The Leah Ryan Thrillers Box Set: Three Chiller Thrillers (Repo Chick Blues #1, Finding Chloe #2, Dirty Business #3) (Leah Ryan Thrillers Box Set, Books 1-3)

by Tracy Sharp

  “He hired you. Not us.”

  “I need an assistant.”

  “Do I look like an assistant to you?”

  I looked over at him and started laughing. He was so large that he was scrunched up in my Jeep. He had the seat pushed back as far as it would go, but his legs were still too bent to be comfortable, and he seemed to fill up most of the space in the Jeep.

  Finally I caught my breath. “Next time we’ll take your truck. How’s that?”

  “Hey, it’s okay. The Jeep is cool. I just can’t have one as a daily driver. So what if she slams the door in your face again?”

  Susan Nolan. What a peach. “Maybe she’ll fall madly in love with you and be all nice and cooperative.”

  “Oh,yeah, I’m sure I’m exactly her type, too.”

  “Hey, you’d be surprised, Jack. These rich ladies don’t always want clean-cut, foofy guys.”

  “Only if they’re slumming. Foofy?”

  “Yeah. You know. Foofy. Argyle socks and dockers. The rich man’s idea of casual wear.”

  “Huh. No wonder the rich ladies go slumming.”

  We parked down the road and walked up toward Mrs. Michael Nolan’s house. The homes on this road sat on a hill that overlooked the river. Boats floated gently beside docks in front of each house. It seemed that anyone without a boat was a loser in this neighborhood.

  “Come on,” I whispered to Jack.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check out Mrs. Nolan’s boat.”

  He followed me across her dock and stood watching me with a grin on his face as I climbed into the boat and crouched down. “Well, what are you waiting for, a personal invite?”

  He shook his head. “Never a dull moment with you, Kicks. That’s for damned sure.” He stepped down into the boat and crouched as low as his giant frame would allow.

  It didn’t take long before a red Jaguar came sailing up, sliding smoothly into Mrs. Nolan’s driveway.

  “Well, well. What have we got here? Mr. Foofy?” Jack was smiling as he peered over the seats.

  We watched as a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit jacket over pale khaki’s strode up the stairs and to the door. Even from that distance we could tell that his light hair had been sprayed into place just so.

  Jack shook his head. “You know, if I were a woman, I would want a guy. Not a guy who looks and acts like a woman.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “I mean, the guy probably uses more hair products than most women. You’d have to fight the bastard to use the mirror. You know?”

  I nodded. He was right. I was certain Mr. Foofy never met a mirror he didn’t like. “You’re preaching to the choir, my friend.”

  We watched as the door opened and Mr. Suave went into the house.

  “Wonder where he’s taking her,” Jack said. “Definitely not somewhere fun.”

  “Somewhere he can drop a few hundred bucks and make himself seen. He’s clearly into his image. That car isn’t just for driving.”

  “She a looker?”

  “If she’d pull the stick out of her ass, she’d be quite attractive.”

  “She needs a good...”

  “Jack. Don’t be such a cliché. God.”

  He looked at me. “What? I was gonna say she needs a good ride on a motorcycle. Let the wind blow through her hair. You know? I’d show her a good time.”

  “You probably would. You’d ruin her for all men forever.”

  A crooked smile lit his face.

  The door opened and Mrs. Nolan emerged with her Ken doll. She wore the classic little black dress. He opened her door and she got delicately into the car.

  “So why isn’t he chasing twenty-year-olds?” I said.

  “The twenty year olds are for fun. Ladies like Mrs. Nolan are appropriate and acceptable.” He said the last two words with a stuffy English accent.

  I rolled my eyes. “So, you think Mr. Foofy is reason enough for a husband to kill himself?”

  “Christ, I hope not,” he said. “Anyone who would kill himself over that guy should be shot anyway.”

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, Jesus.” I stared down at the article in the newspaper I’d been reading. My coffee cup held frozen in mid-air, almost touching my lips. I put the cup down, barely noticing when tepid coffee splashed onto my hand and stained the corner of the newspaper.

  What I was reading made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. A woman had been found in the local landfill, her head, hands, and feet were missing. Someone didn’t want her identified. She’d probably been wrapped in something and thrown in a dumpster. Chances of her ever being found were slim, considering all the garbage being dumped into the landfill. It was amazing that she’d been spotted by a worker.

  I lifted my eyes from the paper, staring straight ahead into nothing, and felt cold. There was a chance that this dead woman could be Chloe. She’d been missing for two weeks, and now a body turns up. I needed information on the woman. I needed a contact in the police department, or somebody close to them. It was unlikely they’d give me any information just on the basis that I was hired by Chloe’s father to find her.

  I looked down at the name of the reporter who’d written the piece. Mitchell Thomas. He was the crime beat reporter, and I’d always respected his work. He didn’t sensationalize, but just provided readers with the facts. He’d been writing for the Capital Region News for ten years, but other than that, I didn’t know much about him. His picture showed a serious face with dark, almond eyes and slightly disheveled black hair.

  This article suggested that Mr. Thomas had been at the scene when the unidentified body was being processed. It was almost a guarantee that he had contacts in the police department, and probably other emergency organizations. How else could he have known about the body and gotten to the scene so fast?

  Reporters are always working. If they aren’t in the office typing up their articles, they’re out chasing the news. They have contacts all over the city.

  I decided it was time to give Mr. Thomas a call.

  He looked much like his picture in the paper, if a little messier. His hair was a bit longer. He was unshaven, and had a nervous air about him. I wondered if it was because he was meeting a woman who said she might have information about the dead woman, or if it was just his normal demeanor. He leaned against the bar, opting not to sit on one of the bar stools, even though it wasn’t yet noon and the bar was virtually empty. He was a looker. And man, he was wearing those jeans.

  I’d chosen McGilly’s because it was a neutral place. A pub with a lot of atmosphere and really good pub food. They had the best club sandwich I’d ever tasted in all my living days. Being in the place gave me a warm feeling, reminding me of my father’s pub, a place I’d pretty much grown up in.

  He must have heard my boots on the hardwood floor, because he turned his head and looked at me, watching me from beneath his eyebrows. He was a cautious sort. Now that he was facing me, I didn’t think it was a sudden, new thing for him.

  “Mr. Thomas?”

  “Yes. Ms. Ryan?” He offered his hand.

  I offered mine in return and smiled, trying to set him at ease. “You seem awfully nervous for a seasoned crime beat reporter.”

  He grinned a little. “Are you serious? Think about what you just said there.”

  I laughed. It was true. If I’d been reporting violent crime for a decade, I’d be a little jumpy, too. I couldn’t imagine what he’d seen during his career. He wasn’t much older than thirty, and the silver hair infiltrating the sides of his head told me that he’d seen a lot and that he’d had many sleepless nights.

  His eyes crinkled when he smiled at me and I felt something flutter in my chest. “Sorry.”

  He waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. What are you drinking?”

  I looked at his soda. “On duty or something?”

  “Or something. Yeah.”

  “I’ll have a coke.�
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  We moved to a booth. It was more comfortable and although there weren’t many patrons, I didn’t want to risk being heard.

  “Thanks for meeting me. I know you must be very busy.”

  He nodded, but it wasn’t a ‘yes, I’m busy’ nod. It was a ‘you’re welcome’ nod. He seemed a bit of an anomaly. He was surrounded by nervous energy, but had a very calm, patient way about him. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. I’d never met anyone like that.

  “I’ll start from the beginning.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward, his forearms on the table. His Henley shirt hung open at the front and I could see the dark curls on his chest. I love a man with a hairy chest. I love running my hands all over it. I love the feel of it crushing against my breasts. I love…

  He was looking at me with his eyebrows raised. I swallowed some of my soda. Lame cover. It was all I had at the time.

  It took me about twenty minutes to explain everything to him. He listened quietly, not interrupting even once. By the time I was done, our food had come.

  “So you think this dead woman could be Chloe.” He took a bite of his Shepherd’s Pie.

  “Yes. I think there’s a really good chance of it. Don’t you?”

  He paused, looking just over my shoulder, considering it. His gaze came back to me. “Yes. I think it’s possible.”

  “But what?”

  “Do you know how many dead women show up a week in New York State?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know if I really wanted to hear this.

  “Let’s just say, quite a few. Some are suicides. Some are accidental overdoses. Many are murders. Women killed by their boyfriends or husbands. Then there are the ones that just show up dead, murdered, and nobody knows why.”

  “They aren’t all reported?”

  “Sure they are. You just didn’t really notice until now.”

  I frowned. I started to argue with him, then stopped. He wasn’t quite right, but he was close.

  “Okay, scratch that. You noticed, and blocked it out, because if you thought about it too long, you’d never leave your house. Am I right?”

  I blinked.

  “Right.” He took another bite of his Shepherd’s Pie.

  We spent two hours at McGilly’s. I liked Mitchell Thomas. He was sharp as a tack, and he seemed to know a lot about people. He agreed to let me know what he found out about the dead girl.

  “Where are you parked?” I asked him. I was curious about what kind of vehicle he drove. I’m a firm believer that the type of vehicle a person drives says a lot about who they are. Having repossessed cars for a living for the last year, I knew this to be true. I pegged him as a Jeeper. I didn’t really know why. Maybe it was because I liked him and wanted to find something in common with him.

  “That’s me.” He gestured toward a powder blue ’64 F100 Ford pick-up.

  “Wow. It’s gorgeous.” I started walking toward the truck.

  “Thanks. I’ve got a soft spot for the classics.”

  “Did you restore it yourself?”

  “Bit by bit. Yep. It took me a couple of years. She’d seen better days by the time I got her. I bought her for a song. And the restoration process was fun.”

  I ran a hand over the paint. “You don’t see this color anymore. Was it hard to find?”

  “Nah. There are all kinds of places that cater to classic car owners these days.”

  “Nice job, Mitch. I’m impressed.”

  He smiled a little shyly. “Thanks. I’m pretty impressed with myself.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker at that one. He didn’t sound like he came from around here. He sounded almost British, but not quite. He annunciated his words much more than people around these parts do. And there was an emphasis on certain words that gave him away as not being local. I stared at his mouth. He had a really nice mouth. Kissable as hell. “So where are you from, Mitch?”

  He flinched a little. “You can tell, huh?”

  I nodded. “A little.”

  “Northern Ontario. Been here 11 years and I still can’t shake the accent completely.”

  “Why would you want to shake it?”

  He shrugged. “Because it makes me stand out. I’d rather blend in. Also, whenever people realize I’m from Canada they start saying ‘eh’ really loudly at the end of every sentence. It was kind of funny at first. Now I just want to choke them.”

  “Well, I think it makes you unique. You should keep it.”

  He reddened a bit and looked away. “Thanks. Well, I’d better let you get back to investigating.”

  “Right.” It was weird to hear it put that way. I didn’t have a private investigator’s license, but that’s what I was doing. Investigating. “And I’ll let you get back to reporting.”

  I gave him my cell number and he gave me his cell and office numbers, and I tried not to look too long into his deep brown eyes as we said our goodbyes.

  I felt ready to face Callahan again. I’d spent a little time licking my wounds, and I was strong enough to see him without my eyes misting up or my chin trembling like a broken-hearted schoolgirl. I needed to tell him about my leave of absence. So I took a deep breath and walked through the doors of Parker’s Repossession Services, making sure my head was held high and my shoulders squared.

  He sat at his desk and his eyes widened when he saw me. I guess he hadn’t expected me to show up. This was strange, I thought, since it was what I did for a living.

  “What? Why do you look so surprised to see me?”

  He waited a beat before answering. “Because I was sure that you’d be buried in the search for Chloe Nolan.”

  It surprised me that he’d remembered her name. I was caught off-guard and now I scrambled to regain my footing. “Well, I am. That’s actually why I’m here.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m taking a leave of absence. I’ve been officially hired by Chloe’s father to find her, and it’s going to take all my energy and all my attention. I’m sorry. I can’t give you any notice.” I ran out of breath and inhaled deeply. I was talking too fast, uncomfortable in his presence, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  “Okay.”

  I stared at him for a moment. “That’s it?”

  “What do you want me to say? I know you, Leah. You’re right. You’ll be completely consumed by the case and you’ll have no time to repo cars.” He lifted his hands from the desk by way of explanation. “Look, you know you need a clear head to do this job. I can’t let you go out there distracted.”

  He was right. Repossessing vehicles requires all of a person’s attention. It’s one hell of a dangerous job.

  “Will I have a job when I’m done with this?” I cringed at the shake in my voice.

  He nodded. “Yes. If you want it. It’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Are you going to be okay? I mean, being short a person?” I didn’t know why I was asking him this. It wouldn’t make a difference if he said he wouldn’t be okay. And I knew that he knew it.

  I felt my eyes tear up and I hated myself for it. I turned away quickly and started toward the door.

  “Leah, wait.”

  I stopped in my tracks but didn’t turn around.

  “Come here.”

  “No.”

  I heard his chair squeak as stood up from it. Heard the shuffle of his sneakers on the floor as he came toward me. I closed my eyes when I felt his hands on my forearms. I hadn’t expected the emotional pain to be this intense. I missed him. Already I missed him so much that it almost took my breath away. So I held my breath as he slowly turned me to face him. When he looked into my eyes I felt the last of my resolve to be tough crumble and tears spilled over both my cheeks.

  “Oh, Leah. Oh, baby.” He enfolded me in his arms and I cried softly against his neck.

  “I’m sorry.” I sniffled, bringing one hand up to swipe at the tears on my face. “It’s stupid.”

  He leaned back a little and looked into my eyes
, his own full of concern and hurt of his own. “No,” he said. “Not stupid.”

  “I’ll be fine. You know me.” I gave a little laugh. “Tough as nails.”

  “Yeah.” He hugged me again and kissed me on the cheek so softly that I wanted to cling on to him for all I was worth. I also wanted to punch him. He was the cause of this misery I was feeling.

  Then he kissed my cheek again, closer to my mouth this time. Then his lips were on mine and as much as I wanted to push him away, I couldn’t. I responded to his tongue urgently, like I was drowning and grappling for a lifeline.

  One of his hands came up and cupped my cheek tenderly, the other slid down my back and over my ass. He pulled me tightly against him and his steely length pressed in between my legs. Callahan was only an inch taller than me, so we were a good match height-wise for all kinds of activities.

  His kisses moved down over my jaw and across my throat. He took my earlobe in between his teeth and sucked and nibbled until I groaned, my knees becoming weak. “Leah,” he whispered. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you.” My voice sounded far away. Heat pooled between my thighs.

  Callahan kissed my mouth again, turned me around and gently pushed me so that I was walking backward toward his desk.

  “What are you doing?” My voice was thick and husky in my own ears.

  “I think you need to sit down for a minute. Take a load off.”

  A grin played at the corners of my lips. Damn him for being so sexy. I couldn’t say no. He pushed my leather jacket down so that it slid from my arms and dropped onto the floor.

  I felt the desk come up against the backs of my legs and he pushed me into a sitting position, then pulled my top over my head. He leaned me back against the surface of the desk, moving in and planting little kisses down my throat.

  I felt pens, papers and a notebook beneath my back. I didn’t care.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes tightly. The pain, which had been throbbing in the center of me, subsided, replaced by a desire for him, a need so strong that it eclipsed everything else I was feeling. Thank God.

  If he’d been able to climb right into my skin at that moment, it wouldn’t have been enough.