GH Monday: Day 02 Scene 09
Warren’s office was tiny, with a slither of window revealing a glimpse of the concrete office block next door. There was barely room for Warren’s grey metal desk and ergonomic chair, with another chair in front of the desk. A stocky, bald man dressed in a thick sweater, with a zipped neck, jeans and trail boots, was sitting in it.
“Indigo, this is Frank Toomey,” Warren, seating himself behind his desk, made the introductions. “Indigo is our best investigator, Frank.”
“Frank,” Indigo shook his hand. Toomey gave her a long appraising look. As there was nowhere to sit, Indigo leaned against the door.
“Yeah, okay,” Toomey told Warren, after a long pause. Indigo raised her eyebrows at Warren, who looked blandly back at her.
“Frank’s trying to track down a missing employee of his,” he said. “He’s hoping we can help.”
“All right,” Indigo opened up her reporter’s pad, flipped to a clear page. “Name?”
“Joe Delgado,” Frank said.
“How long has he been missing?”
“Not sure. He didn’t come in for his shifts at the weekend.”
“Where does he work?”
“At my nightclub in Inman Square. The Blue Room.”
Indigo knew it, though it wasn’t her scene. A jazz and club frequented by the hipsters that lived in that area.
“Do you have a home address for him? A phone number?”
“Yes,” Frank handed a sheet of paper to Warren. “These are his details.”
“Have you checked for him at home?”
Frank gave her a cold stare. His eyes were a pale blue. “I’m not stupid, young lady.”
“No sir, just routine to ask,” she answered smoothly. “Did anyone answer at home, when you called?”
“Do you have a photo of him?”
“What did he do at the nightclub?”
“He worked the door.”
“He was a bouncer.”
She was quiet a minute, tapping her pen against the notepad.
“Why are you so interested in having him found?” she asked. “I mean, I assume Warren’s discussed our daily rates…?”
“He owes me money,” Frank said, thickly. He coughed to clear his throat. “I don’t want to get a reputation for being the kind of guy you can take money from and there’s no repercussions. So I want him found. I’m willing to pay your rates for him to be found.”
Indigo shot another look at Warren, but he was busy staring at the grey metal surface of his desk.
“How much does he owe you?”
“That’s not important.”
“Okay,” she said, after a pause and a warning look from Warren. “How long do you want me to give it? I mean missing persons can take a while…”
“We’ve agreed to two days of your time,” Warren replied. “Then we’ll review, based on your report at that time.”
“Okay, I’ll get started,” Indigo picked up the piece of paper that Toomey had handed to Warren. It bore the details of Joe Delgado’s home address, cell phone number and social security number.
“Thank you,” Warren said, as she left. Toomey said nothing.
She sat back down at her desk and stared at the password prompt on her laptop screen for awhile. Delgado must owe Toomey a bunch of money, for him to be willing to pay for a PI to track him down. The two days of her time was going to cost him close to two thousand bucks. Not to mention the fact that he was so sure Delgado had skipped out on him, based only on him being missing two days. The guy could just have had a wild weekend and one hell of a hangover. Toomey, however, was clearly not interested in sharing any of that information and it really wasn’t her business, as Warren would tell her. He would also tell her it wasn’t any of her business what Toomey was going to do to Delgado once she found him. If she found him.
She sighed, put in her password and started to google Delgado. By lunchtime, she’d found out that Delgado was a good looking Hispanic man, aged 22, with a neatly trimmed beard that made him look older. He had a large circle of friends on Facebook and his status said he was single. His updates were not particularly interesting, but until Friday, he’d been updating on a regular basis, boasting about what seemed to be a fairly active social and love life. She spent a long time tracing the friends who wrote on his wall, the ones he seemed to have the most contact with, making a note of their names, trying to find contact details for them. Given Delgado’s interest in the ladies, it was probable he was just awol for the weekend with some young sweet thing, not skipping out on Toomey. She’d also done some research on Toomey. He was originally from Charlestown, grew up there back in the day when the Irish mob had ruled the town. No official connections to organised crime, in fact he seemed a respectable member of the community, owning another nightclub in Brighton and three more bars in Cambridge. But he also didn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d skip out on, particularly not if you owed him money. She didn’t like the fact that Delgado hadn’t been on Facebook all weekend. The guy liked to boast about what he was up to, to the point of tedium. (Really, who gives a shit that you’re in MacDonalds?). He wasn’t on any other social networks that she could tell...
“Hungry?” Robbie asked her. She looked up, realised that it was past lunchtime and she was ravenous.
“Sounds good to me. Megan, you want to come?”
Megan shook her head, pointing to a plastic container on her desk, empty but for a few shreds of lettuce. “I brought in my own lunch. Trying to be healthy.”
Indigo frowned. Megan was the kind of woman who was always perfectly turned out, with smooth bobbed hair and discreet make-up. She was also always a few pounds underweight, the bones of her upper chest faintly visible through the v of her button-down shirt. Sometimes Indigo just wanted to feed her pasta and cookies, but she knew better than to get involved.
“Okay,” she shrugged. Heading to the food court was a faff, as it meant heading outside. She changed into her snow boots and shrugged on her parka. The moment they were outside, the chill hit them, leaching their body warmth from them in the five minutes it took to cross the plaza into the food court.
They got subs for lunch, hers accompanied by chips and diet soda, Robbie’s by salad and water. Whilst waiting for her food, Aunt Sophie rang. It was the third time she’d rung that morning, which even for Aunt Sophie was pretty bad.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Oh yes, dear. But what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“I told you, Aunt Sophie, I’m not sure,” her food ready, she paid for it and picked up the tray.
“Do you think you’ll be going out for drinks after work?”
“Maybe. Probably,” she followed Robbie to a clear table by the window, looking out at the frozen plaza. In the summer it was full of people having their lunch outdoors. They even had free concerts on a Wednesday lunchtime. Today it was empty, anyone coming in or out of the hotel scurrying hurriedly, heads bowed against the wind chill.
“Because I don’t want to make dinner too early, or it’ll spoil. You are coming to dinner, aren’t you?”
“I’m making meatballs. With this cold, you need something substantial inside of you.” Cooking was the only part of Aunt Sophie’s heritage that had been passed down to her. She didn’t speak a word of Italian and had no desire to go and visit the mother country, primarily because she thought Europe was dirty and dangerous and full of terrorists and street children who attacked tourists in mobs.
“Thanks Aunt Sophie, look I’ve got to go…”
“Okay, but call me if you think you’re going to be late…”
Indigo managed to end the call and started to wolf down her lunch.
“I can’t believe you can eat that and not get fat,” Robbie bitched.
She grinned. “Lucky, I guess. Probably won’t last forever though. Might as well make the most of it.”
After lunch she returned to her research. She had a photograph of Delgado from his Facebookpages that she could show around. She also had a list of names of friends to ask after him. Googling his home address had also come up with another occupant listed as living there, a Mrs K. Delgado. His mother, sister, wife? Worth checking, she thought.
She briefly checked the surveillance video she had of Jackson. It would take all day to keep an eye on him all the time, but right now, the guy wasn’t in his office or gym. Chances were he was in a meeting. She could tail him, but having done that all last week, she didn’t think there was much point.
“You heading out?” Robbie asked. “You only just took your coat off.”
“Not a lot more to find out here,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
A text came through from Aunt Sophie. - Do you want meatballs? Or should I make lasagne?
- Meatballs would be great! - she answered
© Essie Gilbey, 2014