Ch.38 - Detective Thomas O'Reilly
'Well hello there, Mr. Money-Bags. And to what do I owe this honor?'
Detective Thomas O'Reilly sat behind the cluttered desk concentrating on a particularly frustrating game of poker when his new client walked in. The man had called that morning insisting on an afternoon appointment and his mouse of a secretary penciled him in, even though he'd given her strict instructions to keep the next several hours free. He'd lost his ass the week before in an online tournament and now he needed to find a way to recover his losses. It was either that or forfeit his car payment, which wasn't an option.
With an irritated huff, O'Reilly closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, studying the man as he entered the room. He wore a gray pinstripe suit with a crisp white dress shirt underneath and a dark silk tie. His shoes were polished to the nines and his hair impeccably groomed, not one shiny silver strand out of place. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin held high, the corner of his lips turned up in a smirk as he took in his surroundings.
The man reeked of old money and Irish whiskey, a dangerous combination, and he caught wind of it immediately from across the overcrowded desk.
'A liquid lunch. Can't say I haven't been there before.' In fact, O'Reilly had downed a fifth of vodka for dinner just the night before, the dull pounding in his head a constant reminder of that.
His chair creaked as he shifted his substantial weight and he made an unsuccessful attempt to conceal a fart. "What can I do for today, Mr. . ."
"Austin," the man said. "Conrad Austin."
O'Reilly nodded his head. ". . .Mr. Austin?"
"I assume I can sit?" he asked, nodding at the chair in front of his desk. It was covered in a deep burgundy faux leather with a long tear in the center of the seat, the foam contents spilling out between the jagged laceration.
"Be my guest."
O'Reilly had been negotiating with the scum of society for the better part of thirty years, first as a detective then a private investigator. Many of the low-life's he dealt with were gutter rats, inhabiters of the slums, executing unthinkable acts to catch their next fix. Others were hard-working citizens whose gut instinct told them their spouse weren't respecting their wedding vows. He'd learned over time to go with the gut. Somehow the gut always knew. If something felt wrong, it typically was. And right now his gut told him this guy was up to no good, despite his expensive suit and nauseatingly pungent cologne.
'So Mr. Big-Spender likes to show off, he thought as he eyed the man's sapphire and diamond studded tie pin. You know what they say about men who flaunt their money: they have teeny-tiny appendages they're trying to compensate for. And this chump's dick must be especially small. Look at those matching cuff links!'
The silver-haired man cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. "I need information."
'Well, no shit, Mr. La-Di-Da! Even my secretary could have told me that!'
"Of course you do, Mr. Austin. What exactly can I help you with?"
"You had a client a few years ago, a young man looking for his wife."
O'Reilly arched his eyebrows. "That fits the description of many of my clients. Can you be any more specific?"
"I can be as specific as you like." Conrad Austin leaned forward and narrowed his eyes in a menacing glare. "This young man's name was Steven Austin. He hired you to find his wife when she disappeared after a house fire. Ring any bells?"
Hell yeah it rang bells! He'd made a small fortune off that story once it made headlines. One uptight, rich prick dead after he walked in on his pretty, young wife shacking up with another man. It had "best seller" written all over it!
He'd known all along there was more to the story than that shady bastard had let on when he hired him to find the missing woman. Instinct told him she was missing for a reason. Steven Austin had "predator" written all over his face. And he was right. After the shooting, all it took was a phone call to one of the hottest gossip magazines around and he started raking in the dough. After all, he had the inside story to the giant mess Steven Austin had gotten himself into. And who cared that he defied the Private Investigator's Oath? Steven Austin was dead. There was no one left to call him out on client confidentiality. He was a highly trained individual in the art of surveillance and once word spread that Steven Austin had hired a PI before he'd been killed, he had suddenly become the media's best friend. Besides, he'd had enough of monitoring child custody visitations and gathering divorce evidence. He was ready for a big payoff, and what better way than to cash in on one of the hottest crimes of the year.
"Yes, I seem to recall that name," he answered, trying to keep his voice steady.
Conrad Austin sat back with a sneer. "I imagine you do. It didn't take long for you to figure out how to take advantage of the situation." He folded his arms across his chest. "You had your name and picture splattered across every magazine in print before his body was even cold. So, how much were you able to make selling my son's story?"
His son? Oh, for fuck's sake, he should have known. They shared the same aura of entitlement, only Mr. Big-Shot here was an even bigger douche than his son. Best to play it cool. "I don't know what you mean? I was just doing my part to help out the investigation."
"Did the investigation require you to make the most of your fifteen minutes of fame? Or to write a book about it...that you've yet to sell, by the way?"
Damn, he knew about the book? He'd spent the past three years compiling enough information to fill three hundred pages of the Steven and Sarah Austin Saga. Who wouldn't want to read about their sex, lies and abuse? Now he just needed to find an agent who believed in the story as much as he did. Once he sold his book and the movie rights, he wouldn't have to sit in this dank office anymore, locating and interviewing witnesses or reconstructing accident scenes. He'd be sitting on a beach somewhere, sipping Piña Coladas, hiring women named Lolita to rub suntan lotion on his back...and wherever else she saw fit.
"I'll have you know, Mr. Austin, that I have maintained the highest value in ethics and integrity concerning your son's case. It's not my fault the public wants more information about the events than what the media shared." He retrieved an expensive wooden box from the top drawer of his desk, one of the many lavish gifts he'd bought with his earnings, and took out a cigar. If he'd spent his money wisely he would probably still have some left. But once he was sitting on top of a six figure paycheck for sharing dirt on Steven Austin, he couldn't help but treat himself. After all, he did deserve it. The trouble was he didn't know when to stop and now his bank account sat empty. Again.
"You know," O'Reilly said, leaning toward his lighter. He lit the cigar and took a deep drag. "We could write a book together. You supply the "before" Sarah information and I'll supply the "after". We could both make a pretty penny, you know."
Conrad Austin stared at him for a long moment before answering. "I have no need for pretty pennies. I have plenty of those. What I do need is information."
O'Reilly narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What kind of information?"
"I want to know everything there is to know about Steven's former wife, and the man she's with now. I want to know about their pasts, their families, any runs-ins with the law. I want to know about their friends and the people they socialize with. I want every last detail you're able to find and by every mean available to you. Run their license plates, hack their emails, run credit checks; I don't care. Just find out everything you can."
O'Reilly puffed on his cigar and let out a long stream of smoke. "Those means are illegal, Mr. Austin. Technically, I'm not supposed to find information that way."
Conrad Austin reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of money then placed it on the desk and pushed it toward the center. "Mr. O'Reilly. That woman put my son in a position that ended his life. I don't care what you have to do to dig up information on her. I want to know her weaknesses. I want to know what she eats for breakfast and when she takes a shit. If you can't give me what I need then I'll take my money to someone who can." He reached across the desk toward the wad of cash but O'Reilly snatched it up before his fingertips even touched the green.
"I suppose rules were made to be broken. Right, Mr. Austin? I mean, a little illegal activity never killed anyone." O'Reilly flipped through the bills and let out a low whistle.
"This woman needs to pay for her actions and since the police refuse to properly take care of the matter I'll take care of it myself." The wealthy man pressed his fingertips together, forming a steeple. "The police say Steven tried to kill Sarah first but I'm certain she provoked him, that's what wives do. And I'm not about to let some good-for-nothing woman ruin the Austin name."
"Women are good-for-nothing." He couldn't argue with Mr. Richie-Rich on that one. "I've always said: if they locked up all the crazy women we'd have no women left. Your son only did what all men dream of doing. It's a shame he got caught." O'Reilly shook his head, his mind racing over all the women in his past who'd done him wrong. "Never wait around for a good woman because they just don't exist. Sure, they might make you feel good for the night, but they'd just as soon stab you in the gut if they think you're disrespecting them. How's that old saying go? 'Never envy a man his lady. Behind it all lays a living hell.' Truer words were never spoken." He took another drag on his cigar and grinned.
Conrad Austin handed him a business card with his name and contact information. "Good. I think we're on the same page." He stood from his chair and smoothed down his jacket.
"Nature intended women to be our slaves. It's unnatural when they decide to think for themselves," O'Reilly continued on, too excited to stop. He stood up and scratched his balls, aware of how his gut hung over his pants like a sack of potatoes. Once he sold the movie rights to his book, he'd hire himself a personal trainer and finally get in shape. Or not.
His new client nodded, his eyes roaming over him in distaste. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime... Make sure you get me what I need."
"Sure thing, sir," O'Reilly called after him as he walked out of the office. "I'll get you everything you need, or my name isn't Detective Thomas O'Reilly!"
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Hello and thank you for reading Secrets and Lies! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a vote!
Detective Thomas O'Reilly, a man I love to hate...and one of my favorite characters from The Secret. Still money hungry and up to no good. Here's an FYI, remember that any chapter that refers to Jackson as Conrad took place in the past. :)
I have a busy week ahead so the next chapter will be up Friday. Have a good week! XO