Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  “Can’t say I’ve read too many romances. But I’m all for honesty.” At least when he wasn’t on an op.

  She lifted her glass. “To honesty.”

  He completed the toast, then checked the time. “I think you can give me a lesson in getting kids to sleep.”

  “Didn’t you ever have sleepovers? Very little actual sleeping is involved.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and enjoyed the flush that spread across her cheeks as she clearly took the thought one step further.

  Hell, his mind had gone that route when he’d handed her the brandy and her fingers had brushed against his.

  “Then if you’re okay with them carrying on a little longer, we can start with your first lesson. Close your eyes.”

  Chapter 12

  Victor peered over his sunglasses as he stepped into the dim light of Jake’s. The stench of stale beer and cheap wine assaulted his nostrils, and whiny country music did the same to his eardrums. He glanced around, although he’d chosen this place because nobody he knew would ever venture into such a seedy establishment. This dive was on the far west side of downtown, well away from the after-hours watering holes of those who carried out their business in the courthouse and myriad legal offices, and nowhere near the upscale re-urbanized east side, with its glitzy shops and pricey bistros.

  The clientele appeared to be one step up from homeless—maybe not even that. The sort of place a panhandler who’d scored enough for a drink might hang out. Or the longshoreman type, although there was no waterfront for a hundred miles. A burly man carrying two bottles of beer jostled him. Victor stepped aside, using a month’s worth of restraint to keep from brushing off his sleeve where the man’s unwashed sweatshirt had made contact.

  “Lose the shades, asshole,” the man said softly. “Count to ten. Booth in the back.”

  Victor stood, frozen to the spot, as the man swayed his way through the crowded bar. Was this his contact? Stone had passed on a number, and Victor had arranged the meet.

  He slipped the sunglasses into his windbreaker pocket and let his eyes adjust before heading off in the direction the man had gone. Avoiding the worst of the spills on the floor, he snaked his way through the stream of people heading to and from the bar. Table service seemed to be a luxury—he passed one tired-looking waitress balancing a tray of empty beer bottles above her head, out of danger from gesticulating hands.

  He found his target in the dark recesses of the room, and slid across the cracked vinyl seat across from the man, who gave a brief nod, then nudged the second bottle of beer toward Victor.

  “No, thanks,” Victor said.

  “Drink,” the man growled. “You already stand out like a cheap whore at a church picnic.”

  Victor stiffened, but wiped the bottle’s rim and lifted it to his lips. The cool, bitter brew alleviated some of the dryness in his mouth. Victor had second thoughts about the wisdom in hiring this guy, despite Stone’s recommendation. Hell, he only had the word of a virtual stranger that Stone was reliable, and now he was going to have to reveal his problem to yet another stranger.

  The man waited, nursing his beer, casting his eyes around the room from beneath the bill of a ball cap tugged low on his head. Eventually, he seemed satisfied that it was safe to speak. “You said you had to talk in person. We’re in person. Talk.”

  Make that third thoughts. Victor turned the bottle between his palms. “You come highly recommended.”

  The man frowned. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m also expensive, and you’re on the clock.” He tilted the bottle and Victor stared at the man’s Adam’s apple as he swigged the drink. The man swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Your name?” Victor said. “I need to call you something, and you know who I am.”

  That was something the initial contact person had insisted on. Victor had no doubts they’d run a complete background check on him. Thinking about it sent rivulets of sweat down his spine. He was ninety-nine percent sure he came across as a law-abiding, upright citizen of good social standing. It was that remaining one percent that twisted his gut. He picked at the damp label on his beer.

  “Kane’ll do.”

  Victor lifted his bottle. “Kane.”

  “You got the cash?”

  Victor swiveled his head, taking in the room. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them.

  Kane set his bottle on the table with a resonating clunk. “Crap, man. We’re having a conversation here. Broads. Baseball. Bookies. Whatever. Eyes forward.”

  Victor swiveled his head. The booth was too dark to discern much more than Kane’s stubble-covered jaw and a pair of narrowed eyes of some indeterminate shade of brown under sloping eyebrows. “Um, yeah. How about that game?”

  “The ref should be fired. A disgrace to the uniform.” He lowered his voice. “The cash.”

  Victor took the fat envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. Kane covered it with his hand and nodded. “I won’t insult you by asking if it’s all here. Now, what are we talking about?”

  Victor took another sip of his beer, which was no longer cold. “My wife. She ran off a few months ago. With my son.”

  “Stone should have told you. I don’t handle domestics.”

  “No, no. She’s dead. So’s the kid. But before she left, she took something … important to me. I need someone to retrace her steps, and find what she took.” He had to force himself not to turn around. “Other people want it. My life might get … complicated … if I don’t have it.” Or downright painful. For now, he was the only one who knew it was missing.

  “I’ll need more. One hell of a lot more.”

  Victor sighed. “I think we’ll need another beer.”

  “Boilermakers,” Kane said.

  Victor headed for the bar. What had he gotten himself into? He had visions of people named Guido and Rizzo showing up at his house. Late at night. With baseball bats. Or worse.

  Damn that bitch.

  Chapter 13

  Elizabeth poured herself a cup of coffee and found Grinch in the den working at his computer, Chester at his feet. The house seemed unusually quiet with the boys at the rec center. He smiled when she entered. She could definitely get used to that smile. It surrounded her, relieving her anxiety like a force field deflecting incoming laser fire.

  “You get everything squared away?” he asked.

  She crossed to stand beside him and noticed that he immediately minimized the computer window. What didn’t he want her to see? They’d promised honesty. It was bad enough that Grace had filled him in about her past.

  She let it go. “The property management company is handling the lightning damage, but they’re projecting at least a week before the work is done. If you want, Will and I can go to a motel.”

  He pierced her with his gaze. “I’ve already said it. It’s no trouble. A week, two weeks, a month. As long as it takes.”

  She set her coffee mug down and gestured to the screen. “Were you checking up on me?”

  “No, I’ve been trying to track down that red Ford F-250 that seems to be around a lot.”

  “Oh, that’s Butch Logan’s. He stopped by, said he’s starting a landscaping business. Wanted to give me free plants. I was going to ask if you’ve heard of him.”

  The frown on Grinch’s face punched a hole in her force field, and dread poured through. “What? Is something wrong?”

  The smile he gave her was forced and did nothing to reassure her. “No, but I’m going to need to do a little checking.” He rested his hand on the mouse, but didn’t click. He waited. For what?

  Right. So much for openness and honesty. She took her coffee. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it.” She stopped at the door. “One question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If I use my laptop here, can someone know it’s me?”

  He shook his head. “It’ll come back to my IP address. Of course, if there’s a reason to think it’s you on the other end of whatever you’re doing, they might be abl
e to trace it to this house.”

  “Which effectively is the same as finding me, since I’m staying here.”

  “That’s right.” He trapped her with his gaze. “You haven’t left the laptop where someone could install spyware on it, have you?”

  She tried to shoot him with the same kind of stare he’d used on her, but she didn’t think it had the same effect. Simply meeting his eyes distracted the heck out of her. “Grace gave it to me and said it was clean. I use private browsing mode, and I don’t click on links I don’t know about, or open attachments. I don’t leave it anywhere unattended, and it’s password protected. Is that good enough for you?”

  Apparently not noticing her flippant tone, he shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Tell me this, then. If you’re poking around the Internet for stuff that’s related to me, isn’t that just as risky?”

  His smile widened a hair. “Not on this computer.”

  Right. Dalton worked for some fancy security company, which meant Grinch did too.

  She turned to go. “Well if anyone does hack into my searches, they’re going to think you’re looking for recipes. I’m fixing dinner tonight.”

  He laughed, effectively repairing her force field. “Now that would send up all kinds of red flags.”

  “I’ll leave you to your searches. Come on, Chester. Let’s see if there are any recipes for dog biscuits.”

  Behind her, the dog’s toenails clattered on the wood floor.

  She set up her laptop on the kitchen table, then topped off her coffee. She wondered what she’d find if she ran Grinch through some search engines. Probably only what his company wanted anyone to find. Besides, Grace had vouched for him, and for now, that was enough.

  She entered her password into the laptop and waited while it loaded programs and found the wireless connection in the house. She didn’t think using her cooking skills in the privacy of Grinch’s home could possibly create any problems.

  Her calendar popped up on the monitor. She checked the clock. “Oh, good grief.” She shut the cover on her laptop, grabbed it and her purse, and raced to Grinch’s den. He was on the phone, and lifted a “wait a minute” finger.

  She shook her head, and he covered the mouthpiece. “What?”

  “I totally forgot. It’s Monday. The furniture is being delivered between ten and two, and I have to be there. It’s already ten-thirty. They’re supposed to call when they can narrow down the time, but the lightning took out the phones. I’ve got my cell.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Grinch said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “No time. Besides, there’s no internet connection at the house, so you won’t be able to do anything.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “I’ll be fine. I have to go. You do your thing.” She rushed to her car, punching in Grace’s number on her cell, relieved when the woman answered immediately. “What is it?”

  “Grace, please can you call the moving company and let them know I’m on my way. I hate to impose, but I don’t have their number with me. I’ll be at the house in fifteen minutes, tops. Oh, and give them my cell number. I can’t talk now. Have to drive.” She disconnected and took the winding dirt road as fast as she dared. She set the phone in the console, only then realizing she’d pulled out the green one. No wonder Grace had sounded worried.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  From her purse, her other phone rang. The movers? Already? No. She let it go. She’d be home in a few minutes.

  She breathed a brief sigh of relief when she pulled up to her house and found a dirty white panel truck with “Mountain Electric” painted in faded red and blue letters on its side. If the movers had shown up at the beginning of their window—something that had never happened in her life—wouldn’t the electrician have let them in?

  Remembering what Grinch had said about leaving her laptop unattended, she tucked it under her arm and climbed the porch stairs. She rapped on the door, calling out, then entered.

  No response. She set the laptop on the kitchen counter and leaned over the stairwell. “Hello?”

  She heard country music floating upstairs. “Hello?” she called, louder this time as she trotted down. “It’s Elizabeth Parker. This is my house.”

  Three steps from the bottom, it dawned on her that she was part of yet another romance novel cliché. The heroine going down into the dark basement, not knowing what she’d find.

  She paused. Ridiculous. First, it was broad daylight, second, she was expecting electricians, and third, mad serial killers probably didn’t listen to country music if they were hiding in basements. The music stopped.

  A tall, spindly man wearing white coveralls with the company logo in red and blue stitching appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. He smiled. “I’m Al Rondell. Mountain Electric.” He extended his hand. “Management company let me in.”

  Elizabeth accepted the handshake. “Did a moving van come by?”

  Al shook his head. “I think I’d have heard.”

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Pretty bad. I’m going to have to redo your entire breaker box.”

  “How long before I can move back in?”

  His frown deepened. “See, there’s the problem. You’re not the only place hit by the storm, and we’re spread thin. Mostly what I’m doing now is figuring out what I’m gonna need to do the job. It’s not like I can pop in a new box. Have to get all new breakers, and dollars to donuts says there are at least a few GFI outlets that are fried, too. If you’re lucky, that’s all it’ll be, but older places like this, you might need to bring things up to code. Be glad you don’t have a fancy computer or television. Those are usually the first to go. And phones. You gonna stay here, you want power, I’d recommend a generator.”

  Before depression set in, she reminded herself this was only a rental. “Thanks. I’ll tell the management company.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll finish up what I can.” He gave her an apologetic smile. I’ve gotta be at the nursing home by noon. They kinda outrank a private residence—unless you’ve got some medical problems? Something to move you up the ladder?”

  “No, no. I understand. You do what you can. Senior citizens definitely outrank me.”

  Al shoved the rag in his pocket. He turned the music on again and shone his flashlight on the breaker box.

  A generator? If she got one, she’d be able to move out of Grinch’s.

  Grace’s words rang in her head. If someone is looking for you, they’ll be looking for a woman and child living alone. Moving into the house was a calculated risk. As long as you have the opportunity to learn some survival skills, it might be wise to take advantage of it.

  Which meant staying with Grinch for a while and letting him teach her. That way, when she moved home again, the woman and child living in this community would no longer resemble Julie Ann and her son.

  Once she was sure Al was engrossed in his task, she went upstairs to the pantry, where she’d tucked the ledger she’d stolen from Victor behind the canned vegetables. As soon as she had a handle on when the movers were coming, she’d make a quick trip to the bank to rent a safe deposit box.

  She listened, hearing the music and assorted clunks that told her Al was downstairs. Grinch had been here on his own yesterday. Had he done more than empty her refrigerator? Locking the bedroom door behind her, she went to the box labeled “Bathroom Supplies” in the bathroom vanity cabinet. Heart thumping, she opened the box. The rolls of toilet paper and box of tampons seemed undisturbed. She lifted them out, relieved when the shoebox was still there.

  Should she take everything to the bank at once? Making frequent trips might make people at the bank curious. But what if they didn’t have any boxes to rent? She didn’t want to be walking around carrying this stuff.

  What if, what if, what if. Her life seemed ruled by those two words. What if she packed everything up and shipped it to Victor?

  * * * * *

  “What
do you mean, you can’t find him?” Elizabeth had been gone over half an hour, and Grinch’s stomach twitched. “I thought you could find anybody.” The thought running through his head raised the hair on his arms. If Blackthorne, Inc. made people disappear and gave them new identities, others could too.

  “Oh, I found at least a dozen Butch Logans, based on the lousy information you gave me. What kind of a name is Butch? And if he’s new in town, he could have come from anywhere. You ever heard the term ‘Garbage in, garbage out’? You fed me garbage, bro. A nickname and an estimated age range doesn’t cut it. Your description sucked.”

  “Not mine. Elizabeth’s. And I’m working on improving her powers of observation. That was all she gave me. What about a driver’s license?”

  Irritation colored Jinx’s tone when he answered. “You have to be a resident for ninety days to get a Colorado license. You said he was new, right? And his truck’s a rental, although there’s another gem in the law which says you have to get your license before you can register your vehicle.”

  Grinch tried one more. “What about the tax rolls? He’s got to live somewhere, or have a license for his plants, right?”

  Jinx huffed. “No house in his name, but it takes a while for the paperwork to hit the property databases. Or he could be renting. Now, if you snag me a print, I might be able to come up with something.”

  “Might be able to swing that. What about the landscape business angle?”

  “No hits. But he might be running things out of his backyard, using a made-up name.”

  Grinch pushed away from the desk and stood, absently rubbing an ache in his midsection, a reminder of the recent op gone south. He’d managed to escape his captors, but at a price. The docs had declared him healed, but every now and then some of the injuries he’d sustained made sure he didn’t forget them. He stretched, then perched on the edge of the desk.

  Grinch had already run his own searches, finding nothing. What kind of a business didn’t have a website? Or at least a Facebook page. “Or he is the guy looking for Elizabeth, and everything else is a cover.”