.â
âHow?â
âYouâre the gumshoe.â
âThere was another