Zach’s heart gave a bump of anticipation. He turned and walked from the restaurant, looked up at the skyscraper where Tony Rickman had his offices. “I’ll be right there.”
“See you soon.” Rickman clicked off.
A deep breath brought city heat and smells, different than the Montana county he’d served for three years. He swallowed away the sadness at Lauren and Larry, found himself murmuring a little prayer his grandmother had taught him for their souls.
Change wasn’t always good, but always happened.
SEVEN
THE REAL ESTATE agent opened the door of the cab and Clare slid out, nearly shivering with cold. Enzo had accompanied her and the driver had his air-conditioning running hard. She paid the fare and added an eighteen percent tip, and the cab zoomed off.
Arlene, young and Hispanic with a huge smile and incredible energy, chattered about the landscaping of the first house, the curb appeal. At first glance Clare liked the looks of the house, but she admitted to herself that she wanted more charm in a home. Especially since she now lived in a small rectangular structure. She and Enzo followed Arlene through the house. Despite everything, Clare wasn’t about to make a quick decision. She intended to buy only one house in her lifetime—at least until she married and had children. Even then, if she loved the house and it was big enough for a family, she thought she could persuade a husband to live with her.
The image of an extremely sexy Zach Slade rose to her mind and made her whole body warm as she recalled the way he looked at her. Broad shoulders, tall and sleekly muscular, but with a lean look that made her think he’d recently lost weight. An ex–deputy sheriff, and shot. She had enough data to look him up online when she returned home.
In the meantime, she could keep him, and two prospective children, in mind as a “sample” family while she real estate shopped—think of two cars instead of one, or a minivan, and make sure the schools were good . . . not quite what she’d told Arlene already, so she’d do that after this first set of viewings.
Selling Aunt Sandra’s home on the lake in Chicago gave Clare quite a budget. But what should have been fun became wearying. Enzo accompanied her and made comments, lifting his ghostly leg on trees, then walking through them. Did he truly mark his presence somehow? She hadn’t noticed any doggie scent.
Anyway, he was distracting, and she had to watch herself from answering him.
She also felt the chill tingle of presences, knowing that there were ghosts in the house or on the land, but not from her “time period.” She thought she could live with that, though.
How Sandra had lived in a house that had been built in the time period she was sensitive to, Clare didn’t know; the very idea made her shudder.
• • •
“There are cases cops can’t touch,” Rickman said, eyes serious, as he stood leaning against the front of his desk.
Zach hadn’t sat down this time, but moved to one of the office’s windows, staring over the city at the interesting buildings and blocks interspersed with trees. “Yeah, a case the cops can’t touch? Like what?”
“Like an old woman trying to track down her mother’s heirlooms.”
Zach snorted.
“Those pieces mean something to her, Zach,” the PI said in a gentler voice than Zach would have expected from a military officer.
“She lost her mother when she was young, was sent to her father’s relatives. Mrs. Flinton wants the pieces back. They remind her of her home before her mother died.” There was a long pause. “She needs what the psych people call closure, Zach.”
That socked him in the gut. Closure. Something none of his family had gotten.
There was no closing the cold case of the murder of his brother twenty-three years ago. The case of the drive-by shooting of James Slade remained open.
Yeah, Zach had heard a lot about closure in individual and family grief counseling. Knew how the lack of the who and why ate in the gut.
Destroyed a family.
Rickman said, “There’s an auction tonight where Mrs. Flinton believes some of her mother’s antiques might be, but I don’t like the way she was contacted.”
“Scam,” Zach said.
“Yes. So far I haven’t had any luck in finding out deep background on the seller. The auction house says he’ll be there tonight. You’re an observant man, Zach. A hard man, but someone I think Mrs. Flinton might trust just because you come off so straight.”
Zach grunted.
“As I said earlier, I think you could be an asset to my firm.”
Zach had done nothing to make the guy like him. Hardly cared if people liked him. Would rather have respect.
“And I respect you,” Rickman said, like he’d figured out that aspect of Zach’s character, too.
Zach knew he was being influenced by the compliment, but also believed the head of the private investigative firm was sincere.
“Tell me the details.” Zach walked, cane sinking into thick gray carpet, from the window to hitch a hip on the arm of one of the client chairs, the cane helped him balance.
“We’re talking about several pieces of expensive furniture and an antique silver plate service for six, complete with punch bowl and other fancy items. The thing is, when pressed, Mrs. Flinton doesn’t have a strong recollection of the exact pieces.”
“They could be new and made to look like antiques. If they were engraved—” Zach began.
“Yes, that could be forged. The con could be anything from just scamming her for the money she’d spend at the auction, to setting her up for more sales, to getting a foot inside her door to rob her. We did the security on her home, but she only has one full-time person in her place, a housekeeper nearly as elderly as she.”
“Sounds like the seller who contacted her is a real confidence man,” Zach said.
“That’s right. All you have to do is attend the auction with her, keep your eyes open.”
“I can look at the stuff, but I’m not an antiques expert by any means.”
“Look at the seller and any accomplice he might have. The auction house is clean, but they allow consignment sellers. You’re a people person, you can spot cons.”
“Why me?” Zach asked. “You must have other . . . operatives.”
“Actually I don’t have one right for this job. Some of my guys like a lot of danger in their lives, a lot of action. A simple case like this wouldn’t interest them—and most are ex-military more than ex-cop. Different mind-set. That matters.”
“Yeah.”
“You ready to meet Mrs. Flinton?”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“That’s right. And it looks like you’re interested. Beats sitting around, doesn’t it?”
“And you want to see how I work. Work with clients and with you. Handle myself.”
Rickman just did a one-shoulder shrug at Zach’s stating the obvious. “Now let’s have you meet the client.” He reached over and pushed a button on his desk.
The door opened. Too late now to give voice to second, third, hundredth thoughts about taking the job.
But if he didn’t like the client—a client, not a victim . . . or was she?—he’d walk away.
Rickman straightened and Zach slid to his feet. She came in leaning on a walker. The tall woman, dressed in a quality but dated pantsuit, wore her thin silver hair in a wavy style. Her carefully made-up face showed a far-too-innocent expression for a woman of her years.
Her gaze went straight to Rickman as she took one careful step, then another. “Are you sure this is a scam?”
Tony inclined his head, gesturing to Zach. “May I introduce my associate, Zach Slade? He’s an ex–deputy sheriff and policeman. Zach, what’s your professional opinion of the setup?”
Angling toward her, Zach said, “I believe someone is playing on your sentiments to line his pock
ets.”
Her lips quivered. She really should be less wide-eyed at this time in her life.
“With your permission,” Rickman said, “I’d like Zach to accompany you to the auction tonight.”
Now her blue eyes narrowed as her gaze fixed on Zach. She clumped toward him, chin stubborn, and held out a white hand with blue veins showing beneath. He took her fingers, felt a warm, strong clasp.
“Oh!” She grinned, and while her hand clamped around his, her glance went to Rickman. “I should have known you wouldn’t have given me to one of your regular guys, Tony.” She met Zach’s eyes. “You have a touch of the sight, don’t you?”
What the hell did that mean? The back of Zach’s neck itched. He shot Rickman a narrow-eyed look and got a bland expression. Just what kind of place was the PI running, and just what had he and the sheriff discussed about Zach? “No, I don’t have any sight,” Zach said.
Mrs. Flinton removed her other hand from her walker and wrapped it around Zach’s. “You’re in denial, are you? You’ll be fine with me. I promise.” Her silver brows twisted a bit. “Hmm.” Again she smiled at Rickman. “You said Zach just got in from Montana?”
“That’s right,” Rickman said.
She smelled of a light floral fragrance that Zach hadn’t associated with old ladies until now. Clare Cermak had had a more exotic, spicy scent that had teased his nostrils.
“You can stay with me. I have a huge old house in Cherry Creek.”
“Mrs. Flinton—” Rickman began.
“I don’t think—” Zach started at the same time.
Her set chin lifted. “I insist. I have a housekeeper’s suite that’s been converted into a street-level walk-in apartment that would be fine for you. My own living area is in the main wing on the second floor. We can talk about a reasonable rent later, when you take me to tea.”
Zach’s stomach rumbled.
She appeared triumphant. “There! You’re hungry, too.”
Rickman pushed away from his desk, plucked Mrs. Flinton right out of the cage of her walker, and she let Zach’s hand go. He let out a grateful breath.
“Come on, Aunt Barbara, let’s take this a little slower, eh? Give the guy some room.”
“I want to give him a whole apartment!” she said.
Zach retreated to the window overlooking the plains. His day was turning downright weird.
Rickman hauled giggling “Aunt Barbara” out of his inner office. A young Asian guy who moved like a martial artist, dressed professionally, came and picked up the walker, then nodded to Zach.
“I’ll meet you at the Brown Palace in a half hour, Zach!” Mrs. Flinton called back, her fingers waving above Rickman’s shoulder. “Mr. Yee, I have a new tenant for the ground floor.”
“Sounds good. I will call the Brown Palace and make an appointment for tea,” said Yee.
“Aunt Barbara, Yee—” Rickman began.
Zach had made a mistake in not closing the door. Mrs. Flinton, now solidly back on her walker, stared at him. “Zach Slade, you can’t tell me that you aren’t staying in a motel. Not even a hotel here in Denver, but”—her eyes became distant—“in the northern suburbs.”
He wasn’t going to admit she was right; good guessing on her part, though.
“Yee will escort you to the Brown Palace, Aunt Barbara. I’ll see if Zach can make it.”
“See that he does. He’ll be good for you, Tony, and your business, and me. And we’ll certainly be good for him.” She jerked her head in a nod toward Zach, then at Rickman, glanced at the young blond woman manning the reception. “I’ll see you later, Samantha; have a good day.”
“You, too, Mrs. Flinton,” Samantha piped.
“Maybe Samantha might like tea—”
A jolt went through Zach; was Mrs. Flinton setting him up with a girl, too? A girl, not a woman. Clare Cermak was a woman.
“No,” Rickman said. “The last time you took Samantha to ‘tea’ she got drunk on champagne and missed the rest of the day.”
“Really, Tony, you are such a poor sport.”
“Uh-huh.”
Yee opened the outer door. “Come on, Mrs. Flinton. The Brown Palace is waiting for you.” He smiled a charming smile that worked on the old lady. She turned and moved away with more grace and less sound than she’d shown before.
The outer office door closed, and Rickman came in and closed his inner door.
“Aunt Barbara?” Zach questioned.
Rickman took the chair behind his desk. “An honorary aunt, friend of my grandmother’s.”
“A very unique individual.”
Rickman’s eyes had gone a thoughtful deep gray, and something moved in his gaze that Zach couldn’t put his finger on. “She likes you. Thought she would. And she’s right much of the time. You going to tell me you aren’t holed up in some motel in the northern ’burbs?” he shot back.
Zach gave him a flat stare that had no effect on the man. Zach needed to do that background search he hadn’t bothered with before on Rickman. Zach had been so sure he wouldn’t go private.
“And am I expected to pick up the tab for tea?”
Rickman stared. “Got under your skin, didn’t she?”
Zach shrugged.
“Let her pick up the tab,” Rickman said. His smile was crooked. “We’ll be giving her the friends-and-family rate.” A few heartbeats of silence. “Your consulting fee will be the one we discussed before.”
Which meant Rickman himself would take the discount hit.
Zach didn’t contradict him. He’d see whether he could work for the guy. Going private left a bad taste in his mouth.
Rickman grinned, showing his teeth. “Go have tea.”
• • •
Clare and Arlene managed to finish looking at all four houses before rush hour traffic started at three P.M. and Arlene dropped Clare back off at her house. She and Arlene discussed each place on the way home, and more of what Clare was looking for. Clare ignored Enzo’s comments from the backseat.
She dredged up a smile and a wave for Arlene but had to concentrate to pick up her feet instead of shuffle along the sidewalk. She actually considered a nap, especially since she’d have to attend an auction that evening. Of course she considered skipping it but didn’t think Enzo would let her do it.
She plunked her leather bag that contained the books on Jack Slade next to a comfy old wing chair and sank into it, a little hungry but too weary to eat.
Enzo sat in front of her looking like an old black-and-white photograph. He scratched his ear with his hind leg. All right, an early silent movie.
I did not like any of those houses, Clare. The ghosts were not friendly.
Ignoring that she didn’t believe in ghosts, she pulled the knitted afghan from over the chair and pulled it around her. Weird. The house should be hot.
Clare, are you listening to me?
Sleepy, she muttered, “You’ve been talking all darn day.” Even when she’d been focused on Zach, Enzo’s comments had buzzed in her mind, not that she recalled them much.
I LIKE Zach Slade. He smells right!
Oh, yeah, Enzo had said that, had danced around the table, had checked out the guy—well, she had, too.
Jackson Zachary Slade wasn’t her usual sort, obviously more of a physical guy; just the way he moved showed that, even with the cane. She did like looking at his shoulders—hair a little longer and shaggier than she normally preferred, but it had looked good on him. His hair appeared silky, and black with tints of dark brown. He had strong features with prominent cheekbones and a skin tone that could indicate that trace of Native American blood he said he had. His eyes were a changeable blue-green, and the heat in those eyes as he looked at her had her own blood dancing a Gypsy beat.
A sexy, interesting guy who’d listened to her, and, even better, liked what h
e saw in her.
There’d been an enticing physical attraction, a hum in the air that promised heat.
Smiling, she wiggled a little and pulled the afghan over her shoulders, eyes nearly closed before she realized a pair of translucent gray trouser legs stood before her chair and she jolted awake, clutching the blanket close.
There he was again: Jack Slade, looking enough like the drawing to be identified by it. Which was rather interesting because the portrait hadn’t been completely verified as the man.
“Jack Slade,” she said.
He made a short bow.
“I met someone with a name like yours today.”
The ghost bridled. What?
“His name is Jackson Slade.” Now that she could compare them, the current Jackson Zachary Slade didn’t look a bit like the vision her imagination painted before her.
My name, said the ghost, is Joseph Albert Slade, but his expression turned softer, sorrowful. My lovely wife never bore a child; I never fathered one. The shadows darkened in his eye sockets. I don’t believe much of the Slade line in Illinois persisted, either. He waved a hand, as if that were unimportant, as if anything other than his own personal problems were unimportant.
“Did you kill Jules Beni?”
Jack’s smile was fierce, showing a white gleam of teeth. He ran his fingers over his pocket-watch chain, then put his hand over one of the areas of his torso that showed the lead that had remained inside him. Jules Beni had been the one to ambush and shoot Jack.
“Did you kill Jules Beni?” Her voice was shriller than she liked, but her throat was colder.
EIGHT
NO. THE APPARITION shrugged. I put a reward, dead or alive, on Beni’s head. The money was considerably more for him alive. My men killed him. He was dead when I got to the Cold Springs stage station.
“Much of your life is nothing but legend,” Clare murmured, flipping mentally through the facts, trying to figure out what next she’d ask him to satisfy her curiosity.
You promise you will get the box tonight? he insisted.
Ghost Seer Page 6
