Making the Rent the Hard Way - 3

"Not at all," Farnham looked incensed. "As I said, he and I are friends. I'm worried about why he's gone missing and would like him found."

I half expected him to say "dead or alive", but he didn't. "How long has it been since you last saw or spoke to him?"

Farnham frowned momentarily before replying, "Almost three weeks. I called him to let him know I had a project for him. He promised to come by my restaurant the next morning. He never did."

"That would be where—and what?"

"My restaurant? The Waterfront After Dark. I presume you've heard of it."

I had. It's a bar slash restaurant catering to the shifters of the city, although anyone is welcome who can afford its prices. It sits, unsurprisingly, on the edge of Lake Westerden, the city's namesake, and from the outside it looks like it's been there since the city was founded over a hundred years ago. I've never been inside, but from what I've heard, the interior is dark and cozy in a sleazy way befitting its name. The food, however, is supposed to be top notch.

I scanned the information Farnham had put together on Luca Montana. He was thirty-one, a free-lance graphic designer, single, and lived in a high-rise complex in the fancy part of town. There was more, but I'd look at it later, if I took the case.

"What did you want him to do for you?" I asked.

Farnham started to reply, stopped, then said, "I needed a new design for my advertising campaign."

Uh-huh. That was not what he was going to say at first. No way I'll get the truth out of him, though.

"Is he who you usually use for that?"

"No," he replied. "I was unhappy with the company who had been handling it and figured I'd give Luca a shot to see what he'd come up with."

Why didn't I believe a word he was saying? Maybe because he'd hesitated once too often while telling me something. I'd bet my bottom dollar he and Luca were no more friends than Farnham and I were. And whatever he'd wanted from Luca, it had nothing to do with advertising. Not that I wouldn't take the case anyway. My interest was piqued, and, on a very practical level, I needed the money.

"Before we go any farther, you should look at this," I told him, handing him a copy of the contract I had clients sign, and a list of the various costs for my services.

He read it through, nodded, and signed the contract, then said he'd rather pay my retainer in cash instead of using his credit card. Another "what the hell" moment, as far as I was concerned, not that I was about to turn down the cash. When he counted out five hundred dollars, I felt it implicit on my part to point out that it was twice what I required for the retainer.

"I suspect it will be difficult to find Luca," Farnham replied. "The extra is an incentive not to give up. According to the contract, you'll be sending me weekly bills and reports. I'll have Mr. Bracco"—he nodded toward the bruiser—"drop by with the payments."

"All right." I put the money in the desk drawer for the time being, relieved that I'd be able to pay the rent for at least one more month. Then I had him fill out another form with all his pertinent information.

With that completed, Farnham thanked me for taking his case, then he and the bruiser left.