“Hello, Tommy,” Micah said to Angela London’s old boyfriend, surprised he had found the man the first place he looked—an upscale pool hall a couple of blocks from the historic Colorado Hotel. The clientele this early in the day was thin—Tommy Manderoll was playing alone. Waiting to score a sale, Micah was sure, since he was the one who had introduced Angela to drugs and the promise of easy money.

      The man was nice-looking enough that Micah understood why Angela had gotten involved with him. But he was a user through and through.

      Tommy didn’t look up until he had taken his shot, neatly pocketing a ball in the side hole. His eyes narrowed when he recognized Micah. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

      Micah shrugged and held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I haven’t asked you anything.”

      “Yet.” Tommy moved around the table, chalking up the end of his cue as he went. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” He hit another ball, this time missing. Scowling at Micah, he accused, “You’ve been following me.”

      “I just got to town,” Micah said, leaning against an adjoining table and crossing his ankles as though he had the whole day. “You have some reason to think you’re being followed?”

      Tommy snorted. “Like I’d tell you.”

      “I dunno,” Micah said crossing his arms. “A man paranoid enough to think I’m following him probably has something to hide.”

      “I’m an open book. Ask my probation officer.”

      One thing the man had proven last spring was his knack for self-preservation. He’d provided the DA the final pieces of evidence that had convicted Angela, all for the price of his freedom, of course. The man had copped a misdemeanor plea and had been given probation and community service. And Micah knew as sure as he was standing here that Tommy was still dealing and equally certain that if he searched the man or his car, he wouldn’t find anything but chewing gum in his pockets or his car.

      “Have you seen Simon Graden lately?” Graden had been the big fish that got away last spring without so much as an indictment touching him. Though Graden hadn’t been charged, it was only a matter of time, since too many paths of money trickled toward his door. Even if Angela hadn’t told him that Graden had threatened her a week before she was sentenced, he would have been Micah’s first suspect.

      Tommy took longer lining up the next shot, and once more he missed pocketing the ball. “We don’t exactly run in the same circles.”

      Micah knew that to be true. Upscale as this place might be, it lacked the five-star amenities that Graden would expect.

      The man was quite wealthy—to most people he was merely one of Aspen’s millionaires. Unlike most others involved with the drug trade at his level, the man had no discernable organization. In spite of all the smoke and mirrors he hid behind, Micah was sure they would soon get him.

      Since Tommy had turned on Angela for a price, he figured the man was capable of doing the same to Rachel. “There’s a rumor he’s looking for a missing half-million dollars. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

      “Nope,” Tommy instantly said without looking at Micah.

      Micah didn’t believe him. “And you wouldn’t know why he thinks Rachel Neesham has it.”

      Tommy jerked his head up, his gaze colliding with Micah’s. So that had surprised him. Interesting.

      “Miss Goody Goody?” Tommy shook his head. “That boggles the mind.”

      “I don’t hear you denying anything.”

      Once more Tommy shook his head. “The only rumor I’ve heard about Rachel Neesham is she’s in debt up to her eyeballs and that she’ll probably lose her house.”

      That news kicked Micah hard. He supposed he should have seen that coming, but he hadn’t. Just like he hadn’t imagined her working as a maid in a hotel.

      “What about Two-bits Perez?” Micah asked. Two-bits had been a paid snitch and a good “friend” of Tommy’s.

      Tommy took his time lining up another shot, his hand steady as a rock when he hit it. “Haven’t seen him since last spring.”

      “Even though you’re buddies.”

      Tommy shook his head. “He’s no friend of mine.”

      If the friendship had dissolved, it could be for a lot of reasons, Micah thought. Tommy could have found out Two-bits was a snitch. Or Tommy could have stopped supplying Two-bits with his drugs. Since Micah had a few questions to ask the man, he hoped the informant was healthy and easy to track down.

      Micah pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Tommy. “If you hear anything I might want to know, you’ll call me?”

      “What’s it gonna pay?”

      Micah gave the young criminal a threatening smile. “The opportunity to keep living as a free man.”

      THREE

      “I was about to give up on you,” Jane Clark said after Rachel rang her doorbell a few minutes after six that same evening. “I tried calling your old cell phone number, but it’s been disconnected.”

      “Yes, it has,” Rachel said. The cell phone, no matter how convenient, was one of the luxuries she could no longer afford.

      Jane’s house was on the outskirts of Aspen, an hour’s drive from the job she had finally secured on the thirteenth application she had filled out. She’d had just enough time to change out of her new maid’s uniform and into a simple skirt and sweater before embarking on the drive.

      “No matter,” Jane said, smiling over her shoulder. “You’re here now.”

      Rachel followed Jane through a huge foyer and down a ten-foot-wide hallway that led toward the library. Last year, Rachel had been here numerous times while antique walnut paneling from a chateau in Reims was being installed in the library.

      Jane had a love for the finest in European antiques, from paintings and statuary to exquisite stained glass and architectural elements. Then Rachel hadn’t minded the long drive because having clients in Aspen meant Victorian Rose Antiques had made it to the big leagues.

      Jane ushered Rachel into the library. The room looked even more stunning than she remembered. The wood gleamed and hidden lights expertly showcased Jane’s collection of Italian urns. This room represented nineteenth-century carpentry at its finest. Caught up in the details, Rachel didn’t notice the man standing near the French limestone mantel until he cleared his throat.

      “This is my friend, Simon Graden,” Jane said, taking Rachel by the elbow and drawing her forward. “When he told me that he was looking for architectural pieces for his home, I told him you were the person he needed to talk to.”

      The name was familiar, though Rachel couldn’t place from where.

      “Your reputation