by Irene Hannon
“No. I used MapQuest. There weren’t any directions on your website.”
“On the left.” He pulled the door open, then motioned down the hall, ignoring Dev’s stretched neck and thumbs-up as he passed the other man’s door. “Most of our clients are referrals, and Nikki is always glad to provide directions. Please . . . make yourself comfortable.” He indicated a chair at the small round conference table in one corner as they entered his office.
While she settled in, he took his time retrieving a pen and a tablet of yellow lined paper from his desk. Cautious, uncertain clients needed a few moments to get comfortable. To build their confidence level. The law enforcement citations and commendations and diplomas on his wall did the trick in most cases—the very reason they were there.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her give his office a discreet perusal. If she was like many of his clients, she thought PIs belonged to one of two extremes: glitzy, Ferrari-driving investigators like Magnum PI, or sleazeballs on the shady side of the law who dug up dirt in messy divorce
cases.
Truth be told, Magnum was off the scale completely. Nobody could do a tail in a red sports car and not get made.
On the other hand, there were a lot of sleazeballs out there.
As she’d soon discover, however, Phoenix took the higher road. The sign in the lobby said it all.
He joined her at the table, checking out her clasped hands. Good. Her fingers had relaxed.
“I understand from your initial conversation with Nikki that one of my former detective colleagues at St. Louis County recommended us.”
“Yes. Cole Taylor, I believe. I asked a friend at the Post-Dispatch who covers the crime beat to check with her contacts. I didn’t want to take a chance by picking a firm at random.”
“And end up with a seedy investigator who works out of some dingy office, operates on the edge of the law, and spends his time digging up dirt on unfaithful spouses.”
A pink stain crept over her cheeks. To her credit, though, she didn’t try to deny he’d nailed her concerns.
“Something like that. I assumed the police wouldn’t recommend a firm they didn’t respect, and the ex–law enforcement credentials for the PIs on your website are impressive. So was the tagline about justice.”
“It’s more than a tagline. We live that motto.” Cal leaned back, keeping his posture open. Candid. “A lot of PIs will work for anyone who’s willing to pay the bill. We don’t. Because of the credentials you mentioned, we have more business than we can handle. Also, since the firm was established four years ago, we’ve solved a couple of police cold cases at the request of the families involved. That’s put us in the enviable position of attracting other interesting cases in addition to a lot of corporate, insurance, and protection work. Thanks to the demand for our services, we have the luxury of taking on only cases we think have merit.”
She exhaled. “I hope you’ll think mine falls into that category.”
“A great segue.” He smiled and uncapped his pen. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here?”
A flicker of distress darted through her eyes, and she tightened her linked fingers. “I have to warn you, the whole thing is kind of weird. And I also have to be honest about my financial resources. I may not be able to afford you. I didn’t budget for this.”
“We can get to the fee schedule later. Why don’t you tell me your story, and we’ll go from there?”
“Okay.” She swallowed and moistened her lips. “It all started Friday night when I went to Augusta to do an interview for a feature story. I work for the Post too.”
Cal listened as she recounted the details of the night, jotting some notes on the tablet, asking a few questions, tuning in to visual cues, assessing the veracity of her tale, weighing probabilities. By the time she finished, he was intrigued—but cautious. And not overly optimistic Phoenix could turn up any more than the sheriff’s department had.
“I tried to get a copy of the police report yesterday, but they told me it hadn’t been filed yet. Otherwise, I would have brought it with me.” She finished her account and took a deep breath.
“We can get it. Probably faster than you can. Let me ask you a few other questions. Augusta is in the heart of the Missouri wine country. Did you have anything to drink with your dinner?”
The firm line of her mouth told him she didn’t like that question. Or perhaps it had been asked once too often already. “No. I don’t drink. I showed the deputy my dinner tab to prove that, and gave him the name of my waitress if he wanted to verify my claim.”
“How fast were you driving?”
“I’m not sure. Not that fast. The rain was bad. But I did speed up a little right before the accident. I was in a wooded area, and I wanted to get away from the trees because of the lightning.”
He checked his notes. “You said you were dazed but conscious when the so-called Good Samaritan appeared. Yet you lost consciousness after that. For an hour. That’s a long time to be unconscious from a slight concussion. What did the ER staff say about that?”
She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know that we discussed it very much. At that point, my head was pounding, and my memory starts to get blurry.”
“All right. Let’s back up. You said you think the person you hit was a woman. Can you describe her?”
Regret pooled in her eyes. “I wish I could. It all happened so fast, and I only got a quick glimpse. Plus, she was wet. I do know she had short dark hair, and she was wearing a tan raincoat. I had the impression she was thin.” Moira closed her eyes, as if trying to extract more specifics from the image in her mind. “I think she was on the short side. And young. Under thirty.”
“Okay. What about the man?”
“His face was hidden by the hood. I couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. But he wore a Claddagh wedding ring.”
He tapped his pen on the table and studied her. His instincts told him she wasn’t a woman given to fancies—or to seeing things that weren’t there. She was a reporter, trained to be observant, to notice details. She had clear memories of the events of the evening before and after the accident, up until her arrival in the ER. If she said she’d seen a woman in her headlights, he was inclined to believe her.
Proving that, however, could be extremely difficult.
Besides, what was the point?
“Ms. Harrison, I’m confused about one thing.”
“Just one?”
At her wry inflection, his lips quirked up. The lady had a sense of humor. Nice.
“Why are you bothering to investigate this? Assuming there was a woman there, she’s (a) a stranger, and (b) long gone.”
She leaned forward, posture intent, no hesitation in her response. “Because it’s the right thing to do. I saw that woman’s eyes. She needed help. Maybe she still does. I can’t walk away from that. If I don’t try to get to the bottom of this, who will?”
A woman who believed in doing the right thing—despite the inconvenience to herself and unfavorable odds. Impressive. And her ethics meshed with the principles on which Phoenix had been founded.
He tipped his head toward the simple gold cross that hung on a slender chain around her neck. “I take it that’s more than a piece of jewelry.”
“Yes.”
At the quiet conviction in her voice, Cal’s heart skipped a beat. Lindsey would have said the same thing—and in the exact same tone. The strength of his wife’s moral compass and her certitude and passion about the causes she believed in and supported had always blown him away.
Even after five years, the reality of his loss was like a punch in the gut.
Clearing his throat, he stood and crossed to his desk. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I take a look at the police report and have a chat with the responding deputy? Then we can talk again.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a client contact form. “In the meantime, it would be helpful if you filled this out for our file.” He returned to the table and set it in f
ront of her, along with a pen. “We always do a topline background check on new clients to ensure our services aren’t being used for some illegal end.”
She examined the sheet. “I suppose that makes sense.” She flipped it over to the blank side, as if searching for something more. “What about the fee schedule? And don’t you want a retainer?”
“Usually. But we waive it in some cases. And it’s a bit premature to discuss fees. Talking to the deputy and reviewing the police report won’t take long, and that may be as far as we get.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled in distress. “I hope not. I can’t stop thinking about that woman. There have to be answers somewhere.”
“We’ll dig for them if we find even the slightest lead to investigate.”
“Do you charge by the hour?”
She was back to the money. Obviously, it was an issue.
“Yes.” He hesitated, then quoted her their standard rate.
Her eyes widened. “Wow.” She breathed, rather than spoke, the word. “I think I’m in the wrong business. My budget isn’t going to buy more than a few hours of your time.”
He retook his seat at the table. “Let’s not worry about that yet. You know those cold cases I mentioned earlier? We did those pro bono because we didn’t think justice had been served and we believed they deserved a second look. The side benefit was that they ended up bolstering our credibility and bringing in a lot of new business that more than made up for the fees we didn’t receive. This case could do the same.”
Her chin rose a fraction. “I’m not looking for charity. You deserve to be paid for your work.”
“And if the woman you saw was truly in trouble, she deserves justice. For now, let’s just say we’re both doing a good deed.”
She hesitated. Her gaze flicked down to the gold band on the third finger of his left hand, with its pattern of etched crosses. “I’m impressed.”
“Why don’t you reserve that comment until we see what I can find?”
“The fact that you’re willing to try despite the apparent lack of evidence says a lot.”
She picked up the pen and tackled the form, saving him from having to formulate a reply.
Just as well. Compliments—even implied ones—always made him uncomfortable.
After collecting his notebook and pen, he returned to his desk. He had plenty to do while she worked on the form. A report to complete for the child custody case he’d finished yesterday. Some addresses to track down for a defense attorney whose “justice first” philosophy meshed with Phoenix’s. A skip trace to run on a deadbeat dad.
But he couldn’t concentrate on any of them—thanks to the potential client sitting a few feet away.
He stole a glance at her. She was bent over the form, faint creases on her brow, lower lip caught between her teeth. An intriguing woman with an intriguing story—who also happened to be very appealing. He liked her principles. Her sincerity. Her subtle sense of humor.
And he liked how she looked.
A lot.
His pulse kicked up a notch, and he frowned. Not appropriate. Moira Harrison had come here to seek his professional services—and he didn’t mix business and pleasure. Ever. None of the Phoenix PIs did. It was a bad practice that could compromise objectivity.
So why did he have a feeling he might have difficulty maintaining a professional distance with this client?
And why did that make him feel guilty?
But he knew the answer to the second question.
Cal swiveled away from Moira, toward the framed photograph of a tropical seascape that had once graced the pages of a national travel magazine. Lindsey had had the ability to take ordinary scenes and imbue them with depth and magic and possibilities, her touch transforming them into more than they’d been before.
Just as she’d transformed him.
And in the five years she’d been gone, his love for her hadn’t diminished one iota. He doubted it ever would. She’d captured his heart with her vivacious smile that long-ago day he’d pulled her over for a traffic stop and she’d charmed him out of writing a ticket. It had been hers ever since.
End of story.
Compressing his lips into a firm line, Cal turned back to his computer and began typing his report. And he didn’t look up—didn’t let himself look up—until Moira spoke ten minutes later.
“I’m finished.” She rose, crossed to his desk, and handed him the form.
A quick scan told him she’d left some lines blank. Social Security number. Date of birth. License number. Didn’t she realize he could get all that information in minutes?
As if reading his mind, she spoke. “I don’t like to give out a lot of personal data. But I suppose it won’t be hard for you to track it down.”
“No.” Why lie?
Despite his candor, she didn’t offer to provide the missing information. Maybe she hoped he wouldn’t bother checking it out.
Not a chance. The gaps on the sheet left him more intrigued than ever.
“Why don’t I contact the deputy, get the report, and give you a call in a day or two?” He double-checked the form to verify she’d included her address and cell phone number.
“That works.” She retrieved her purse, settled it on her shoulder, and held out her hand. “Thank you for your time today—and for treating my story more seriously than anyone did on Friday night. I’m not crazy, Mr. Burke. I know what I saw.”
He returned her steady clasp, fighting a disquieting urge to hold on longer than necessary. “I have no reason to doubt you, especially with your journalism background. What kind of writing do you do?”
“For now, I’m filling in wherever they need help until an investigative slot opens. That was my specialty in Springfield, before I moved here a few weeks ago.”
“Promotion?”
She flashed him a quick smile. “Yes.”
“Congratulations. From what I hear, journalism’s a tough business these days. You must be good.” She didn’t respond as he fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “My cell number is on there too. Feel free to call at any time if you think of additional information that might be helpful.”
“I doubt I will. I’ve been over the events in my mind dozens of times already.” Nevertheless, she tucked the card into a pocket in her purse.
“Let me show you out.” He indicated the door.
She exited, and he followed her down the hall.
The reception area was deserted when they passed through and said their good-byes. No surprise there. Nikki hadn’t wasted any time getting back to her Pilates regime after she returned to work from her honeymoon yesterday. Fitness was high on her lunch-hour priority list. Far higher than the mess in Dev’s office.
But his partner’s pile of files would have to wait another day, anyway.
Because he had a research assignment for Nikki this afternoon that he hoped might help clear up a mess far greater than Dev’s.
3
Okay. What’s the scoop on the babe?” Dev strolled into Cal’s office and plopped a white restaurant bag on his desk.
Cal swiveled away from his computer and reached for the food. “The babe is a potential client. Moira Harrison. Did you get some ketchup? And what took you so long, anyway? You’ve been gone two hours.”
“I’m glad you missed me.” Dev smirked at him. “Ketchup’s in the bottom. And I had an errand to run.” He dropped into the chair across from Cal’s desk, shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “So what’s her problem?”
“Take a look.” Cal nodded toward the hot-off-the-fax police report on his desk and unwrapped the burger. He managed to get in three large bites while Dev gave the document a quick read.
His partner summed up his reaction with the same word Moira had used. “Weird.”
“Yeah, I know.” Cal fished around for any stray fries in the sack. “I also talked to the responding deputy. He didn’t have anything new to
add, except to confirm she’d been treated for a concussion.”
“So what does she want us to do?”
“Find out what happened to the woman she saw.”
“The woman she claims she saw.” Dev set the report back on the desk, his expression skeptical. “What’s your take?”
Cal wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “My gut tells me she’s legit. I’m having Nikki run some background on her, but I don’t think she’ll find anything odd.”
“People who’ve been hit by a car don’t typically walk away. And what about the so-called Good Samaritan who also disappeared?”
“I have no idea.” He took another bite of the burger.
“The deputy noted on his report that she wasn’t wearing her glasses.”
“I saw that. It’s not a restriction on her license—I already checked. But I’m surprised she didn’t mention it when she was here. I’ve got it on a follow-up list of questions.”
“Does that mean you’re going to take this on?”
He swirled a fry in the ketchup. “I haven’t decided yet. Besides, I’ll need you and Connor to weigh in if I do. Our fees blew her away. This would have to be mostly pro bono.”
“You haven’t proposed a freebie for a couple of years. I doubt Connor will object.”
Cal didn’t think he would, either. But he intended to abide by the rule they’d agreed to: all voted yea, or the case was turned down. It was the only fair way to operate, since pro bono work put more pressure on the other two partners to make up the difference in revenue.
“If I decide this is worth taking on, I’ll call him.” He finished off his burger and snagged the final two fries.
A knock sounded at the open door, and Dev looked over his shoulder. “Nikki! My favorite person!”
She snorted and breezed past him toward Cal’s desk. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me. I’ll get to your mountain of files when I have less important things to do. Besides, would it have killed you to put a few away while I was gone?”
“And mess up your impeccable filing system?”
