by Paula Graves
Brody was grinning when he answered. "Hey, Hannigan. Enjoying your day off?"
"Yeah. Just running a few errands. I was hoping to catch my mom for lunch but apparently she's out with friends."
"That's too bad." He felt like a creep for even the lie of omission.
How the hell was he going to survive keeping a whole investigation secret from his partner?
Chapter Two
Visiting her mother on a Saturday had not been on Hannigan's weekend agenda, but two lies in one day from the two people she trusted the most had been a gut punch. She wasn't angry at the lies, exactly—she knew that people often had very good reasons for keeping information to themselves. If her mother had asked Brody to maintain a confidence, she couldn't fault him for keeping it.
But that didn't mean she was going to pretend they weren't keeping things from her. She was a detective, for Pete's sake. Did they really think they could lie to her without her noticing? That thought was more annoying than the lies themselves. What kind of putty-faced rube did they take her for?
If her mother was hiding something from her, it almost certainly had to do with one of two things: her health or a family scandal. Either way, Hannigan intended to find out what it was before the weekend was over.
Unfortunately, she hadn't called ahead. When she arrived at the tiny bungalow where her mother still lived, she discovered that her mother wasn't home, despite her car parked in the driveway. Hannigan let herself in with her own key and took a look around.
The place was tidy and organized, an accomplishment her mother managed more easily these days, now that the kids were out of the house. While raising five children, Hannigan's mother had often longed for order, a trait she'd passed on to her only daughter, while Hannigan's brothers had taken after their more free-spirited—and messy—father.
Out of habit, Hannigan went into the tiny bedroom she'd had to herself. It was a small square of space too cramped to accommodate a full bed, so she'd slept on a single bed until she'd moved away from home for good. The bed was gone, along with the battered chest of drawers that had been the only other piece of furniture small enough to fit in the room, replaced by her mother's writing desk and a laptop computer.
Hannigan stopped short of trying to get into her mother's computer, but she took a look around the desk for any clue about what her mother might be hiding. There was a card from her mother's family doctor, noting an appointment scheduled for three months away, but that was probably a routine yearly check-up. No sign of anything more alarming.
A moment later, however, she spotted a torn-off sheet of notepaper folded and tucked into one of the cubbyholes in the desk's small hutch. Curiosity overcoming her respect for her mother's privacy, she unfolded the paper and took a quick look. Inside, she found a set of six numbers, some single digit, others double digit. At the end of the numbers her mother had drawn three exclamation points so emphatic that the last of the dots had poked through the notepaper.
They didn't seem to form a phone number or anything like that. A prescription number? Her stomach started to ache again at the thought that there might be something seriously wrong with her mother.
She pulled a notebook from her own purse and jotted the numbers just as her mother had written them, her looping scrawl picking up speed when she heard a car pulling up outside.
Shoving the notebook in the pocket of her jeans, she returned to the living room window and glanced through the gauzy curtains. Her mother was getting out of Lee Brody's Ford Taurus, her gaze on Hannigan's Chevy Impala parked near the curb. Her expression was difficult to read, but it sure wasn't happiness.
Too bad, Hannigan thought, squelching a twinge of guilt beneath her lingering annoyance at being lied to. Forget sneaking numbers from a piece of paper. It was time to find out what was really going on.
She expected Brody to drop her mother off and drive away, but to her surprise, he parked the car in the driveway and followed her mother up the cobblestone walkway to the front door. Hannigan braced herself as they entered and faced her without surprise.
She arched an eyebrow at her partner. He met her gaze with a hint of sheepishness but nothing like pity or dismay. A little of her earlier anxiety seeped away. Whatever they were hiding, it seemed, had nothing to do with a medical death sentence.
And that fact piqued her curiosity all the more.
"I didn't know you were aimin' to stop by. I'd have made sure to be here." Her mother set her purse on the coffee table and reached out to hug her.
Hannigan hugged her mother back, her grip a little tighter than she'd planned, strengthened by her growing relief about her mother's health. She pulled back to look at Brody. "Surprised as hell to see you here."
"Language, Estella Jane," her mother said automatically. Brody grinned.
"Surprised as heck, then," Hannigan conceded, her gaze still pinned to her partner's reddening face.
"He's here for me." Her mother put her hand on Hannigan's arm, giving a gentle squeeze. "And he's talked me into seein' I'm being silly trying to hide my problem from you."
Hannigan dragged her gaze from Brody's handsome face to her mother's, noting the look of embarrassment tinged with dismay on her mother's pretty face. "What kind of problem are we talking about here, Mama?"
"I know you don't care for gambling…"
Oh, no, Hannigan thought. "What have you done?"
"Won the Florida Lotto," Brody said flatly. Hannigan's mother shot him a grateful look.
"You won what?"
"The Florida Lotto," her mother answered quietly. "I bought a ticket last week when the girls and I were in Destin, and I won."
"You mean you matched a few numbers and won a couple of thousand dollars?" Hannigan asked, torn between dismay that her mother had taken a foolish risk with her hard-earned money and relief that she'd beaten the odds enough to have no regrets.
"No, she means she hit all six numbers and won the jackpot," Brody said, his lips curving at the edges. "Three million dollars."
Hannigan had never been fragile, but she felt as if her legs were wobbling right out from under her. She stumbled a couple of steps sideways and sank into the overstuffed comfort of the faded brocade armchair that had sat in her mother's parlor for years, ever since her father had hauled it home from a yard sale he'd passed on his way back from the factory. Even after the family managed to save a few dollars, her mother had repaired many a rip and tear over the years rather than throw it away, less out of habit and more out of love for the man who'd been thoughtful enough to bring it home in all its secondhand glory in the first place.
Hannigan wondered if her mother would finally replace the chair now that she had over a million dollars, after taxes, to play with.
Tears pricked her eyes, catching her off guard. She blinked rapidly, fighting the twist of emotions, but a few slipped past her steely control and spilled down her cheeks.
"Oh, honey," her mother murmured in dismay, but it was Brody who crouched in front of the chair, his hand settling warm and possessive on her knee. Even in her rattled condition, she was not immune to his touch, she noted with bemused alarm. Heat spread upward from where his fingers curled around her knee, trailing fire along the path.
"Stella?" he said uncertainly.
She snapped her gaze up to meet his.
"Hannigan," he corrected, a faint smile tugging the corners of his lips. But there was no humor in his voice when he added, "We haven't told you the rest yet."
She looked from him to her mother, whose brow furrowed with dread. "You didn't lose the ticket, did you?"
"I didn't lose it…"
"Your mother had it with her in her purse Wednesday when she met up with her cousins and their families for their monthly get-together dinner." Brody stroked her knee with his thumb, his dark eyes smoldering.
Damn him, she thought with a hint of amused consternation, he knew what he was doing to her with that touch. He meant to distract her, to keep her thinking about something
besides what they were trying to tell her.
"Mama, did you tell everybody there about the ticket in your purse?"
"I showed it to them. Some of 'em even wanted to have their picture taken with it." Ruby tried to smile, but she knew she'd screwed up, and it showed. "I know. I'm stupid."
"Not stupid," Stella said quickly, easing Brody's hand from her knee and rising to cross to her mother's side. She gave her mother a quick, fierce hug. "You just expect everybody you love to be as honest as you are, and we both know that's not true." The Hannigan side of her heritage wasn't squeaky clean, but compared to some of the Barlows, they were saints. Her mother's side of the family seemed to have two distinct branches—the hardworking, God-fearing, honest-as-the-day-is-long branch and the no-good, shiftless, steal-a-dime-from-a-beggar branch. Unfortunately, the cousins' get-togethers didn't discriminate between branches.
"Someone stole the winning ticket, right?" she asked.
"It was gone when I got to my car and pulled my keys out of my purse."
Hannigan's gut clenched with dismay, which caught her by surprise. She'd always thought herself immune to the lure of fast, easy money, because she knew damned well there was no such thing. But to have a three-million dollar piece of paper in your hand one minute, only to have it disappear the next—especially when you'd lived a hard, hand-to-mouth sort of life…
"Any idea who took it?"
"Your mother gave me a list of names," Brody said quietly. She turned to look at him. He met her gaze evenly. "I'm going to talk to them, ask some questions. Sniff around and see if anyone saw or heard anything."
She laughed. "Brody, you'll stick out like a sore thumb in that crowd. They'll smell country club from miles away. You really think they're going to tell an outsider anything?"
"You got any better ideas?" His mouth tightened with annoyance, as if she'd hurt his feelings. Hell if she knew why—telling him he didn't fit in with the outlaw side of her family wasn't exactly an insult.
"I was thinking maybe I'd just go ask them myself."
Brody's eyebrows inched upward. "Just go and ask. Like you expect them to give you a straight answer?"
"No, I don't," she retorted, "but I know them better than you, so I'll be able to know who's lying and about what."
"She's right." Her mother's soft voice broke through some of the tension building between Hannigan and her partner. "You'll be lucky to step foot on anyone's property without having to dodge buckshot. It was selfish and stupid of me to ask you to help me with this problem. And now that Stella knows, it doesn't even matter anymore. I don't need the money. I paid less for that ticket than I paid for my coffee at breakfast that morning, so I'm not out much of anything. Better for everyone if I just drop it."
Brody started to nod, but Hannigan found her chest tightening at the thought of her mother looking the other way on such an egregious betrayal by someone in her own family. "No," she said firmly. "No way in hell—heck—are we going to just drop this."
"Stella, you don't even approve of gambling—"
"I still don't," she said firmly, softening the words with a smile at her mother. "But I hate thieves a whole lot more. Especially thieves who share your name and your blood. Whatever I might think about the wisdom of entering the lottery, you did it in good faith and won it fair and square. I'll be damned if I let someone rob you of that money."
"Honey, I don't need that money—"
"I know you don't need it, but you could use it. Anybody could. God knows you deserve the chance not to have to worry about money ever again."
"So?" her mother asked with a burgeoning smile.
Hannigan grinned back. "So let's go find that ticket before one of those shiftless sons of bitches cashes it in."
Chapter Three
If Brody thought his partner's change in attitude about her mother's secret-keeping extended to him, he was mistaken. The look she shot him as they walked out to their cars was as frigid as the morgue.
"This wasn't some conspiracy to keep you in the dark," he began.
Her head snapped around so quickly that her bob of dark hair swept into her eyes, making her grimace. "Because you always keep secrets with my mother?"
He pressed his lips to a thin line. "She asked for my discretion. I gave her my word but I did try very hard to convince her she should tell you."
"I can't believe she thought I'd go all judgmental on her about buying a lottery ticket. It's not like she makes a habit of it." She stopped short of the car, finger-combed her hair away from her face and turned her gray-eyed glare on him. "Does she?"
"How would I know? I don't think so."
Hannigan slumped against her car door. "I'm sorry. I guess this is sort of a volatile subject for my family."
She looked worried and tired, making him wonder what other troubles she had on her mind. She'd been distant over the past couple of weeks, careful around him, as if she didn't trust herself—or him.
Ever since that damned make-out session at Magnolia Park Overlook.
"Are we never going to talk about it again?"
She looked up at his question, danger glittering in her sharp eyes. "Brody…"
"It's not going away just because you will it so."
Her expression shifted gears, became less formidable and more frustrated. "I don't know what to say."
He didn't like the sound of that. "If you regret it, say so. If you find me repulsive sexually, you can say that, too."
She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "No heterosexual woman could possibly find you sexually repulsive, Brody. Don't even pretend you don't know that."
"Well, I like to think that's true," he admitted with a half smirk.
"Your slobbering pack of badge bunnies should have clued you in." She turned and opened her car door.
"They're not the ones who matter."
She froze with her back to him. "What exactly do you want from me?"
He wasn't sure how to answer. There was a part of him that wanted everything. Sex, babies, joint checking accounts and a big house on the east side with an enormous yard for the kids and the dogs—and those were the thoughts that made him freeze in terror and lose his ability to answer her very simple, very reasonable question.
"Go home, Brody. I'll let you know what my cousins had to say for themselves." She got behind the wheel of her car and started to close the door.
His tongue unstuck itself. "I wouldn't mind going to Magnolia Park Overlook with you tonight."
She looked up at him through the open door. "So, you want to have sex with me in a car is what you're saying."
He sighed. "You make it sound so tawdry."
With a glare that might have killed a weaker man, she shut the door and drove away, leaving him standing by his car, staring at her taillights and wondering how the hell things had gone so suddenly, terribly wrong.
"Sex screws up everything."
The voice carried across the beauty parlor, greeting Hannigan with a well-timed slap of wisdom the moment she walked under the tinkling bell. There were only four clients in the shop at that time of afternoon, most of them blue-haired and teased out. If they found the red-haired manicurist's blunt statement scandalous, they kept it to themselves.
The manicurist looked up at the tinkle of the bell and shot Hannigan a surprised grin. "Estella Jane, is that really you? I thought you'd gotten too fancy for Pearl's Cut and Curl."
Hannigan rolled her eyes at her cousin. "Becky, you're about to buff that poor woman's nails to the nub."
Becky Barlow stopped buffing with a gasp. "Oh, I'm nowhere close to the nub," she said, making a face. "Say, I heard about Aunt Ruby Nell's good fortune."
"Yeah, actually, that's why I'm here." Hannigan glanced at Becky's client, a woman about her age with ridiculously long acrylic nails. "Do you know where I can find Dwayne?"
Becky's eyes narrowed. "What's he done now?"
"I can't rightly say yet," Hannigan answered, kicking herself mentally as she heard her
accent broaden to full-blown redneck. One minute around one of her cousins, and all the hard work she'd done toning down her hillbilly twang went right out the window.
Then she kicked herself for giving a damn in the first place. Why should she change herself for other people? Brody would never ask it of her. In fact, she suspected he found her accent a big part of her charm. Sometimes she even laid on the accent a little thicker than usual, just to see his eyes darken with appreciation.
She did a lot of things to make his eyes darken these days. It wasn't fair to him, really, since she still hadn't decided what to do about That Night at Magnolia Park Overlook, as she'd come to think of it.
"Well, when you find out where my brother is, let me know if you need any help kickin' his ass," Becky drawled, shooting an apologetic look at the woman whose acrylic fills she was currently buffing. "Pardon my French."
The woman with the acrylic nails smirked. "That ain't French."
"I might take you up on that," Hannigan promised. "So you don't know where I might find him?"
"I never said that." Becky glanced at her watch. "Let's see. It's after noon. He's probably at Bug Swallows."
Hannigan swallowed a groan. Bug Swallows was what everyone on her mother's side of the family called Bigelows, a family-run bar down near the railroad tracks. Unfortunately, the family who ran the place were burly, surly and covered in homemade tattoos. And that was just the women.
On the up side, Hannigan reflected as she drove out past the warehouse district and pulled up next to a row of tricked out motorcycles, Hannigan happened to get along with the Bigelows better than she did her own extended family. For some reason the patriarch, Big Sam Bigelow, had taken a shine to her way back when she was a little freckle-faced, gap-toothed kid following her daddy around during the summers while he looked for extra jobs to supplement the family income.
