Hotshot P.i.. B.J. Daniels
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She squared her shoulders, straightening her expensive suit. “I’m sure after you’ve given it some thought you’ll change your mind, Mr. Hawkins.”
He pointed to the shore. “Don’t count on it.”
She smiled. “We’ll see.”
Fighting to control his temper, Jake watched her walk away. He hated having someone raise his blood pressure, especially this early in the morning and on his day off.
As he went to untie the boat, he noticed the envelope on the bow, underneath the cellular phone the woman had surreptitiously left to hold it down in the light sea breeze. The envelope was creamy white; the address engraved. He slipped it from under the phone, not surprised to find his name hand-printed on the clean white surface or the paper smelling of her expensive perfume.
He figured the envelope would be full of old family money, but it felt a little too light. Maybe she’d written him a check. Jake ripped open the envelope, planning to do the same with the check.
But it didn’t contain a voucher of any kind. Nor were there any crisp large bills inside. Instead, there was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. On the sheet were printed the words: Deer Lodge. September 30. 9:00 a.m.
At the bottom was her neatly signed signature: Kiki Talbott Conners.
Kiki Talbott. He should have known. With a curse, Jake crumpled the paper and threw it into the water, feeling his plans crumple with it. The phone began to ring. He looked out across the gulf, suddenly reminded of a photograph that used to sit on the mantel of his family’s Flathead Lake lodge in Montana. Memories flooded him. Bittersweet memories that he’d spent ten years trying to forget. He picked up the phone.
“I’ve left you a ticket and triple your normal first week’s salary at the airport,” Kiki informed him in her nononsense tone. “Your flight leaves in less than two hours. You’ll have to hurry.”
“And where exactly is it you think I’m going?” Jake asked, anger making his words as hard as stones.
“Montana. You can buy anything you need when you get there,” she continued. “Of course, I will reimburse you for all expenses.”
“Montana?”Jake swore and pushed back his baseball cap, dread making his body ache as if he had a bad case of flu. “I think you’d better tell me just which niece of yours we’re talking about.” He held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Sea gulls squawked overhead; the gulf breeze tickled the sandy blond hair curling at his neck.
“Clancy Jones. Her mother was a Talbott. Her father was—”
Jake let out an oath. “I know who her parents were, for hell’s sake. And I know who she is! You don’t seriously believe that I’m going to help her?”
Kiki’s tone was coldly calm. “Mr. Hawkins, you’re very good at what you do. One of the best. That’s why I’ve hired you. That’s why you’re going to do whatever you have to do to get my niece exonerated—in spite of your…former connections with her.”
Jake walked over to his duffel bag and, cradling the phone against his shoulder, dug through his clothing. “Lady, the only reason you’re hiring me is because you have something to hold over my head, and you damn well know it.”
Jake thought he heard a hint of emotion in her voice when she finally spoke. “Please understand, I will do whatever I have to do to protect my niece. Including helping you on September 30. Or hurting you. And believe me, I’m in a very good position to do either.”
Jake carefully lifted the.38 nestled in its worn shoulder holster from the duffel bag. He wondered if Kiki had any idea what kind of man she’d just hired. Or how big a mistake she’d just made.
“How do I know you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?” he asked, glad she wasn’t still on the dock, afraid of what he might have done.
She let out a long, impatient sigh. “I’m a Talbott, Mr. Hawkins. Please don’t confuse us with the Joneses. Our word is our bond.”
“Right.”
“One more thing, Mr. Hawkins,” she said, dropping her voice. “Because of your less-than-amiable association with my niece, I might offer you a tip as to how to best handle her—”
“Look, Kiki,” Jake said as he snugged the.38 to his ribs. “I have a little tip for you. You can force me to take this job, although it’s not the smartest thing you ever did. And you can force me to take your money and waste my time trying to find evidence that your niece isn’t guilty of murder. But you can’t tell me how to do my job.”
“Now, Mr. Hawkins—”
“The truth is, Kiki, you can only buy so much with your kind of blackmail. And you’ve already bought more than you can handle.”
Chapter Two
Awakened from a troubled sleep, Jake rolled over, forgetting where he was, and banged his head on the balcony railing. That rude awakening and the once-familiar view reminded him exactly where he was. As soon as he’d landed, he’d rented a boat to get to Hawk Island and his family’s lodge. And he was there because of Clancy Jones.
Having no intentions of staying long, he’d just rolled his sleeping bag out on the balcony, wishing he was on the deck of his boat. The truth was he couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping inside the lodge. It felt too musty and confining, brought back too many memories.
He’d gone to sleep cursing Clancy, while glaring through the railing at the only other dwelling on this side of the rugged island—an almost identical log lodge nestled in the pines across the small bay.
A single light had shone in one of the rooms on the second floor of Clancy’s lodge until the wee hours. He’d seen an occasional shadow and wondered if she was alone. Angry that he couldn’t sleep, either, he’d speculated on what she might be doing still up. Working in her studio? Or trying to sleep and not think, like him?
At one point, he’d considered going over to see her, getting it over with. But it was late, and he told himself waiting until morning was the best plan. He’d finally dozed off, only to be dragged from sleep by a loud noise, which did little to improve his disposition.
As he stared across the moonlit bay, trying to figure out what had awakened him, a movement jarred his attention into focus. Something was thrashing around in the water off the end of Clancy’s dock. He saw what appeared to be a head surface, heard the choked cry before it disappeared again. Clancy?
Shedding his bedroll, Jake leaped from the end of the balcony, dropped onto the beach and took off at a run. He saw the head materialize again, dark against the silvery surface of the water, heard the cry for help and pushed his legs harder. All the time his mind raced ahead of him; the swimmer couldn’t be Clancy. She swam like a trout and was much too smart to be swimming—drowning—at this hour of the night.
He sprinted down the weathered dock to the end as the person emerged once again—yards beyond his reach. Having no time to consider the consequences, he dove in. The sudden shock of the cold water brought him wide awake; he surfaced, gasping for breath. Just ahead of him he could see the swimmer start to disappear under the dark water again. He swam hard and reached out to grab the only thing he could. Hair. It was long enough he could bury his hand in it.
But to his surprise, the swimmer pulled him under with a force that almost made him lose his grip. Immediately he realized his mistake. The silly fool was struggling, fighting him, and he remembered why he’d never considered the lifeguarding profession. Too dangerous. At least in the private eye business you knew who you were dealing with: murderers, crooks, cheaters and liars. Not some novice in over her head in deep water, panicked to senseless desperation and determined to take you down with her.
Jake got a tighter hold on the hair and a grip