Promise You Won't Tell? by John Locke Page A

someone who looks at things differently. Someone who sees things others don’t. Ask Dillon what he thinks of me.”
    “Dillon’s eighteen. He hired you because of your boobs.”
    She smiles “You like them?”
    “I don’t know anything about them.”
    “Would you like to?”
    “No. I’m just saying, he’s an eighteen-year-old boy. He has no idea what criteria to look for in an ideal receptionist.”
    “Of course he does! He found me , didn’t he? And anyway, he’s here.”
    I turn around. “Where?”
    “He’s pulling into the parking lot right now.”
    “You can’t possibly hear anything that far away.”
    “Shh!” she says. “Listen for the sound of the car door slamming shut.”
    “This is ridiculous.”
    She says, “There! Surely you heard that !”
    “You’re insane.”
    “You’re telling me you can’t hear him humming?”
    This time she’s gone too far. “Oh really? What tune?”
    “Ravel’s Bolero.”
    “Gotcha!”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Dillon’s idea of classical music is Guns N’ Roses.”
    “You got a problem with Guns N’ Roses?”
    “No, it’s just—”
    Dillon opens the door to the office, enters, walks through the reception area, down the hall toward us, humming Ravel’s Bolero.
    “Where did you hear that tune you’re humming?” I demand.
    “Fanny sent me a mix.”
    Fanny says, “The title hooked him.”
    “What, Bolero?”
    “No,” Fanny says, “The mix title. My song list. I call it—”
    “—Stop! I don’t want to know. You’re trying to suck me into your vortex again.”
    Dillon says, “You look great, Fanny! How are you feeling?”
    She smiles. “I’ve seen better days. And worse ones, too.”
    “Dani’s having a bad day, too,” he says. “We stole some cell phones hoping to find naked pictures of a girl, but they didn’t have any.”
    “I know some great porn sites.”
    “Me, too. But this was a client. Something happened to her, but we can’t prove it.”
    “Story of my life,” she says. “By the way, Dani just fired me.”
    “Don’t worry. She fires me all the time. You probably just got off on the wrong foot. Like I said, she’s had a bad day. Still, I’m sorry she made you come to work like this.”
    “That’s okay. I’ve been meaning to meet her for a long time.”
    “I’m right here in the room,” I say.
    “You should be in bed, Fanny,” Dillon says.
    “If I had a bedroom like the one on her computer, I’d never go outside.”
    I say, “What are you talking about?”
    “The photos on your computer. Who’s bedroom is that?”
    “What the hell were you doing looking at my computer? You’re out of line! That’s completely unacceptable!”
    Dillon says, “It’s Kelli Underhill’s bedroom.”
    “The girl who had the slumber party?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Well, whoever put the surveillance equipment in there did a helluva good job.”
    She turns to leave.
    Dillon and I look at each other.
    Surveillance equipment?
    “Wait!” I say.

Riley was right about the first four photos Dillon took of Kelli’s bedroom using the camera’s built-in flash.
    “The flash makes ’em pop out like cold air on a warm nipple,” Fanny says.
    “Makes what pop out?” I ask.
    She points to an area on the right side of the photo. “Right here. See that tiny light burst?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s light, reflecting off a miniature camera lens. And see this one up here?”
    “Yes?”
    “That’s another one.”
    “You’re certain?”
    “Of course. I used to install surveillance equipment for the CIA.”
    “I seriously doubt that.”
    “You can call and ask them. Central Insurance Agency. Two-forty Eddington Street, Montpelier, Vermont.”
    “Oh.”
    “Want their number?”
    “No. But if you’re right about the cameras—”
    “Yes?”
    “You can keep your job.”
    “Oh, goody.”
    “For now.”
    “How about a raise?”
    “Don’t press your luck.”
    “What if I tell you something else?”
    “Like