Chapter 28

It wasn't till I was pulling into the parking lot that I realized where I was headed. It was a small office complex on San Mateo just north of Menaul, across the street from a Taco Bell and behind an "adult" bookstore. The big white Baillo's building was just east on Menaul, serving as a wonderful landmark if I ever wanted to give directions.

I parked in front of the door I now was consciously heading for. As I got out of the Blazer I read the gold lettering – probably just gold paint; if you want actual gold leaf you get a suite in one of the tall buildings downtown – which said, simply,

{c}Kim

Investigations

I pulled open the door, and Sara Delgado looked up from some paperwork she was fiddling with. She's my best friend's wife and Cecelia's best friend, and she grinned when she saw me. "¿Haz venido para verme?"

"No, Sara. Necisito hablar con Kim."

Now she switched to English, knowing that my Spanish is limited. "She's free right now – go on back."

I raised my eyebrows. Kim Il-chae has a much more decided way of doing things than I do, and she doesn't see people unless Sara first clears it with her.

"It's okay, Darvin. She likes you."

"I'll take your word for it." Kim's a prickly woman, and our interactions haven't always been entirely peaceful. Still, Sara knew her better than I did.

I went on back and knocked on the door. "Who is it?" came a voice, unaccented as any other westerner's, nearly as deep as Cecelia's, and sounding a bit irritated.

"It's me. Sara said I should just come back."

"Then come in."

I did. Kim was standing beside her desk, in her de facto uniform of white over black – a t-shirt today, and BDUs. She's exactly five feet tall, and slender, though in pretty good shape as her handshake reminded me. She'd told me, some time or another, about her swimming and running and lifting weights. She doesn't work out as hard or as consistently as Cecelia does, but with her small size she needs every advantage she can get – her argument, but one I agree with.

She sat down, gesturing me into a chair. She says that if you know what to look for you can see her Anglo mother's genes in her facial bones, but I don't know what to look for, and she looks pure Korean to me. Every time I've seen her she's had her coarse, straight, nearly black hair at shoulder length, with bangs down almost to her eyebrows. What changes is her nail polish, and I checked that – today it was a metallic purple that glinted in the light that came through the window.

Kim's view isn't like mine – all she can see is an alley, and the back of the building where they sell dirty books. But she makes up for it with clean white walls, brown trim, and posters and prints of Korean scenery, people, and art. I took it in with a glance, and then looked back at her. "Still climbing the ladder?" I asked.

"I have enough work to keep me busy, I make enough money to invest in the business, and I'm gaining experience at every step. I will be the best private detective in this city."

"I don't doubt it," I told her. "You're good already."

"Thank you," she said, inclining her head. Probably it was the seated version of a bow – she learned Korean manners from her father, though the American customs she learned from her mother usually predominate. "What can I do for you, Mr. Carpenter?"

"You know, I've told you about 56 million times that my name's Darvin." I raised my hand to forestall a protest I knew would come otherwise. "But I ought to be used to your ways by now. You'll call me Darvin when I least expect it, and then revert right back to the formality."

She smiled. "I am what I am – mental aberrations and all. What can I do for you?"

I took a moment to consider what she'd styled "mental aberrations." She was a unique woman, all right – paranoid about locking doors, yet involved in a dangerous business; so small I could pick her up under one arm and walk off with her, yet the veteran of five shootings in which she'd killed one thug; as cute as a bug in a rug, yet tougher than I am and nearly as tough as Cecelia. Actually what I had running through my head wasn't much about her mind, and I shook my head to clear it. "I need to hire you again," I told her, hoping I hadn't sat there mindless for too long.

"After only a year? This is becoming a very close business relationship."

I grunted. It had, indeed, been just over a year since I'd hired her to do some work for me while I investigated a friend's murder. "Look, Kim, either let me hire you or say you won't, one way or the other."

"Now see here, Mr. Carpenter, I don't need you telling me how to do my job." She'd jerked forward in her chair, and she was giving me the cop glare – somehow she'd been an Albuquerque cop, even as small as she is.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I'm not having a good day."

She regarded me for a moment, and then relaxed back into her chair. "No, you're not. Normally you'd have flared right back at me." She smiled, her temper gone as quickly as it had come. "My prescription is to go home to your wife. I'm not qualified to help you with the distress you seem to be feeling. I'm just a detective."