D.B. Hayes, Detective
Page 1
“I’m a private investigator, pal. People pay me for information.”
He reached in his hip pocket and produced a leather wallet. Taking some bills from inside, he laid them on the desk and stared at me with a questioning lift of his brows.
“You don’t have enough money. Get out of here.”
He reached into his wallet once more. This time he handed me a small white business card.
“You’re Brandon Kirkpatrick?”
“You weren’t what I expected, either,” he admitted. “I assumed D.B. Hayes was a man. What does the D.B. stand for anyhow?”
“Dangerous when bothered.” I was still angry.
He grinned. The man was gorgeous even when he was angry, but when he smiled he was downright lethal.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
It might be warm outside, but our June lineup will thrill and chill you!
* This month, we have a couple of great miniseries. Man of Her Dreams is the spine-tingling conclusion to Debra Webb’s trilogy THE ENFORCERS. And there are just two installments left in B.J. Daniels’s McCALLS’ MONTANA series—High-Caliber Cowboy is out now, and Shotgun Surrender will be available next month.
* We also have two fantastic special promotions. First, is our Gothic ECLIPSE title, Mystique, by Charlotte Douglas. And Dani Sinclair brings you D.B. Hayes, Detective, the second installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring sexy sleuths.
* Last, but definitely not least, is Jessica Andersen’s The Sheriff’s Daughter. Sparks fly between a medical investigator and a vet in this exciting medical thriller.
* Also, keep your eyes peeled for Joanna Wayne’s THE GENTLEMAN’S CLUB, available from Signature Spotlight.
This month, and every month, we promise to deliver six of the best romantic suspense titles around. Don’t miss a single one!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Dani Sinclair
D.B. HAYES, DETECTIVE
For all the caring volunteers who work with strays
and abandoned and abused animals every day.
You understand that the world is a richer place
when we open our hearts and our lives to
these intelligent beings covered in fur.
And to Roger, Chip, Dan and Barb, as always.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An avid reader, Dani Sinclair didn’t discover romance novels until her mother lent her one when she’d come for a visit. Dani’s been hooked on the genre ever since. But she didn’t take up writing seriously until her two sons were grown. With the premiere of Mystery Baby for Harlequin Intrigue in 1996, Dani’s kept her computer busy ever since. Her third novel, Better Watch Out, was a RITA® Award finalist in 1998. Dani lives outside Washington, D.C., a place she’s found to be a great source for both intrigue and humor!
Books by Dani Sinclair
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
371—MYSTERY BABY
401—MAN WITHOUT A BADGE
448—BETTER WATCH OUT
481—MARRIED IN HASTE
507—THE MAN SHE MARRIED
539—FOR HIS DAUGHTER*
551—MY BABY, MY LOVE*
565—THE SILENT WITNESS*
589—THE SPECIALIST
602—BEST-KEPT SECRETS*
613—SOMEONE’S BABY
658—SCARLET VOWS
730—THE FIRSTBORN†
736—THE SECOND SISTER†
742—THE THIRD TWIN†
827—SECRET CINDERELLA
854—D.B. HAYES, DETECTIVE
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
690—THE NAKED TRUTH
CAST OF CHARACTERS
D.B. Hayes—At age twenty-four, Diana Barbara “Dee” Hayes has a lot to prove as a woman and as a private investigator. She hopes not to get killed in the process….
Brandon Kirkpatrick—The former-cop-turned-investigator has a knack for getting into Dee’s business…and under her skin.
Hogan Delvecchi—He looks like a boulder and is known to do all Albert Russo’s dirty work. How dirty is he willing to get?
Lacy Dunning and Trudy Hoffsteader—Dee’s aunt and her business partner have owned and operated Flower World ever since Dee can remember. Luckily they’re willing to share their space with Dee’s detective agency.
Brenda Keene—Dee’s father’s next-door neighbor insists that Dee find her mysterious stalker.
Mickey—The desperate ten-year-old comes in to hire D.B. Hayes—to find Mr. Sam, a geriatric cat….
Mr. Sam—The cat eludes D. B., but his look-alikes are taking over her apartment!
Albert Russo—The business entrepreneur and possible mobster is willing to give Dee her first big case, but does he have ulterior motives?
Elaine Russo—Is she simply tired of being a trophy wife, or is she playing a far more deadly game?
Nicole Wickley—The actress bears a striking resemblance to Elaine Russo—so striking there’s some question as to whether they’re really the same person.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Okay, so maybe my father was right. Being a private investigator can be a little dangerous.
I stared up at the mountain of flesh in front of me—six feet four, three hundred seventy pounds of masculine flab, and all of it quivering in a drunken rage. Another time I might have been fascinated by that rippling effect, but at the moment I was mesmerized by the enormous knife he was waving in one meaty hand. The only thing standing between the two of us was a rusting old porch swing, and that was one wicked-looking knife.
Lyle Arrensky was his name, and he wasn’t dressed unless you count a pair of grungy boxer shorts with—so help me God—blue and green rabbits against an angry orange background. I did not want to count those shorts. Heck, I didn’t even want to think about those shorts.
“I tole that bitch once,” he slurred, his glazed piggy eyes unblinking, “I tole that bitch twice. She ain’t gonna get that bowl back unless she comes here and asks me nice. You got that?”
Oh, yeah. I got that. I couldn’t miss that. The words came accompanied by beer fumes mixed with the sour odor of unwashed flesh. And to reinforce the smell, Lake Erie sent a tepid puff of wind blowing in my direction.
It wasn’t a real breeze but enough to stir the stench of traffic fumes, stale food and a whole host of other smells best not specifically identified. I began breathing through my mouth while urging the contents of my stomach to stay with me a little longer. This was not the time for a rebellion.
Keeping the porch swing between him and me, I edged closer to the steps and freedom.
“I promise. I’ll pass on your message, Mr. Arrensky.”
My tennis shoe found the top step, and I backed down as quickly as humanly possible without taking my eyes off the hand waving the knife. It was broad daylight. Where were all the nosy neighbors? People around here called the cops over dogs pooping on their browned-out lawns.
Not that I was anxious to deal with the police right now, but I did want out of here without bloodshed—especially mine. Susan Arrensky had hired me to obtain proof that her soon-to-be-ex-husband had physical possession of a hideously large silver-plated loving cup that had once belonged to her late grandmother. I’d managed to s
nap several photographs of said loving cup through the open living room window before Mr. Arrensky realized I was standing on his porch. If I hadn’t gotten greedy and tried for that final photo, he’d have never noticed my hand sticking in through his window.
Someone else had put that large hole in his screen, not me. Given the way it was ripped and the knife he was holding, I’d hazard a guess that Mr. Arrensky himself had something to do with the torn screen. He seemed to like the idea of putting holes in things—or people.
“You do that,” he yelled, menacing me with the long, hairy arm clutching the knife. “You tell that worthless little bitch she can crawl back here on her hands and knees if she wants the damn thing. You tell her that.”
He swayed dangerously in my direction.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure and tell her that.”
I felt the cracked and broken sidewalk under my foot. Turning, I sprinted across the yellowed grass with more speed than I would have thought possible in this heat. The August sun was blistering more than just the city streets around Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon.
Binky, my ancient VW Bug, started with a grinding noise I’m certain he wasn’t supposed to make. For once I wasn’t concerned about his health. My health was far more important. I left four feet of precious tire tread pealing away from the curb, but at least I made my escape without any new body piercings.
In the rearview mirror I saw Mr. Arrensky standing on the sidewalk scratching his considerably rounded belly while shouting curses in my wake. A scruffy-looking white poodle trotting down that same sidewalk prudently crossed the street to avoid him.
It was sort of sad to think that poodle was a whole lot smarter than I was.
The one good thing about returning to my office was that it was blessedly air-conditioned. Sadly Binky wasn’t, and I couldn’t afford a car that was. Sitting back carefully, I gazed around the converted closet and sighed with relief.
Okay, it wasn’t really a closet. The space had always been a tiny office, just not my office. It was actually the office that came with my aunt Lacy’s flower shop. I work for her and her partner when I’m not on a case. Unfortunately that’s a little too often for comfort.
Aunt Lacy and Trudy Hoffsteder have owned and operated Flower World for longer than I’ve been alive, which is to say more than twenty-four years. Their shop is in a building on the corner of Detroit Avenue, down the street from the hospital.
Not exactly the high-rent district, but as Aunt Lacy is fond of pointing out, it’s a perfect location for a flower shop. It’s not a bad location for me, either. The price is certainly right.
I tried living in New York City after I got out of college and earned my investigator’s license, but working for an established firm meant I spent most of my time in front of a computer screen running background checks and fetching coffee for the senior partners. Of course, I do a lot of that here, as well, but Trudy and my aunt are much nicer, and the background checks are for my clients.
Not that I’m exactly buried in cases in this quiet Cleveland suburb, but I grew up in this area. I know people here, and word of mouth is important for a private investigator starting out. Overall I’ve been doing fine—or I was until Brandon Kirkpatrick set up shop across the bridge in Rocky River a few weeks ago.
He’s a male, so naturally he’s getting all the really good cases. Already his name has made the local papers—twice! The first time was when he unfairly got credit for breaking up a stolen-car ring. The second time was when he located the mayor’s missing sculpture. That one really ticked me off.
The car ring had been a fluke. Kirkpatrick caught the guy trying to steal his car, and because the little twerp wanted to cut a deal with the district attorney, he talked his head off, cracking the ring wide open.
As for the missing sculpture, that turned out to be nothing more than a high school prank. I could have figured that one out in half the time. Aunt Lacy and Trudy have a communications network that would make Homeland Security envious, and I mean, who else in their right mind would take such an ugly piece of glass and metal?
What really stuck in my craw was that the mayor hired Kirkpatrick when she lives three doors down from my brother and his family!
Brandon Kirkpatrick isn’t even a native Ohioan. He grew up in Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! I know it’s petty, but I couldn’t help wishing he’d stayed there. Why did he have to come and set up shop on my turf?
I finished downloading the pictures of Mr. Arrensky in his oversize recliner watching a wrestling match while tossing peanuts at the loving cup, and sent them to print. Susan Arrensky would be happy, and I was comforted knowing she was good for my fee. After all, her dad is a vice president with the local bank where my family has done business for years.
“Excuse me, Dee,” Aunt Lacy interrupted from the doorway. “Would you have time to finish the Martak arrangement for me? I have a dentist appointment in thirty minutes, and Trudy went home to check on Clem.”
Clem is the parrot Trudy inherited from her mother. I suspect her mother inherited it from her grandmother, who probably got it from her mother. No one seems willing to guess exactly how old that bird is, but from some of the phrases he knows, I suspect he once traveled with pirates. He’s mean and he knows more swearwords than a drunken sailor.
“No problem, Aunt Lacy. I can finish the arrangement right now.” Leaning forward carefully, I stood up. There were times when the swivel chair seemed to have a mind of its own. “I’m finished working until tonight.”
“Oh. You took Mr. Russo’s case then?”
Aunt Lacy could convey a lot of emotion in a few short words. She was in accord with the rest of my family when it came to my career choice.
“Really, Dee, I don’t see why a beautiful young woman like you wants to spend your nights outside some sleazy motel room taking pictures.”
“I’m not fond of divorce work either, Aunt Lacy, but it pays the bills.”
Tonight wouldn’t be the first time I’d been asked to follow someone around and take pictures of the people they met. However it was the first time I was working for a client who made me nervous.
Albert Russo is considered by many to be a successful business entrepreneur. He’s well connected down at city hall, but according to one of Trudy’s sources, if Russo doesn’t work for organized crime, he has all the right connections. Tall, thin, balding, he looks more like an accountant than someone who owns a string of nightclubs and pricey restaurants and he has the coldest, most disturbing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
I tried to shrug nonchalantly at the worry underscoring my aunt’s tone. “I can’t afford to turn down a paying client.”
A frown creased her forehead. Aunt Lacy has delicate features and gorgeous peaches-and-cream skin. Her short hair is a pretty shade of brown a bit darker than my own. Our features look quite a bit alike overall, which gives me hope that I’ll age as gracefully as her. At fifty-five, Aunt Lacy can easily pass for forty.
“I don’t know what your mother would think of you skulking about in bushes and associating with known criminals,” she said with a genteel scowl.
“First of all, I do not skulk in bushes.” At least, not very often. “And second, no one has ever proved Mr. Russo is a criminal.”
Pink tinted her cheeks a becoming shade.
“Perhaps, but my sister is probably rolling in her grave at the very idea of you being in the same room with some of these people you call clients.”
Fortunately Aunt Lacy was in too big a hurry to pursue the topic any further. She patted her pockets, located her keys and settled for shaking her head.
“All right, Dee. You’re a grown woman and you have to follow your own path. Trudy will be back in about fifteen minutes. I have to run.”
And of course she meant that literally. Aunt Lacy is big on running. She enters races. She practically lives in jogging outfits. What she lacks in speed she makes up for in determination and endurance. I waved her off and headed for the work
room, where a partially assembled arrangement sat waiting on the counter.
The shop is always slow at this time of day, so I changed the radio station until I found one that suited me better and started singing along. I was doing a little dance around the table in time to a classic rock song when a young voice penetrated both the radio and my off-key singing.
“Hey! Lady, do you work here?”
I stopped moving and looked up from the fern I was tucking into place. Only I had to look down to find the originator of the question. A kid of about seven or eight stood there. He was a skinny little boy in a bright red T-shirt, navy shorts and dirty tennis shoes. His sandy brown hair needed combing and there were beads of sweat on his shiny red face. He had the most gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I would have killed for the thick black lashes that framed them. This kid was going to be a real heartbreaker in a few years.
At the moment those expressive eyes were regarding me with an extremely adult expression.
“Sorry,” I apologized, snapping off the music. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m not surprised.”
That made me blink. “You’re kind of young for sarcasm, aren’t you?”
“I’m ten.”
I’d guessed younger, but then I haven’t had a lot of dealings with kids other than my infant niece since I’d stopped babysitting and started dating around age fifteen. The boy was watching me closely, so I tried for a sage nod.
“Ten’s a good age. Can I help you with something?”
His expression said he doubted it, but his head bobbed.
“I’m looking for D.B. Hayes.”
Not what I’d expected. My mouth fell open, so I filled it with a question. “Why?”
“I want to hire him,” the kid explained as if I were a moron. “There’s a little sign out front that says he works here. The phone book listed this address, but this place is filled with flowers. Did he move?”