The Equalisers. Debra Webb
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many P.I.s have you hired during the past few months?”
She wanted to tell him that information was irrelevant. But he was right to ask. He couldn’t operate unless he had all the pertinent facts. Going through half a dozen P.I.s had taught her that.
“Six.”
He was number seven if she didn’t count the low-rent guy who had given her the free advice about coming here.
If the number surprised him he didn’t let on. But she wasn’t so sure she would be able to read anything in those blue eyes anyway. If she’d thought Davenport was unreadable, this guy had it down to a science.
“What is it you want me to do for you, Ms. Harris?”
Not only could she not read his eyes, his voice gave away absolutely nothing.
She clutched the arms of her chair, braced herself for an uphill battle. “I just want my son back, Mr. Colby. I don’t care how you have to do it. I want him back.”
“You’re certain he’s still alive and living in Kuwait?”
The question, uttered with such frankness, tore at her heart. But at least it wasn’t a no. That meant he was considering her request.
“Yes, I’m positive.”
Now would come the part that would change his mind.
“Tell me about your ex-husband. Is he the kind of man who would go to extreme measures to keep what he believed belonged to him? What kind of personal security, if any, does he maintain?”
Ice slid through her veins. This was where he would insert the “no.”
“My ex-husband will do anything to keep his son.” She thought of Davenport’s man and a new wave of terror washed over her. She had to tell that part to Colby. “Including possibly hurting anyone who gets in his way. He has a heavy security detail.” Davenport had used those terms when describing her husband’s personal security.
Please, God, she prayed, don’t let this man be afraid to take her case.
The strangest thing happened then. Mr. Colby smiled. Not the wide, ear-to-ear kind of charming smile to set her at ease. Not at all. This quirk of his lips was one-sided, almost daring. She hadn’t noticed the scar on his cheek until then. The scar had her looking closer… noting the harsh planes and angles of his face. He looked hard… brutal maybe. Fear trickled through her. Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.
“Sounds like your ex-husband needs a lesson in proper parenting. Not to worry, Ms. Harris, I know how to handle men like him.”
She blinked, took a breath to banish the trepidation that had started to build. Had she misunderstood?
“Does this mean you’re taking my case?”
“I’m not only taking your case, Ms. Harris, I’m going to get your son back for you.”
Chapter Three
6:20 p.m.
Over three hours.
Willow had left Jim Colby’s office at three o’clock. He’d promised to call as soon as he was prepared to brief her on his strategy for recovering her son.
She’d checked into a motel close by. She’d been waiting ever since.
Her cell phone lay on the bedside table, the charging icon blinking. She’d almost forgotten to plug it in. That would have been bad. That portable device had become her lifeline in the past few months. She never knew when the P.I. currently working her case would need to reach her, so she’d kept the thing turned on 24/7.
She thought about Jim Colby and his insistence that he would ensure she got her son back. That was definitely a first. She’d had several ambitious P.I.s claim they could handle her case upon initial acceptance, but not one had looked her dead in the eye and stated unequivocally that he would get the job done.
A blend of hope and uncertainty twisted in her chest. Could Jim Colby really do this?
Who was this man who would dare to make such a promise?
Before coming to Chicago she had looked up what she could about him on the Internet, but most of the stuff that had popped up on her search was actually about his mother and her private investigations agency. His past appeared to have fallen beneath the radar somehow. Whether that was good or bad she hadn’t decided just yet.
But if he could get her son back she didn’t care what lay behind that slightly marred, flinty face. Who he was didn’t really matter. All that mattered was whether or not he could do what he said he could do.
She wanted desperately to cling to that hope, but she needed to know more before she let herself believe fully in this man. However prestigious his mother’s reputation, he was an unknown and unproven entity.
God, she was so tired. She’d barely slept last night. As much as she wanted to crash and sleep for hours, she couldn’t do that until she had some indication of what would happen next.
… you’re looking for a miracle…
Maybe Davenport had been right. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. She’d certainly had the kind recounted in the Bible told to her over and over again as a child, but did real miracles actually happen anymore? And the next question was, had she found that miracle, if it really did exist, in the Equalizers?
A knock on the door of her motel room had her practically jumping out of her skin.
Housekeeping? Surely not at this hour. No one knew she was in Chicago. Not that she had anyone. Even her folks had disowned her when she married someone they considered a terrorist. That had been the kinder of the names they had given him.
Evidently they had been right after all. Certainly devil came to her mind whenever she thought of her ex these days.
A second knock jerked her back from the preoccupation that total exhaustion allowed to creep up on her so easily and at the least likely moments.
She stood. Smoothed a hand over her skirt and walked as quietly as she could to the door. Pressing her eye to the peephole she resisted the urge to draw away in surprise or fear or possibly both as her brain registered the stranger standing on the other side of the door.
Male. Thirty or thirty-two maybe.
Tall, strong-looking.
Uneasiness coursed through her veins.
This had to be a mistake. He had to have stopped at the wrong room.
Should she say something? But then he’d know she was in here… alone. Why hadn’t she bought pepper spray months ago? Coming here like this—doing all she’d done over the past eight months—was more than enough reason to be concerned with protecting herself.
The trouble was she hadn’t been thinking about anyone except her son. Dumb, Willow. What good would she be to her son if she got herself killed?
“Ms. Harris?”
Willow took a big step back from the door.
How could this stranger know her name?
“Ms. Harris, my name is Spencer Anders. Jim Colby sent me to discuss your case.”
She allowed herself to breathe. Jim Colby. Okay. But why would he send someone to her motel? Had she even told Mr. Colby where she’d be staying?
For a moment she couldn’t think, then she remembered… Yes, she’d left word. She’d called the receptionist and provided the name and address of the motel where she could be reached. After her experience with the receptionist, Willow hadn’t been sure whether Mr. Colby would get the message or not. Evidently he had.
She stepped to the door once more. “Do you have identification?” She cleared her throat, annoyed at