Security guards flanked me the second I got through the revolving doors, marking me as not one of the regulars. I nodded to the uniforms and headed for the marble front desk, where a thick-necked supervisor checked my investigator’s license and pawed through my messenger bag to make sure I wasn’t smuggling in a bomb.
“I didn’t know we had PIs in Canada,” he muttered, passing the bag back.
“You learn something new every day.” I slung the oversized purse over my shoulder and signed in at the open ledger. “I’m here to see David Brayton.”
The woman passed me a visitor’s pass and gestured at the bank of elevators. “Twentieth floor.” She fixed me with a death stare. “Report to the receptionist when you get off the elevator. Please do not deviate from your destination.”
I resisted asking how they’d know. One of my side jobs involved testing company security and I knew how far a system like this would go. So far Hanover Investments rated a B grade—but that wasn’t what I was here for.
A wink and a nod to the supervisor, and I headed for the masses waiting to be shot into the sky.
I rode the elevator up, exiting along with a half dozen other people who scattered into the maze of corridors, leaving me to face down a receptionist perched at a glass desk like a vulture looking for fresh prey.
The middle-aged woman glared at me over her glasses. “Couriers go to the third floor.”
“Good thing I’m not a courier.” I shot her my friendliest smile. “I’m here to see Mr. David Brayton.”
Her nostrils flared. “Mr. Brayton.”
“Yes.” I dropped my business card on her desk, half hoping it’d drop through to the floor. “I’m expected.”
After a few minutes of stare-down she picked up the phone and called Brayton. I sauntered around the lobby, staring at warped sculptures of bulls and bears.
David Brayton shot out of a hallway and charged at me like I was holding the heart transplant he desperately needed. I almost stepped to the side to see if he’d keep going through the glass window in the lobby and plummet to his death.
The bad black dye job didn’t hide all of his white short hair and his belt needed life support to hold the ample belly at bay, the white starched shirt stretched to its limit with buttons bulging. The nervous twitch in his right eye told me he was about to bust something if we stood out in public any longer.
I took the initiative and stuck out my hand. “I’m so glad you can help me out with my inheritance. Danged if I know what to do with it and investing it looks like the best way to go.”
The receptionist eyed me with newfound respect.
“Of course, of course.” His head bounced up and down like a bobblehead traveling on a gravel road. “Please come into my office.”
The sweaty financial advisor led me to a corner room—a spartan, emotionless square with a wonderful view of the office tower next to us. A generic wooden desk with two office chairs. It had all the personality of a blank greeting card.
He gestured at the chair as he moved around the desk and sat down.
I sat back in the plush leather and crossed my legs, balancing my elbows on my knees and touching my fingertips together.
Brayton cleared his throat. “It’s a mess.” He withdrew a snow-white handkerchief from an inside pocket and wiped his face. “I mean, thank you for agreeing to help out. Michael said he was going to find someone safe, someone outside of the office and, well—” he spread his hands with a weary smile, “—here you are.”
“Michael Hanover’s a good friend,” I deadpanned.
“There’s this woman...” Brayton paused, a sheepish smile on his face. “I guess you’ve heard that phrase plenty of times.” He played with the gold wedding band on his finger, twisting it over red, irritated skin.
“A few.” I allowed myself a grin. “And she’s not your wife.”
“No.” Brayton shook his head. “No, she’s not. Her name is Molly, Molly Callendar. She, ah, used to be a temp here. A few days a week doing odd tasks for anyone who needed her.”
I couldn’t resist. “And you ‘needed’ her.”
His cheeks turned scarlet. A little pink tongue flicked out to wet dry, chapped lips.
“I’m not here to judge you or your actions. That’s not my job.” I leaned in. “What do you need me to do for you?”
“There’s a baby,” he whispered. “A boy.”
I sat back. This was familiar ground and I felt more comfortable, despite the circumstances. “I assume there’s no question of paternity.”
He frowned. “Molly wouldn’t be unfaithful.”
Unlike you. “Have you had a paternity test done?”
“No need to,” Brayton said. “I accept the child as my own. She put my name on the birth certificate with my permission.” He dabbed at his forehead again. “The, ah, affair was over before I found out she was pregnant. She showed up six months after quitting with the baby in her arms and told me it was mine.” He drew a staggered breath. “I won’t leave my wife and Molly knows that, accepts that. It’s over between us but now there’s a baby involved and I want to do what’s right for him.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I can’t have my reputation ruined over this. I won’t let it be ruined and Molly agrees this is what’s best for all of us. That’s why I want the paperwork done under the table, as quietly as possible. I don’t want anyone to find out.”
“Understood. And you want me to...” I pushed the conversation along. The faster I got the details the faster I could do this “favor” and the faster I could get out from under Hanover’s fat thumb.
“I want to get a signed agreement from her regarding child support.”
I sat back. “That’s all?” The hairs on the back of my neck shot to attention.
Brayton wiped his face again. “It may not seem like much to you but it’s something of major concern to both of us. She, ah, she’s demanding a legal document. She says she trusts me right now in regards to our financial arrangements but is worried about the future—if I pass away before the child reaches maturity and the estate cuts off the payment plan we’d set up.” The damp cloth sat on the desk in a muddled mess.
I shifted in my chair. I’d heard this tune before. Same dance, different partners. “What do you need from me?”
“I’ve drawn up this agreement with my lawyer. I need you to take it to her at her hotel and see if she’ll accept it. Obviously she can’t come to the office and we want to be as discreet as possible.” His left hand slipped into a desk drawer. “I think the terms are agreeable. That’s where you come in.” The thick wad of paper slid toward me.
“I’m not a lawyer.” I didn’t touch the stack. “I’m not a paralegal. I can’t advise her on any legal documents.”
“True. But that’s not what I need you for. I need a smart, quiet courier to go over there and wait, get it signed and come back.” He grabbed the handkerchief again and folded it into a neat square. “She’s a good woman, a sensible woman.” Brayton tucked the wet handkerchief back in his pocket. “We both made a mistake but don’t want our child to pay for it. I just need to get this signed and tucked away and it’ll be over and done with.”
I didn’t say anything. He’d already distanced himself from the entire affair by refusing to use her name past the initial identification. In his mind the entire affair was already over and done with, papers filed and checks pre-signed and sent out.
“Why me?”
He blinked rapidly, sending out SOS messages. “What?”
I pointed at the wall and the unseen front desk. “You can get a bike courier there and back in the length of time we’ve been talking. Fast, quick and no questions. Why me?”