Free While Other People Sleep by Marcia Muller Page B

bookstore, idled at the curb down the block, and tailed him home.
    “He must suspect me of something. But what? And what cause have I given him?”
    “Does he ever quiz you about where you've been, what you've been doing?”
    “Never, but that's no surprise, considering he's been following me.”
    “Does he display unusual curiosity about your phone calls or mail?”
    “No, but… lately he's been rushing to answer the phone every time it rings. And my mailbox key disappeared two or three weeks ago; I suppose he could've taken it. He claims the locksmith doesn't have masters for that type of key, so it can't be duplicated.”
    “… Right.”
    “So where d'you go from here?”
    “Well, I'll follow Ted one more time, to make sure this is a regular pattern. After that… We'll talk about it.” The intercom buzzed. “Got to answer another call.”
    “Ms. McCone, Kelly at Richman Labs. We have the results on the items you dropped off for testing on Tuesday. No latents on the bag, the bottle, or the Post-it note. The seal on the bottle wasn't tampered with, and the wine tested negative for contaminants. An IBM Wheelwriter 1500 was used to type the note.”
    A common typewriter available for public use in copy shops and libraries. The results were exactly what I'd suspected.
    “Mick, will you come to my office? I've got a new assignment for you.”
    In a couple of minutes he appeared, carrying a Pepsi and a half-eaten salami sandwich, the former of which he set on my desk. I frowned and shoved a coaster across to him. He then set the sandwich down, smearing mayonnaise all over. “Sorry,” he muttered, swiping at it with the side of his hand and eyeing the case file.
    I said, “This investigation's for Anne-Marie, so give it priority. One of her important clients is divorcing and suspects her husband has hidden a substantial portion of their communal assets. We're to find out where.”
    “Probably an offshore or Swiss bank account, in which case it's nearly impossible—”
    “Unless we gather evidence that, when presented in court, will tend to show he's misappropriated funds. You'll be going into the field to dig up that evidence.”
    His face brightened considerably. Mick's computer expertise kept him largely confined to the office, and he relished the occasions when he could—as he termed it—play real private eye.
    “Here's the file,” I went on. “You'll find the subject's home address on the preliminary information sheet. I've already learned that he's due to fly to L.A. this afternoon for a meeting of one of the corporate boards he sits on. Overnight trip, returning tomorrow around noon. I've also called Sunset Scavengers and found out that his garbage pickup is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
    “What's his garbage got to do with—”
    I smiled, feeling deliciously wicked. “It has
everything
to do with it. You are to follow him to SFO this afternoon to be certain he makes his flight. Then you are to go to his house and steal his garbage.”
    “What!”
    “After that you will pick through it for clues to the assets’ whereabouts.”
    “Gross!”
    “I told you when I hired you—private investigation is
not
glamorous.”
    “Mr. Stoddard, Sharon McCone at McCone Investigations. Charlotte Keim called me shortly before boarding her return flight from Detroit; she's come up with no evidence that your friend is doing anything on the road but working. Do you wish to terminate the investigation?”
    “Hang on a second.” Stoddard sounded winded, as if he'd been out running. “All right, now, what did you ask me? Terminate the investigation. No, I don't think so. I
know
she's got somebody on the side, and it's only a matter of time till he shows himself.”
    “Of course we'll be glad to continue the surveillance, but I must warn you: given your fiancée's upcoming travel schedule, our expenses could be very substantial.”
    “It's worth it. I'm not going to marry somebody who's being unfaithful