Fearless in High Heels (24 page)

“Almost never.”

She turned away from one of the pictures and looked at me. “Are you for real?”

“Ask that inside linebacker in the Oregon game.”

“The inside what?”

“That picture you’re looking at. The guy with his feet kicked up in the air. He might concur that I’m real enough.”

She did look, shook her head, then came over and sat in one of the four client chairs. I couldn’t think of a time when all four were filled at once, but I’m ever optimistic.

“Okay, I get it,” she said. She crossed her legs and kicked her foot. A sort of nervous tic. “You were a jock who liked to bash heads and hurt people. But are you a good detective?”

For an answer, I opened one of the desk drawers and extracted a sheet of paper from one of the file folders. I handed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“A list of referrals.”

“And they’ll vouch for you?”

“Some more enthusiastically than others.”

She folded the paper and put it in her purse. “Thanks. Detective Chad something-or-other recommended I see you. He said you don’t scare easy.”

“Detective Hansen,” I said. “And not yet.”

“He also said you could be a handful.”

“You have no idea.”

“Is that a sexual reference?”

“Would a sexual reference offend you?”

“Of course.”

“Then, no.”

She sat back in her chair. She was about twenty-five. She was smallish, but tough-looking. Her hair was short and her nails were unpainted. Upon closer inspection, I saw that her nails were worn down by a lot of work. Work doing what, I didn’t know. She sported a bodacious tan, but also tan lines along her thighs and her upper arms. She was tan, but she wasn’t sunbathing. She was working in the sun. And hard.

“I need help, Mr. Knighthorse. I need someone who doesn’t scare easy and someone who knows what they’re doing. Whether you’re a sexist pig or you think too highly of yourself, I don’t really care. I just need help.”

“What kind of help?”

“My boyfriend’s missing.”

“Missing how long?”

“One week.”

“What does Hansen say?”

“He’s becoming less and less optimistic. Which is why he suggested that I speak with you.”

I nodded and waited.

She looked around my office some more but I don’t think she was really seeing it, mostly because tears had begun filling the corners of her eyes. And now they were running down her cheeks. I handed her a tissue. Ever the chivalrous gentleman.

“Any chance your boyfriend split and decided not to tell you about it?” I asked, when she had wiped her eyes.

She shook her head. “We were in love.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes were red again and her nose was as puffy as ever. She looked at me long and hard. I think she was still trying to figure me out, but figuring me out was low on her list of priorities. I hate being low on anyone’s list of priorities.

“Mitch was a good man. He loved me like no one ever had, and he had a big heart. He also had a lot of compassion, and that extended to all animals.”

I waited, wondering where this was going.

She fished into her purse and pulled out a business card. “We run a nonprofit organization that fights shark finning.”

The card had two names on it. Heidi Mann and Mitch Golden. It also had a faint black-and-white image of hundreds of shark fins lining a deck. My stomach turned.

“I think he was killed, Mr. Knighthorse.”

She had showed me the card for a reason. I said nothing.

“Look at the picture again, Mr. Knighthood. What do you see in the upper corner of the picture?”

I squinted, looking hard. I saw something.

“Cages,” I said.

She nodded. “They’re not empty, Mr. Knighthorse. There are dogs inside those cages.”

I was confused at first, which isn’t hard to do. I am, after all, a jock first. But then I thought about it, and something broke inside me.

She went on, “They use dogs as live bait, Mr. Knighthorse. They hook the little fellows through the muzzle and throw them overboard, and while they paddle desperately back to the boat, drowning from the heaving line, bleeding through their mouths and noses, they attract sharks. The sharks tear the helpless dogs apart; that is, of course, if they haven’t already drowned.”

“Jesus.”

“A few of us fight to stop them. We fight for the sharks and we fight for the dogs. Sometimes we win, but mostly we lose.”

I looked at her. “And you think your boyfriend lost?”

She looked away, swallowed hard. “They’re ruthless. Think about it. Who on God’s earth could hook a sweet little dog through the nose? And then throw that little guy into the ocean to fight for its life. Fucking animals.”

“Have you talked to Detective Hansen about this?”

She nodded. “I have.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to talk to you.”

Hansen wouldn’t have suggested me if he didn’t think there was something to this. I said, “Why do you think they killed your boyfriend?”

“Because they threatened us.”

“And what did Hansen have to say about that?”

“He said it wasn’t enough to go on.”

“Police are particular that way,” I said.

“And are you?” she asked.

I looked at the card and wasn’t very surprised to see that I had inadvertently bent it. “Me, not so much.”

“So, will you help me, Mr. Knighthorse?”

I didn’t have to think about my answer for long. “Yeah,” I said, setting the bent card with the shark fins and dog cages on the desk. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

She removed a manila folder from her purse and set it before me. “Here’s what we have on them.”

“The shark hunters?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got names of workers, the owner, some of their contacts, berthing docks, office addresses. Most are in Mexico. But there’s one guy here in San Diego.”

“You’re very thorough.”

She gave me a tight smile that showed some bottom teeth. “We are good at what we do.”

“And what is it that you do?”

“We put the bad guys out of business, Mr. Knighthorse.”

Available in ebookstores everywhere

Buy HAIL MARY for Nook now!