“And the tart had the audacity to turn down the generous offer I made to convince her to disappear from my son’s life.”
Good for her, Nate thought to himself.
Mrs. Hamilton sniffed. “That’s when I knew I needed to find something to use against her, so I hired you.”
Nate wished she’d hired him sooner. The wedding deadline was fast approaching and he would have liked more time to investigate the woman before he initiated contact. He didn’t even have a picture of Carleen Wimmer yet, though he wouldn’t need one after tonight. “Does your son know I’m investigating his fiancée?”
“Of course not. He’d be livid if he knew.” She rose to her feet, obviously too agitated to stay seated any longer. “But someone has to look out for his interests. With his father gone, that responsibility falls to me.”
Nate pulled another file folder from his desk and opened it. “According to my research, Tobias turned twenty-eight last March. Don’t you think he’s old enough to be responsible for himself?”
“What is this?” She snatched the folder out of his hands. “Who gave you permission to snoop around my son’s life, Mr. Cafferty?”
“I don’t need permission,” he replied evenly. “When I take on a case, I have to know all the facts—including facts about your son. If you don’t like it, you can hire another investigator.”
Color flooded Mrs. Hamilton’s patrician face. No doubt she wasn’t used to anyone, especially an employee, standing up to her.
“Perhaps I will.” She set the folder back on Nate’s desk. “It all depends on how you plan to get rid of this woman and how long it’s going to take. The wedding is less than a month away.”
“It’s not my job to get rid of her.” Nate wanted to make that clear. “I’m simply gathering information about her. How you choose to use that information is up to you.”
“I’ll use it to save my son,” she replied, squaring her shoulders, “any way that I can.”
Nate wondered if Tobias Hamilton chose his women on the basis of how much they’d irritate his mother. He’d never met the man, but so far he wasn’t impressed. His limited investigation had turned up a spoiled rich boy with too much time and too much money on his hands. At the moment, he was in Germany playing movie producer and leaving his fiancée behind to the wolves.
The fact that Nate was one of those wolves didn’t bother him. If Carleen Wimmer had nothing to hide, then she had nothing to fear from him. He’d do his job, but he wouldn’t try to destroy her. That was Mrs. Hamilton’s job. Or more precisely, her pleasure.
“So what happens next?” his client asked, obviously eager to begin the demolition.
“I’ve set up a way to meet her through an old friend of mine,” Nate explained. “His name is Harlan Longo and he was happy to offer his assistance.”
“The name sounds familiar.” Her brow furrowed. “Isn’t he that scientist who tried to prove that sleeping on feather pillows increased fertility rates or some such nonsense? I remember reading about it in the newspaper.”
Nate smiled. “He’s the one.”
“Quite the eccentric,” she said. “Are you certain he can be trusted?”
“Yes.” Nate didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t going to justify his actions to this woman. She either trusted him to do his job or not. “I asked him to send Carleen Wimmer an invitation to participate as a research subject in his latest sleep study—with a generous stipend, of course.”
“I assume she accepted,” Mrs. Hamilton said dryly, “since she’s certainly not averse to sleeping for money.”
“She did,” Nate acknowledged. “Harlan gave me full access to the personality profile she filled out—though I have no way of knowing how much of it is true. But I’ll be meeting her tonight in Harlan’s laboratory.”
“Won’t that make her suspicious?”
“Not if I’m just another one of his guinea pigs. I’ll find some way to introduce myself and get to know her.” Nate rose to his feet, ready to end the interview. “Then you’ll have the answers to all your questions about her.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re a very confident young man, aren’t you?”
“I know how to do my job.”
“Quite handsome, as well,” she continued, looking him up and down, “in a rough sort of way. And you have the presence and athletic physique that many young women seem to find appealing these days. Perhaps you are the right man for this job after all.”
Nate walked over to open the office door for her. “I’ll send you an update in a few days.”
“Sooner, if possible, Mr. Cafferty.” She picked up her purse. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Nate watched her walk daintily to the black Lincoln Town Car parked in front of his office. She might look the part of the refined lady, but beneath that austere exterior was a woman not afraid to get dirty.
Now it was up to him to find the dirt.
2
MIA HALF EXPECTED to find something out of Frankenstein’s laboratory when she went in search of the Longo Research Center later that evening. She held her overnight bag in one hand and a map of the estate grounds in the other. The map had been given to her by the guard at the front gate, right after he’d taken her car keys.
Walking almost half a mile in the crisp autumn air gave her plenty of time for second thoughts about impersonating Carleen. She’d read about Harlan Longo’s eccentricities in the newspaper, which were often accompanied by stories about his generosity to various charities. But traversing his estate by foot in the waning twilight gave her a disturbing glimpse of the man throwing this slumber party.
He’d built a moat around his sprawling mansion, along with a rustic suspension bridge leading to the research center. A rowboat peopled with two rubber blow-up dolls floated on the stagnant water. One of the dolls even held a fishing pole. Chickens roamed freely on the grounds and roosted in an old yellow school bus that still had the words Paddington Middle School printed on the side.
By the time she reached the solid steel door of the Longo Research Center, she had no doubt old Harlan was crazy. Now she was beginning to wonder about her own sanity for volunteering to sleep in this madhouse every night for the next three weeks.
A rusty horseshoe hung on the door, right under the words LONGO RESEARCH CENTER spelled out in bright red letters. After searching in vain for a doorbell, she lifted the horseshoe and rapped it three times against the door. When she heard the heavy footsteps on the other side, she braced herself for a humpbacked Igor to greet her.
But the man who opened the door stood straight and tall, a mane of smooth white hair brushing the shoulders of his white lab coat. “Greetings!”
“I’m…Carleen Wimmer,” she
