I log into the main system and pull up my encrypted email program to get some work done. I clear out a few random messages, returning important ones and erasing others. While typing up a response to one of my engineers, an email appears in the inbox.
Ross Evans, Licensed Talent Agent, Brickworks Talent Agency
That was fast. I open it and start reading.
Mr. Hale,
Thank you for your willingness to help with an ongoing issue involving one of the members of Sphere of Irony. If you can let me know your availability, we can arrange a meeting to discuss specifics.
Please call me on my personal cell phone at…
At the bottom are two phone numbers, office and cell. I stare at the message. This Ross Evans guy knows enough not to put anything with regards to the stalker in an email. That tells me I’m not dealing with complete idiots, which is helpful. They’re desperate as well, having already contacted me. May as well get it over with. I pull up my calendar app and dial the number.
“Evans.”
“Mr. Evans. This is Mitch Hale.”
“Mr. Hale. Thank you for your quick response.”
“Not a problem. When did you want to meet?”
The man on the other end of the phone sounds anxious. “Whenever you’re free. I’ll change any appointments I need to. This is a priority.”
I have to admit, I’m intrigued. Big shot Hollywood types don’t rearrange anything for anyone. Ever. They remind me of the bureaucrats I left behind in D.C. No one is more important than them, and they make sure to remind you of it all the time.
“I’m free tomorrow afternoon. Say, one o’clock?” I’ll have to move a follow up meeting with one of my other clients, but I find myself curious about this case and can’t resist squeezing it in.
“I’ve got you down. Do you know where my office is?”
“It’s on the email. I can find it.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Yes. Perfect.”
I hang up, swiveling my chair from side to side. Dead animals, stalkers, celebrities, powerful Hollywood agents who roll over at my say so? This job is becoming more and more intriguing.
A quick Google search brings up the band’s homepage. I click the page for their individual biographies.
Four members. All men. I know the victim isn’t Adam Reynolds, so I eliminate him straight away. That leaves Dax Davies, Gavin Walker, and Hawke Evans. Related to Ross Evans, maybe?
I read each bio thoroughly. There’s not much there. Where they were born, what instrument they play, random stuff about likes and dislikes. One man is large and intimidating looking with short blonde hair. One man is smaller, dark-haired with tattoos on his neck and geek chic specs. The last man has tan skin and sun-kissed blonde hair just long enough in front to brush across his lashes. He’s so beautiful I can hardly believe he’s a rock star and not a movie star.
I close the browser. There’s no point doing more research until I know which one is the victim. A text alert from my phone has me groaning. Hailey. I’m supposed to have dinner with her tonight. Groaning, I head toward the shower.
I should be more excited to see her. Considering how many years I was with the FBI. The job didn’t really make it easy to have relationships of any kind. Random hook-ups here and there to let out frustration were it for me for a while, until they stopped all together. I try not to think about why I stopped pursuing dates and my heart clenches painfully.
Getting regular sex after going so long without should be a good thing, yet gorgeous as she is, I could care less about seeing Hailey. My left eye begins to twitch, a sure sign that I’m stressed out and thinking too much, yet I continue down that road anyway.
In the shower, I soap up, wondering for the millionth time why I can’t make it work with Hailey. In high school and college, my friends talked about sex and girls like they were the greatest things ever.
Yeah, I hooked up with a few girls to prove something to myself and yeah, there was a certain amount of curiosity. I got off and everything. I didn’t see sex the way my friends described it. It was okay, felt good and all. It just never held my interest enough to bother pursuing anyone or keeping any of the girls around longer than a week or two.
I shake my head, not wanting to go down that road again. About what did hold my interest. Instead, I think about the case, wondering which of the three men is the victim of a stalker.
My mind keeps wandering back to one of the men in particular. Gavin, the gorgeous blonde man with the angular jaw, cheekbones so defined they would make an