Page 9 of Stir

“It’s no trouble at all,” she says, trying to smile, but it’s thin. She knows something’s up.

“I appreciate it. You go on ahead; I’ll lock up tonight.” We say goodbye as she gathers her things.

I close the office door behind me, pulling up the contacts list in my phone for a number I haven’t used in a long time.

He answers on the second ring. “Nic Pendergrass.” His voice is deep, Southern-slow. Deceptively so. I’d told him more than once he ought to try voice acting, but Rand is a private guy. It was why we’d gotten along so well.

“Hello, Rand,” I say. “I hope you’re well.”

He laughs. The familiar sound is a comfort, calming the unease I felt since I picked up that note on my windshield.

“You didn’t call to catch up,” he says. “No lie, I’m a little disappointed. What’s the trouble?”

“I’m being blackmailed.”

A beat of silence. “No shit.”

“No shit.”

Another pause. I hear rustling paper in the background. “Tell me.”

“Somebody left a note on the windshield of my car. Plain white, eight point five by eleven-inch, standard copier paper as far as I can tell.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remember everything I can about finding it, knowing he’ll want every detail I can provide, no matter how tedious.

“Send me a photo,” he says. “Unless you want me to come to you.”

“No, I’m on my way out of the office.”

“Office parking garage?” Rand asks.

“It’s open to the public.”

He asks a couple of questions about the garage, which floor, and whether I saw anybody nearby when I found the note. Until he finally asks the big one.

“What’s it say, Nic? Word for word.”

I take the note out of my pocket and read it to him, word for word.

Rand swears.

“Now you see why I didn’t call the cops first,” I say. I knew he’d understand.

“I get it,” he says. “But you still have to report this.”

“Yeah.” I don’t like it, but I’m not an idiot.

“Send me that photo,” he says. “I’ll get to work on it.”

“Not sure I can afford you these days,” I say. Climbing the corporate ladder isn’t his thing, either, which is why Rand is a private investigator.

“Probably not,” he says blithely. “What do you legal types call it? Pro bono.”

“Rand.”

“Nic,” he drawls, mocking me. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be okay.” I close my eyes, just for a minute. “Somebody knows about me. God knows how.”

“Any idea who it might be?”