Chapter 7

Jack

Day Two of guarding Dexter Jansen was not an improvement. If possible, the businessman’s attitude had gotten worse. I’d have rated his mood at somewhere around ‘Toddler refusing to take a nap at naptime’ status. Except this toddler was in charge of a multimillion dollar company.

Today we were in his office, one he was trying to visit only infrequently to keep whatever corporate spies were trying to learn his routine on their toes. Or at least that was what he said. In reality, I was beginning to doubt the existence of the spies. And if they did exist, the only corporate secret they would learn was that Jansen treated his employees like shit.

He’d spent most of the ride over bitching about the luxury hotel he’d installed himself in, one I swept each day to make sure it was free of bugs and one we monitored for intruders. Jansen was staying in the best hotel in the area, and the management had been working carefully with us on security. This didn’t mean the rich prick appreciated what was being done for him. What he did care about, apparently, was that he receive fresh boxes of soap every day, along with fresh towels. God forbid he’d have to use the same piece of soap two days in a row.

Still, it would take a mountain of soap to get Jansen clean. My gut told me he was hiding something, and not something that would make him smell like daisies. The more time I spent with him, the more I realized he had contempt for everyone but himself.

It was clear in the phone call after phone call he made in his office. Jansen wasted no time berating his subordinates. If someone had made a mistake, he’d either be fired or threatened with firing, until the person on the other end of the line was breathing heavily and either near tears or about to explode in anger. I couldn’t blame them.

If someone had done well, instead of complimenting them, Jansen would admonish them, saying they could have done better if they’d only worked faster, tried harder, done more. Nothing was ever good enough, nothing met his impossible standards. Standards which he himself put no effort towards adhering to.

His office was a mess. Papers were strewn on every available surface, along with half-empty coffee cups and food refuse. Jansen must not even let people in his office to clean. It had a sickly smell, like overripe fruit, and I was surprised there were no flies buzzing around the piles of garbage.

After a lunch of takeout from a steakhouse downtown, he abandoned his dirty plate and returned to his desk to call one of his suppliers and chew him out over a shipment that was only a few hours late. After issuing demands for a price reduction, he finally accepted 15% off is next order, then hung up. Leaning back, he issued a loud burp that he followed with a hoarse laugh, then hauled himself out of his seat and headed to his executive washroom.

I was starting to get a feel for Jansen’s routine, and I knew he’d likely be in there for up to twenty minutes. He did his ‘business’ in the afternoon, and I was free from the incessant clamor of his never-ending phone calls for a brief and blessed interlude. But instead of leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes to enjoy the silence, I realized this was an opportunity I shouldn’t pass up.

As quietly as I could, I moved behind his desk. The desk was so disorganized, it was almost impossible to tell what each document was about. Giving up on the scattered papers, I decided to dig through the draws, on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. With one eye on the washroom door, I cautiously picked my way through the endless junk in his drawers. Finally, I stumbled upon something of interest.

It was a manila envelope that had been slit open. Out of it spilled the corner of a photograph. I slide the photo out and some companions came with it, so I carefully removed the small stack of photos and began to examine them.

The first one contained a group of older men standing in an alley against a brick wall. None of them looked familiar, but it was still an oddity among the memos and invoices I'd found. Pulling out my phone, I snapped a picture of the photo. Setting them down on the desk, I fanned them out, trying to get an idea of what they contained. The remaining photos looked to be of some kind of ledger. There was a list of scrawled names and corresponding numbers. I managed to snap a picture of the top ledger photo, but then I heard the toilet flush.

Acting as quickly as possible, I shoved the photos back into the envelope and crammed them back among the debris of the desk drawer. Then I pushed it closed and crept away from the desk, resuming my position near the office door.

Jansen came out of the washroom and ambled over to his desk. I wondered idly if he’d washed his hands. He didn’t seem like the type to pride himself on his hygiene. I often wondered if he bothered to change the tailored shirts he wore, untucked, every day.

It wasn’t long before he was back on the phone, raising hell with the distributor he’d dealt with only a day earlier. I stopped listening to the conversation, knowing he’d just try to wheedle more favorable terms out of the company. Jansen seemed to think the rules didn’t apply to him.

Which made him an excellent candidate for blackmail. Jansen was the type to make mistakes and not take pains to cover them. He bragged about spending nights behind the velvet rope of the VIP section at exclusive nightclubs and dropping thousands of dollars on exotic dinners. He liked to be seen, liked people to know he had money. And that made him a target.

Still, for some reason I didn’t see Jansen as a victim. Sure, he had money and had probably done unsavory things, but there was something about his behavior that made me think he wasn’t a man being manipulated. No, if anyone was doing the manipulation, it was Jansen himself.

That meant the only other option was true: Jansen was blackmailing someone. Perhaps the photographs were a clue. The ledger pages were certainly intriguing. But without context, I had no idea where to start. None of the names I’d seen had meant anything. In fact, I didn’t even think they were real names. They’d been odd. Mr. Sparrow. Mr. Heron. Mr. Cormorant.

That evening, I paid close attention to make sure I wasn’t followed. It took longer to get back to the office than usual, but I made sure to double back on my trail a few times, and to take random turns to throw anyone off the scent.

That meant that, by the time I got to the office, everyone else was gone. Except for Emma, who was just locking the front door.

“Is your father around?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

Emma looked up at me with those gorgeous eyes, which were shining in the dim light of twilight. “Nope. He’s got that big community fundraiser tonight.”

“What about Matt?” I didn’t want to mention the pictures to Emma. She didn’t need to get further embroiled in the mess that was Dexter Jansen. Or the mess that was Jack Walsh.

“He’s got a hot date,” Emma said with a roll of her golden eyes. “Matt takes forever to get ready. I don’t know why. It’s not like a hot shower can wash off his kind of ugly.”

I cracked a smile. Her quirky sense of humor was one of the most attractive of her many appealing traits.

She turned, putting her back against the door and crossing her arms over her chest. The motion pushed her breasts together, creating a hint of cleavage that I wanted to run my tongue over. I had to force my eyes away, counting the cracks on the sidewalk while willing away my erection.

“I’m the only one around.” Emma gave me a searching look. “You’ve got something, don’t you? Something on Jansen?”

I hesitated, debating whether to tell her what I’d discovered in Jansen’s desk. If there was any real danger associated with the businessman, I wanted to keep Emma as far away from it as I could.

Before I could respond, she slapped my arm. “I knew it. Let’s go back inside.”