Body Copy - Michael Craven [29]
“When you win an account,” Tremaine said, “do you usually get to know the owner of the company?”
“Yes. If it’s a private company, of course. That’s who gives us the business.”
“So, you have relationships with lots of company owners?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Do you know owners of other companies? Ones that you don’t do ads for?”
“What’s this about? Is this about Roger Gale?”
“We can talk about that. I already told you that.”
“So ask me a question about Roger Gale?”
“In a minute. Give me the name of someone who owns a company who you know, but don’t do ads for.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“What does this have to do with Roger Gale?”
“You tell me.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to go, Tyler. Thanks for talking to me,” Tremaine said.
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Michael Craven
“You’re done?”
“Do you have something else to tell me?”
Tyler Wilkes stood up. Tremaine stayed seated. In the same position he was in for the entirety of their conversation.
Tremaine said, “If you do have something you want to tell me, just call me.”
He pulled a card out of the breast pocket in his shirt and threw it on Tyler Wilkes’s desk. It said Donald Tremaine, Private Investigator. Underneath that it had two phone numbers and an e-mail address.
Tremaine got up and headed for Tyler Wilkes’s office door.
“Tremaine,” Tyler said.
Tremaine turned around.
“Why did you ask me about my investments and about company owners and all that bullshit?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”
“That’s what P.I. work is, Tyler. Taking all the things about a case or a person and trying to connect them.” Then Tremaine said, “Where are you from, Tyler? Where’d you grow up?”
“Phoenix,” Tyler said.
“Hmm,” Tremaine said and walked out.
Out in the parking lot, Tremaine opened the door to the Cutlass and heard, “Donald.” It was Heather, Tyler’s assistant, heading toward him. She trotted up and, jeez, he couldn’t help but notice again, wow, the body, the hair . . .
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She was one of those women you see in magazines, but not in life.
“Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Stand like this,” she said. And she put her left foot out in front of her and then she held her hands behind her back. Tremaine, playing along, did what Drop Dead Heather said to do.
Heather looked at him and said, “Yep. You’re him.
You’re Insane Donald Tremaine. My brother, my older brother, had that poster of you from a long time ago where you were standing kinda like that.”
“Yeah, right,” Tremaine said. “At Pipe, in Hawaii.”
“I thought I recognized the name when you first called, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that poster. But my brother happened to call while you were talking to Tyler.”
Tremaine nodded. There was some silence, awkward maybe.
“Do you still surf?” she said, moving a step closer to him.
“Yeah, sure.” This girl was unbelievable. Part blonde beach babe, part high-style executive type.
“I used to look at that poster all the time,” she said. “The way you were standing on the board like it was so easy.”
“Give the credit to the photographer. He captured a moment of calm in a pretty intense situation.”
“I remember the bathing suit you were wearing. Red with a lightning bolt down the side. They were kind of short-shorts, too.”
“That was the style back then.”
“I liked them.”
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Boy, it had been a while since a young, beautiful girl talked about a surfing poster of his. But she’s way too young, right? This would be robbing the cradle something fierce.
Right?
“Listen, Donald, take my card. If I can ever help you with getting in touch with Tyler or whatever, call me.”
She handed Tremaine her card.
“Thanks, Heather.”
“Aren’t you going to give me your card?”
He handed Heather one of his cards, the same one he had given Tyler.
Heather said, “You know, we don’t have to talk about Tyler. We could just have a drink or something.”
Tremaine put on his sunglasses, some old gold wire rims, and heard himself say, “I think we could arrange that.”
That robbing the cradle thing? Yeah, that went out the window.
Then, inexplicably,