The Equalisers. Debra Webb
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Now there was an answer he hadn’t expected. “Like a partnership?” Surely that wasn’t what he meant. No firm allowed the new hires to start out as equal partners.
“Exactly. We’ll all share the burden of cost and we’ll all share the bounty.”
Once he’d absorbed that surprising response, Spencer moved on to his next question. “Do you have other associates in mind already?”
“I’ll be interviewing a candidate this afternoon. If I’m lucky, she’ll be coming on board also.”
A woman. Spencer had wondered about that as well.
“Renee Vaughn,” Jim went on. “She’s a former assistant district attorney from Atlanta.”
At one time Spencer had considered a law degree. He’d gotten his bachelor’s degree in political science, but he’d opted for the military instead of law school. Maybe that had been his first mistake.
“I have an office set up for you,” Jim said, dragging Spencer from his unproductive thoughts. “If you’re prepared to get started this morning, I’d like you to work up a history for me. Cover your basic skills, any specialized training and the locations where you’ve worked or been assigned. I’ll keep a file like this on all associates for use in determining what cases each is best suited for.”
Made sense.
Spencer stood. “Show me the way and I’ll get right on it.”
Accepting his statement as a yes, Jim nodded. “All right then.”
The associates’ offices were located on the first floor along the corridor just past the lounge. There were four small offices and a room Jim indicated would be a supply room. At the end of the corridor was the building’s rear exit that led into an alley that would serve as a personnel parking area.
As the first associate hired, Spencer got his pick of the offices. He opted for the one on the left side of the hall next to the lounge since it had a window with a view of the neighborhood park across the street.
When the first receptionist candidate arrived for her interview Jim left him to get started on a detailed work history. Typically, that came first, in the form of a résumé, but this situation appeared to be hardly typical.
Maybe that was the reason Spencer felt at home for the first time in more than two years. He’d learned that he couldn’t count on anything typical or run-of-the-mill. The everyday was no longer reliable.
Do not go down that road.
All he had to do was keep his eyes forward. No looking back. There was no undoing the past, no matter how wrong. His military career was over. Period. He had an opportunity for something new here. He had to keep that goal in mind if he was to have a future. At the rate he’d been going that prospect had grown pretty dim of late. But that was behind him now.
No looking back.
1:00 p.m.
WILLOW HARRIS sat in her rental car for over half an hour. Most of that time was spent attempting to work up the nerve to make the first move. It wasn’t that she was afraid for her safety. The neighborhood wasn’t that great, but it wasn’t any worse than the one in East St. Louis where her former P.I.’s office was located.
Waiting… working up her courage, she did a lot of that lately. In the beginning sheer adrenaline had driven her, overriding any second thoughts or hesitancy. She’d pushed and pushed and searched and searched without the first consideration for her safety or anything else.
But it was different now.
Another anxiety stalked her like a ruthless killer in the dark.
Fear.
The fear of dashed hope. Each time she moved on to a new investigator her anticipation of finally getting her son back renewed… only to be sucked completely out of her when failure crashed down upon her shoulders all over again.
She’d spent all weekend attempting to locate someone who might be able to help her. Her gaze focused on the street in front of her car. The story had been basically the same with each agency she’d called.
I’m very sorry, Ms. Harris, but that’s a case we don’t feel comfortable taking on.
Just when she’d been ready to give up, the last guy she’d called—a low-rent one-man operation she’d almost skipped over in her online Yellow Pages search—had told her about a rumor he’d heard. A new shop was opening up in Chicago. There was a buzz going around that this one would be different from all the others.
So here she was, in Chicago sitting outside a place that might very well be her last hope.
The Equalizers.
Her low-rent P.I. had waxed on about how this place planned to take covert investigations to the next level. The Equalizers would accept the less desirable or riskier jobs that no one else wanted to touch.
Since the firm had only just opened, Willow couldn’t be sure if the plan to take on any and all cases was out of necessity or not, but she was here.
She was desperate.
Her savings and investments were dwindling fast. This place might very well prove her final hope in more ways than one. There wouldn’t be enough money to hire anyone new if this one failed.
An ache twisted through her, making her want to curl up into a ball of defeat. No. She had to be strong. The only way she would ever get her son back was if she didn’t give up, if she tried harder.
Determination rushed through her on the tail of a burst of adrenaline when Davenport’s words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. Who said there was anything wrong with that? Miracles manifested themselves in many ways. She’d been taught that concept her whole life. That was one part of her upbringing she needed to hang onto.
Willow got out of the car and strode across the street to the entrance of the brownstone designated as number 129. The painted wooden sign hanging next to the door announced the name of the business in bold strokes.
The Equalizers.
Well, she would just see if the firm could live up to its fledgling reputation.
Acting before she could think of another reason to waver, she opened the door and went inside. The sudden warmth reminded her that she’d gotten cold sitting in her car with the engine turned off for all that time. A winter chill had blasted the midwest last night, causing major delays in several airports. Thank goodness Midland hadn’t been one of them. Once she’d made up her mind to come, she would have done so even if she’d had to walk.
A receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk. Her back was turned to the door while she typed away at her computer. Several chairs and accompanying tables bordered the room. Magazines were fanned across the top of one of the tables. No plants or goldfish tanks. No heavy stench of cigarette smoke as she’d encountered in many of the agencies she’d visited. Just empty and quiet, like Davenport’s office had been, except for the receptionist’s busy fingers on the keyboard.
The decorating scheme left something to be desired, but the place was neat and clean. She could appreciate that after the last couple of places she’d visited in the past forty-eight hours.
Since the receptionist didn’t make the usual overture though she’d surely heard the door close, Willow stepped closer to her desk and spoke up. “My name is Willow Harris. I’m here to see the man in charge.” She purposely left off the phrase if he’s available. She’d come too far to accept any kind of excuse. The idea that he could be out of town banded around her chest and squeezed. Booking the first available flight and rushing here might have been a mistake, but she’d had no choice.
Her situation wouldn’t wait. She’d waited too long already.
Please let him be here.
Rather