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If they’d intended to discuss a former client with an investigator, they would have returned his voicemails by now. He regretted not pretending to need a quote when he’d first phoned. Now he’d need to harass their answering machine until they called to make him stop.
    A familiar Spanish accent picked up. “You have reached Robomaids. Out with the stains, in with the sparkle.” The woman spoke the line as though she read off a card, with difficulty. “Please leave a message with your home’s square footage, number of beds and baths, days you require the cleaning, address, and a contact number and we will call you back with an estimate.”
    For the third time, he explained that he investigated Ana Bacon’s disappearance and needed to know if she’d been a client. The secretary stared at him the whole time he spoke. When he hung up, she finally relaxed into her chair, leaning back and angling her torso so that the boss behind the glass wall had a prime view of her improbable breasts.
    The plaque on the woman’s desk read administrative assistant, but her outfit advertised an altogether different profession. Cleavage popped from the plunging neckline of her white button-down, which couldn’t have closed if she’d tried. Her black skirt barely covered her upper thighs when seated.
    The outfit embarrassed him. He averted his gaze and fidgeted with the lock on the briefcase in his lap, feeling as though he was about to interview for a job above his pay grade. At times like this, he missed his NYPD badge—the way it forced people to stand up straighter, show respect, and above all, share information. Without it, he was just an employee of a private company, begging the favor of a conversation.
    Ana’s old boss, Michael Smith, had agreed to a meeting, providing that Ryan “kept it brief.” No one would have dared say that to him when he’d been in the Financial Crimes Unit.
    “Mr. Smith will see you now.”
    Ryan turned to see the blurry image of a man waving behind a frosted glass door. Michael stood from his desk as Ryan entered. He wore a smug smile that advertised his wealth as easily as his custom suit and the thick, silver hair that fell low on his forehead.
    The banker leaned across his desk to dole out a salesman’s shake, which Ryan returned with some awkwardness. Michael remained standing after his hand dropped to his waist, as though this last-minute meeting was keeping him from heading out the door. He cleared his throat. “So I understand that you have some questions about Ana Bacon.”
    “I do.” Ryan pulled out a chair in front of the desk and settled in. He set his briefcase on the floor and removed a notepad. Michael’s eye twitched as he brought out the pen, a whistleblower spooked by a recording device. Ryan waved the pad. “Helps me remember.”
    Michael’s mouth drew into a line. He glanced at a wall clock and then resumed his seat in a wide captain’s chair. “I’ve got a meeting soon.”
    “I understand.” He did. He just didn’t care. “When did Ms. Bacon start working here?”
    Michael’s eyes rolled toward his forehead, as though struggling to remember something years, not months, before. “I guess it was the beginning of February. She came in for an interview in late January and I hired her soon after.”
    “She was your secretary?”
    “My administrative assistant.” Michael gestured toward the glass wall and the woman sitting just outside it. “I need someone to keep my schedule, answer the phone, get coffee, that sort of thing.”
    The mention of coffee alerted Ryan to the stale scent of java lingering in the air. It mixed with a musky cologne that Ryan could only assume wafted from Michael.
    “Was she good at it?” he asked.
    Michael’s self-satisfied smirk twisted at the edge, turning sheepish. “I hate to speak ill of the dead.”
    “So she wasn’t good at it?”
    “Well, you know . . .” He shrugged. “What can I say? Clients liked her.”
    Ryan