dragonyphoenix | In a Corner of My Soul: The Pack: Amateur Night

Masterlist for In a Corner of My Soul

As Cecil Ashworth approached Philip Henry's door, Lucas Miller watched from a car parked in the darkened space between two streetlights. His cigarette, held to be visible to passersby, was nothing more than a prop, a suggestion of why he hadn't left the car. He had no intention of lighting it. He'd learned the hard way that people notice scents. They might not realize they had, but if you trailed someone long enough any scent, unusual or not, would give you away. No one careless lasted long in Miller's line of work, and Miller had been a professional for more than thirty years.

The Ashworth boy was obviously an amateur but Miller had known that going in. Antonia Ashworth would not have hired Miller to both trail her son and pick up any slack on the boy's assignment if Cecil had been at all competent. The idiot had gone to Henry's home for Christ's sake. The last place to corner a subject was in his own house. Ashworth would have done better to have called on Dr. Henry at the office. He still wouldn't have gotten any answers, but at least Henry would have been forced, by the public nature of the arena, to present a veneer of politeness in the face of Ashworth's questions. At home he could slam the door in Ashworth's face. In fact, three … two … one. Ah, and there it was: slam!

Cecil Ashworth took a step back, glaring at the pale stonework, and shouted. “Fine then. It's not like I need your help. Deidre Page has told me all, and besides, that's the most awful 'stash I've ever seen. I think I'd have puked if I'd had to look at it another second.”

Page had told Ashworth nothing. He'd gotten less out of her than he had out of Henry. The slattern who lived across the way from Page, well, Ashworth had spent quite a while in her home but it hadn't been all talk. Miller had the photos to prove it. Not that he was likely to use them. Cecil, by himself, was nothing, but one didn't take on Antonia Ashworth lightly.

Cecil stood in the street as if waiting for his bluff to pay off. It that was the case, he was doomed to disappointment. Henry wasn't coming out. God but the lad was an idiot. The only thing he'd been right about so far was Philip Henry's mustache. It was obvious that Henry thought it and the goatee made him look sophisticated. Another idiot, but at least Henry wasn't some high-born son dragging the Council's reputation down into the muck.

Miller blessed his decision to go freelance. If he'd stayed in the Council, Ashworth was exactly the kind of idiot he'd have been stuck working for, and if he'd had to work for an idiot like Ashworth for even half a day, he'd have killed the man. That was the kind of mistake that got one noticed.

After a few minutes, Ashworth returned to his car. Perhaps the lad hadn't been waiting for Henry. Perhaps he'd been hoping another artiste would take him to bosom and bed. If so, he was out of luck. Henry's neighborhood, more expensive and conservative than Page's, didn't house such blatant indiscretions. Miller followed Ashworth long enough to see him ensconced in a godawful water hole. They way the lad eyed the ladies suggested that Ashworth was done investigating for the evening. Good, that meant Miller could turn his own attention to Philip Henry.

Ten minutes on a computer gave Miller access to Henry's credit card records which indicated dinners for two at a fair number of restaurants that featured discrete dark lighting. Romantic, certainly, but especially so for a man slipping out from under a wife's watchful eye. Another fifteen minutes turned up the usual gifts – chocolate, jewelry, lingerie – and the home address of one Zara Wright, personal assistant to Philip Henry with the emphasis on the personal.

Breaking into her flat would be simple enough but unnecessary. Some men needed the extra motivation of a gun pointed at a loved one's head, but not Henry. A simple threat, a hint that Miller might tell the wife, should do it. Philip Henry would tell him everything his client needed to know. In fact, Miller's biggest problem would most certainly be getting Henry to shut up.

In a Corner of My Soul: The Pack: Amateur Night

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