Despite Rory's advice, I felt obligated to Cynthia, and she was paying me to speak to Karen. I needed a home address for Karen. One thing was for sure, I couldn't keep pestering her at work, but I also needed a room number for Jarmon, and I still wanted a face to face with him and that meant another trip to the Dunbar Hotel. A call to Bravo Consulting provided another in a long line of puzzling surprises.

A hurt voice advised me that Karen Winsett had been fired from Bravo that morning and she could probably be reached at home. Had her secret affair been discovered by her boss, the father-in-law? I went into compassionate mode and weaselled the address from a hurt voice.

I decided to get the car out again; taxis and public transit were beginning to pall and this time, under threat of death, my mechanic promised it would run... for a while. The traffic was medium heavy, forcing me onto different side streets just to keep from getting hung up in the gridlock.

After several desperate turns, I found that I was closer to the expressway than downtown so, Karen would be my first call. I could try Jarmon later. She lived way across town in a high-rise complex that backed onto a city-designated green space.

I rolled into the visitor's parking lot and sat for a few minutes rehearsing my remarks, countering imaginary objections with smart, stinging rebuttals. A border of flowers flanked the cement sidewalk that led to the front entrance, and inside the lobby was a huge directory of names with entry codes posted alongside.

I traced my finger down the 'Ws' and punched in the digits for Karen Winsett. It was a double ring, and I counted six before a voice answered.

"Karen Winsett?"

"Who's this?"

"Christopher Wallace. We met the other day for coffee." Silence. "Miss Winsett?"

"What do you want?"

"I'd like to come in and speak with you. I have a message for you."

"I don't want your message, Mr. Wallace, and I don't want you to come in either." The line clicked off.

Not good, in films they always want to hear what you have to say. I tried the old movie trick and pushed some random codes without success, unless you consider a visit from a security guard that looked like the Terminator.

"Having some trouble?" He asked menacingly, stepping through the sliding glass doors into the lobby, his pressed uniform shirt looking sharper than a kitchen knife.

"I'm trying to get in to see my girlfriend," I lied. "We're havin' a bit of trouble... you know." I winked and lightly punched an arm as stiff as a chunk of rebar.

"Did she answer?"

"Uh, yes."

"And?"

"Well, you know dames, she's mad but she really wants to make up. If I could just go up and speak to her."

"What's her name?"

"Uhm, Karen, but you don't have to call—"

●○●○●○●○●

The guard watched me all the way to the elevator, with an evil squint. The Falcon never seemed to have these problems. Karen had relented when I managed to yell over the guard's voice that the message was from Cynthia. I didn't know why but maybe she was reconsidering the original offer since she'd been sacked.

I made a quick call to Nora's voice mail on the way up and netted a pithy announcement that it was full. She was obviously too busy to retrieve any messages, so I figured she'd be busy through the dinner hour. I wondered if she'd changed much from when I saw her last.

Karen answered the door, frowned at me and walked back inside, leaving me to close up and follow after.

"Nice place," I said, trying to be nice as well.

"You said something about a message." She perched on a wide windowsill, placing herself in silhouette from the bright sun. I found a chair off at an angle so that I could see her face somewhat, then gave her Cynthia's latest message.

"That's a joke." She lifted one foot up onto the sill. "I already broke up with him and I certainly have no intentions of going back."

I gave her a high mark for not taking advantage of Cynthia. "Mind if I ask why?"

She wrapped an arm about her knee and rested her head on top then sighed and mumbled something unintelligible before speaking to me again. She confessed to her arrangement with Lawrence Bravo to compromise Jarmon before the end of the month so that his wife's trust would revert to the company.

Lawrence had promised her a sizable reward for success. After beginning with the plan, she said that she began to feel sorry for Jarmon, but she still wanted the money. She decided to try to force the issue by demanding a commitment and when that failed, broke off. When Lawrence found out, he fired her.

We sat silently for a few minutes and then I told her that I had to make a report to Cynthia and that I would like to do it from her place just so she would know I had been truthful and she could hear exactly what I said. Karen studied me for a minute and then nodded, pointing to the phone on a table by the kitchen door.

My call to Cynthia to report wasn't as welcome as I thought it might be. Obviously she had been counting on using Karen as a reason for dumping Jarmon after the trust kicked in. I asked if there was anything else she wanted and she said no and she agreed to send the money promised.

My problem now was not being able to let go. This whole business needed explaining if I was to get past it. I thanked Karen and left. Downstairs, I blew a kiss to the menacing security guard and sagged at the sight of the oil stain seeping from under my car.

●○●○●○●○●

Jarmon Wyatt had been required to give his temporary address to the police while he awaited repairs to his hotel suite. My contact, for a lot more than the rate of inflation, sold it to me. It was in the same damn hotel on a different floor. I marched in, determined to see the man and wring more of the puzzle from him.

I took my car, oil leak and all, and found a free spot two down from the taxi stands. I stuck a handful of old time tickets on the dash and headed for the hotel. Adopting a no-nonsense approach, I braced the pimply-faced snot at the desk and asked for Mr. Wyatt's room.

"I show no record of Mr. Wyatt expecting anyone." He flipped his ledger shut.

I'll bet. "I'm here on a business matter, pal, and it's very important that I speak with him." I had my hat on again and I tipped it back with a cool nonchalance.

"You can use the house phone over there," his finger lifted with great effort to indicate a bank of telephones across the lobby, "dial operator, we'll connect you."

Jarmon answered and I told him I had a delivery for him that required a signature and he gave me his suite number. Private eyes have all the cool moves. His face sported a huge white bandage and his upper lip had been stolen from Mick Jagger.

"Jarmon Wyatt?"

He gave me a suspicious look. "Where's this package?"

"I never mentioned a package. I said a delivery."

"You looking for trouble, pal?" He moved threateningly toward me.

"Hold it! Hold it. My name is Wallace. I'm a private investigator and I need to ask you some questions."

"Bugger off!" He started to close the door and I shoved my foot in the way. Mistake. Big mistake.

"Oh, Jesus! I think you broke it!" I staggered past him and collapsed on his sofa, gripping my foot and making soothing sounds.

"I'm calling the cops." Jarmon moved quickly to the phone, and I saw my career exploding.

"I'm here for your wife!" I shouted.

He stopped dead and came around in front of me. "What do you mean you're here for my wife?"

"On behalf of your wife," I amended.

Half an hour later I had a throbbing ankle and only one new piece of information - and that seemed irrelevant to the whole case - the existence of another woman. A Nicole Kirkland. Jarmon on the other hand learned a lot from me and immediately turned to the bottle array behind his room bar.

I felt I had gone beyond what I needed to do and was accepting the fact the mystery was over as far as I was concerned. I'd spoken to the two principle actors, and I didn't see any advantage in pursuing the others any further. My job was done. I had been paid.