Your beautiful mind encouraged so many.

Without you, none of this exists.


Her bloody finger left a translucent smear on the phone screen as she glanced through the list of private investigators in Vegas. There were more than she'd imagined. Most had important-sounding names like Blackman Private Investigation or United Investigative Services. Big firms. Not what she was after. Her stained nail came to rest on Sin City Investigations. She tapped the link for the web page.

It was sparse—only two pages. One was a long list of qualifications. The other was his contact info. One cell phone number and one email meant a one-man operation. How corporate could a guy named Jim Bean be? She pictured a string-bean thin man with glasses and a crooked tie. Perfect.

She tapped the number, cleared her throat. The phone rang.

"Bean." The voice was deep and breathy, but not gruff.

"Hello, Mr. Bean. My name is Cynthia Hodge. I'm looking for an investigator to help me track down my brother."

She paused, but he didn't immediately speak.

She continued. "He's been missing for several months. He took off with most of my mother's nest egg. You know the type."

"Drugs?" More labored breathing. He was doing something.

"Have I caught you at a bad time?" She was ready to get on with the plan. She didn't have time for his drama.

"In the middle of something." Somewhere in the background a man groaned and then came the scratching, rustling sounds of a struggle. "Hold on just a moment, Ms. Hodge." A loud noise pierced her ear as the phone clattered to the ground. The definite sound of a punch, that smacking of skin on skin, possibly the crack of bones snapping. There was a grunt, then a second of silence. Visualizing the scenario made her pulse jump again. Maybe this Bean guy had more mettle than his name gave on.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Just needed to get someone's attention."

"Do I need to call you another time?" Not that she would. There were plenty more PIs in the area.

"How long since you've seen your brother?"

She wanted to tell him the truth. That it'd been seven long years since she'd seen Dan. It almost slipped out, but she managed to catch the words on her tongue. She wasn't sure how long one would go without searching for a missing sibling. Seven years seemed too long. "Almost two years for me. Mother, a few months back."

"What makes you think he's in Vegas?"

"I'm not sure he is. He's been here before, staying with some card players for months on end. But I can't find him this time. I need to see if he has any of the money left. To confront him. Try to talk him into rehab or something. My father's passed. My mom's heartbroken and not able to pay her bills. Knowing Dan stole her money is killing her. She's not so strong these days. I need your help, Mr. Bean." She tried for tears. None came. She thought she managed the appropriate amount of despair in her voice.

"It's a hundred an hour, plus expenses. If any experts need to be brought in, they get their own fee on top of mine. Finding druggies can be slow. Expensive."

He was direct. Unconcerned with her mental state. She had chosen wisely. Jim Bean would serve her well. "I have the resources to make payment."

"Five thousand up front to get me started."

"That's fine."

"This is a Vegas number. You live here?"

"I do now, yes."

"You know the Coffee Girl diner?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "Meet me there at nine a.m. with the retainer. Cash or credit only. No checks. No Discover cards."

Yes. He would do nicely. "Tomorrow, Mr. Bean."

"Nine a.m."

The phone chirped that the call had been ended. She took a cigarette out of her pack. Lit it with a match from a book she'd taken from the dive hotel she'd been forced to endure for the last two months. She blew out the flame. Let the burnt cardboard stick go, watched it flutter, the smoke leaving a crooked path to the floor. It landed next to the dead woman at her feet. Pooled blood was darkening under her head. Her once perfectly coiffed blond bun was now a bloody red mess.

"Did I sound like you, Ms. Hodge?" she asked the corpse and felt obliged to give it a moment in case there was a response. There was none. She shrugged and tucked Cynthia Hodge's phone in her own pocket. "Let's see if this guy can find your brother."

Don't get cocky.

Her own voice, young and angry, echoed in her head. Condescending. Always judging. Sophie Ryan Evers blew out a large puff of smoke. "Quit your worrying."

If Sophie was the type of woman who giggled, she would now.


"They're not that bad."

Sandy, his favorite morning person, maybe his only favorite person, had stopped just shy of pouring his coffee. He eyed the pot as she held it just above the rim. A tease, so close to filling the empty mug. His coffeemaker at home had broken months ago and he'd not bothered to replace it.

She was young, cute and blond, midtwenties, a pro at sarcasm. Sandy had been taking classes at the University of Las Vegas for forever, she'd groan. Jim guessed closer to five years judging by how long she'd been serving him breakfast. She'd yet to declare a major. Like many kids, Sandy had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Waiting tables at this joint was good enough for now. Or so she said.

Her quip was referring to the eggs, but the whole plate was suspect. Everything she'd put in front of him was mustard yellow. The organic substitute eggs, the shredded cauliflower that was supposed to replace hash browns, and the toast that was some kind of gluten-free cardboard shit that crumbled if you attempted to hold it. Even the plate itself was yellow. He was certain it was exactly that bad. "How does he make it all the same puke yellow?"

"You come here almost every day and order the same thing. Either quit your complaining or pick somewhere else to have breakfast and conduct your business." One eyebrow rose, daring him to argue further.

"I wasn't exactly complaining. I was trying to figure out the percentage of yellow foods in that kitchen. I thought all healthy shit was supposed to be green."

"You want green eggs?" Sandy grumbled like she was tired of his shit. But she was half smiling, half smirking. The exchange routine. He went to great effort to get her face to make just that expression every morning.

Jim thought on the green eggs for about one and half seconds. "Nope. I do not. I want a real egg that I can order sunny side up. And soft white bread to soak up the yolk." He pushed his cup closer to her. "I know you don't have those either." The pinko bastards had turned his greasy spoon into a vegan something or other food oasis over a year ago.

She poured. Turned on her heels. "One of these days … " She walked away, shaking her cute, too-young-for-him ass. He smiled. Banter with Sandy was a great way to start the day.

He took a couple bites and, once again, he was correct. It was that awful. He took a swig of coffee. A well-dressed woman pushed through the glass front door and stopped at the counter. Sandy greeted her and pointed to Jim. Had to be the new client. Good. She'd showed. He needed the funds. The cat food supply was getting low and Annie was not a happy kitty when she was hungry.

The woman was tall, redheaded, and well put together. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot, her clothing snug and professional. Her face was a hint softer than her clothing. "Jim Bean?"

He nodded and motioned for her to sit. She sneered a little as she checked the vinyl seat. Snob? Maybe he'd read the light makeup and relaxed lips too soon. The place was old but, as was posted in the window, the menu progressive. She didn't seem convinced. He noted the lingering hint of cigarette smoke on her. She'd eaten a mint, but it was still in the clothes. An inspection of his plate didn't ease her expression.

"How's the food?" She slid into the seat gracefully considering her footwear had tall, pointy heels.

"Not bad once you wash it down with the equally horrible coffee."

She smiled. Wow. That made a big difference. She was a beautiful woman. Nice to have a client with cash and a pretty face. He sat back, pushing his yellow plate aside.

"Ms. Hodge. Nice to meet you."

She nodded. "Thank you for seeing me so quickly." She folded her hands in her lap over her bag.

Okay. Down to work. He pulled out his notepad and little golf pencil. "Your brother stole from your parents and you want him back?"

She nodded.

"Why not the police?"

Sandy brought Ms. Hodge a mug and set it down. The redhead nodded again, this time to Sandy. She poured. "Would you like to see the menu?"

Ms. Hodge eyed Jim's half-eaten plate with that same repugnant look. "I think not."

Sandy left without filling Jim's cup. Evidently she didn't care for the uptight woman. Jim wasn't sure he did either, despite the amazing smile.

He looked at her and waited for an answer.

"Oh. Sorry." She cupped her hands around the cup as if she was cold. "The police will be more aggressive than we'd like. We're sure he's got a meth problem. With his history, god knows what else. I want him in rehab, not prison."

Jim nodded. He'd heard that before from families looking for lost children in Vegas. "Where was his last known residence?"

"He quit college years ago to rodeo. Bronc riding, I believe. Last I could find was Texas. He had a camper on the back of his truck."

"No real address?"

She shook her head.

"And the last time you spoke to him?"

She looked down. Her face tightened for the first time. "I haven't talked to him in years. I know he used to come see our mother. But after he got her to sign those papers, nothing. Not even a call on her birthday." Her gaze was on the cup. She didn't look at Jim.

"What papers?"

She glanced up. "Giving him access to her accounts so he could help her manage her money. She's got Alzheimer's and it's getting pretty bad. She needs full-time care. That's why I need to find him."

Jim shook his head. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. "Addicts aren't big on maintaining savings accounts, Ms. Hodge."

Her arrogance was momentarily replaced with sadness, it danced quickly around her brilliant green eyes. She nodded. Recovered. "Call me Cynthia, please." She tilted closer, put her hands on the table. "It's more about Mother knowing he's okay than the money. When she's lucid, he's all she talks about. When she's not, she screams for her boy."

"You have his phone number?"

"No."

"Have his social security number?"

"No. Mom can't remember it. I can't find any paperwork in her belongings with it listed, either."

"You're not making the job easy on me."

"If it were easy, I would have found him myself. I tried all the avenues you're asking about. Nothing. Otherwise, I wouldn't need you, would I?" She flashed that killer smile again.

True. "Anyone else know where he'd go off to? Any other family members or distant relatives he may have made contact with?"

"We have a cousin somewhere in the northwest, outside Seattle maybe. I called. He said he hadn't heard from Dan."

"Full name?"

"Daniel Kent Hodge. Born August 1st, 1985." She fished a snapshot from the small clutch purse she carried. Small bag. Not much room for a cash down payment. That meant she'd be paying by credit card. He'd have to factor in the bank charges in her fee. He jotted down the DOB. Glanced at the picture. It was the two of them together. The pair were smiling. Dan had his arm around her. "Not very recent."

"Most recent one I have." For a wordless moment she was fixated on the snapshot.

Please don't cry. Crying women made him uncomfortable. He should be more empathetic in his line of work. But he wasn't. Everyone had their troubles. Every client brought theirs to his door. Those became his troubles. If he got emotional about it, he'd be in the nut house. Detachment Island was his happy place and he planned on retiring there.

She tossed the picture onto the open notebook. "He won't look so different."

"Drug addicts always look different." He watched her eyes. She'd flinched as he said it. "Side effects of the toxins."

"You're probably right. I hadn't thought of that."

"Anything else you can think of?" He'd ask her about fraternities, clubs, or other social activities, but if Dan was using meth, that was his whole life. Jim would start looking at the arrest records. Probably find him relatively quick that way.

"Not really. Like I said. I don't want him arrested, just found."

"Got it." He scribbled a few more thoughts. "The number you called from a good one?"

"Yes."

"This could take a while."

"Can you keep me apprised of your progress and what you find out?"

"Always do. The retainer is five thousand. I will have to travel to Texas. If I find him quick, any monies not billed to my rates or the cost of the investigation will be returned."

Cynthia took a stack of hundreds out of her little black bag and tossed them on the table. It skidded across the laminate surface, stopping beside his notepad. The bank band wrapped about it had fifty scribbled on it next to a pair of initials. A withdrawal. Neatly bundled. No need to count. Easy to deposit and pay all his bills with. Thank you, Cynthia Hodge.

She was all business. Easy and clean. He liked that. Liked that a lot.

He handed her a standard contract. "You agree to pay me what I need to find Dan and I agree to do my best to recover your brother."

She signed without reading it.

"There is a chance we won't find him, or that we find out he's died. I've seen it happen more than once. I just want you to be prepared." He hated this speech, but it had to be put out there. "When you're dealing with addiction, it takes people into some very dangerous places. Both with the drug use and the people who live in that culture."

"Are you trying to prepare me for that eventuality? You think he's dead?" A few strands of red bangs fell lose and dangled in her eye. She made no move to push it aside.

"It's a possibility you need to be aware of."

"He's not dead." She fidgeted with the corner of her bag.

He'd heard that before too. But it wasn't his job to be her shrink. "Okay."

She stood. Held out her hand. Jim took it. Her fingers were cold. Her grip surprising. Strong. "Please keep me up to date when you find anything. I like to know where my money is being spent. Remember, don't contact him. Just find him."

Not an unusual request. But she needed to know the reality. "I'm happy to do that. But know that this could take some time. I don't have much to go on here. Some of the process is a waiting game."

"I'm not so good with patience or being in the dark." She turned to leave.

"Mind if I ask how you got my name?" Most of his business came from referrals. Jim liked to know if he needed to thank someone, or pay them.

She headed to the door. "Your yellow pages dot com ad." She said it over her shoulder, not bothering to slow the swing of her hips in that creamy mustard yellow skirt.

Maybe yellow wasn't so bad after all.


Sophie peeled off the clothes she'd taken from the dead woman's closet. They were tight and not at all comfortable. She'd never been a slave to fashion. Even for work, comfortable slacks, a loose jacket, and flat shoes were her usual uniform. She sat on the side of the bed and rubbed her feet. The mattress felt good under her weight. Much better than the hotel she'd occupied for the last few weeks. She pulled her jeans back on and padded barefoot into the living room. She paused at the end of the short hallway.

Danny's sister's body still lay where Sophie had dropped it. The thing had to be moved. If someone came to the front door, they might catch a glimpse of her ugly feet sticking out from behind the couch. The layout of the little ranch was a simple T with the guest bath far enough away from the bedroom to prevent Sophie from living with the impending smell.

She rummaged through the hall linen closet and found a tattered plastic tablecloth with strips of the plastic peeling away from the fabric liner. Red checked. Rather quaint for the task. She rolled the body onto the plastic, wrapping it like a burrito. Then, using the top corners, she dragged it down the hall and into the muted pink tiled bath. Obviously seventies, but the lighting and nickel fixtures helped to modern it up a little.

She heaved the wrapped body into a sitting position against the side of the tub. After a deep breath, she squatted over it. Needed to have the power of her legs to lift. The woman was small, but dead weight was dead weight and Sophie didn't want to wrench her back. She grunted with the upward force. Teeth clenched as she hefted with all her might and the body flopped ungracefully into the tub.

She looked in the cabinet under the basin and found several cleaning products. Clog remover. She read the label aloud. "Sodium hydroxide and lye. Perfect."

The tablecloth had slipped under the body and exposed a good bit of flesh. Carefully, she reached around the thing's legs and pushed the stopper down. She emptied the bottle over its length and ran enough water to cover it.

The foaming clog remover created an unusual mix of blue swirling with the scarlet red seeping from hair and clothes. The trashcan was overflowing with rumpled tissue, so she dropped the empty bottle in the tub.

Sophie washed her hands under hot water at the vanity. "Don't look in the mirror." The instruction was given to the thing in the tub, but Sophie wasn't about to glance into the looking glass either. Mirrors brought opinions and commentary from the past, from a time before she'd messed up her life. When there was hope, maybe even a time or two she felt joy.

With this messy job it was likely to have something nasty to say. That bitch in her head loved to pick apart Sophie's inadequacies. Doubtless, it looked down on this performance, would preach at her for being impatient and leaving a body lying around the house. But Sophie had no desire to get it into the car and drive out to the desert. For now anyway. Maybe tomorrow.

She had promised the voice to learn something each time she killed. To look past the way it made her feel and find ways to make the task easier, faster, or cleaner. After all, she had to be perfect when the investigator found Dan or he would still find her unworthy. Spurn her again.

Memories of his mocking words the last time she found him made her chest tighten, her blood pulse. Trying to find Dan had caused her much anxiety, but it was worth it. He was hers. Anyone who tried to stop them this time … She tried to swallow past the bile in the back of her throat. Reminded herself she needed to take her meds. She needed to be in control.

She dried her hands and ducked out of the bathroom without looking in the mirror. She'd already covered the other three in the house.

She grabbed a big blanket from the linen closet on her way back to the living room. Folding it over twice, she spread it over the blood the body had left on the floor. Only a small bit peeked out near the counter.

You should clean that.

"No one's coming here. It's not a problem."

Her stomach grumbled from lack of breakfast, but there was no way she was eating the tree-hugging fare in that diner. It reminded her of regurgitated baby shit. Come to think of it, Bean really didn't look the type to eat it either. And he did not match the impression she'd had of him. Instead of a skinny nerd with thick glasses, Bean was at least six-two, and if she had to guess, he was every bit of two forty, two forty-five. It would take a big dose to put him down. She'd keep that in mind.

One of the reasons she hated people was their unpredictability. She liked things to have a certain amount of the expected to them. Made decision making easier for her. A PI punching people yesterday and eating vegan mush for breakfast today. Who'd have thought it?

Sophie grabbed some cheese slices out of the bags she'd set on the counter. She'd made a quick stop for cigs and snack food. After all, the body in the bathroom wouldn't have had much food on hand, now would she? Cynthia Hodge had thought she was going to an accounting seminar in L.A.—all expenses paid.

"Brilliant." Sophie marveled at her mind at times. She'd set up the trip. Going as far as to buy an airline ticket and express it to this address so the body would be packed and all ready to leave. And more important, take plenty of time off work. No one would miss her for days. "Brilliant," Sophie said again for a verbal back pat.

She lit a cig and took a long drag. In her opinion, nicotine was more help than her Prozac. Sophie had done her part now. The final leg of her long-term plan was in motion. All she needed was for Bean to find where Dan was living in a hurry, before the body would be expected back at the office. He had a week at most. Sophie would monitor its emails and calls in the meantime to keep the body's friends from becoming worried. But the charade would only be sustainable for so long.

She stuck one of the supposedly lean frozen meals in the microwave. It took her a moment to figure out the unfamiliar controls. When the turntable started spinning, she stood over the couch and picked up the remote control neatly waiting on the armrest. The noon news was on. A perky weather girl detailed what any moron could figure out with just the graphics. "Fucking hot all week." She muted the sound.

Two other bags sat at her feet. Not from the grocery but an earlier excursion to the hardware store and the pharmacy. Easing onto the couch, she carefully opened her little black suitcase on the coffee table. Her fingers traced the foam compartments. A long time went into the planning and arranging in there. Her knife drew her attention as she sat on the cream-colored cushions of the sofa. Good thing she'd not gotten blood on it. The leather chair looked far less comfortable.

The gleaming batwing switch with an English staghorn handle had been a present to herself after Number One. The switchblade she'd used on that bitch had been cheap. The handle had cracked, almost snapped, and it slipped in her hand. Sophie rubbed a small scar at the base of her thumb. Fortunately she'd managed not to leave any DNA around. Or if she had, she didn't think the police had found it.

"Pays to be prepared." So she'd invested in some proper tools and this beauty. It was heavy, thirteen inches with the blade extended, and finely sharpened. It had never let her down. Never bit back. The blade felt like magic under her light caress. The pleasing light hazelnut–colored staghorn was textured just enough to help keep a firm grip.

Next to it was a foam cutout big enough to hold several pairs of gloves. She double gloved most the time after that first incident. New knife, yes, but she couldn't be too careful. It wouldn't do to have someone search for her DNA now. Now that the plan was in action, now that she was so close to Dan.

A cell phone rang. Sophie jumped, even squeaked. She needed to calm her nerves. Take her meds.

The ringer went off again. The body's phone. Sophie let it go to voicemail. She didn't want to talk to any of the body's friends or coworkers. But she would text them back if she felt like they needed placating. She'd check it later. Work then play.

Her attention swung back to her case. Below the knife were auto injector pens set into the foam so she could get to them easily if need be. Seven. All had been preloaded with a strong animal tranquilizer—ketamine. Easier to obtain than the human equivalent and just as effective. She'd used one on the body in the bathroom.

When Sophie, disguised as a cabbie, had come to her door for the ride to the airport, there was a cab running in the drive. Sophie had stood there in dark jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and a cap. She'd offered to get the luggage. The body, his sister, had been happy for the assistance, even turned her back to get her purse from the kitchen counter.

That was the magic moment. That instant when Sophie knew all would be well. Easy peasy. She'd hit the body on the back of the neck with the injector and held the body in a headlock from behind until it started to falter. Then she'd used her staghorn knife. Thirteen inches of beautiful steel to cut a precise six inches. Most people say ear to ear when they talk about a slit throat. But the sweet spot was lower, about two inches on most average-sized adults. So she sliced from artery to artery. The body fainted from the drugs before a good fight or bleeding out. It then sagged to the floor at Sophie's feet with nary a struggle. Quite sad really, for her life to go out in an instant when she had spent the week expecting a great trip and conference.

Not Sophie's concern. Cynthia Hodge was a tool. Just like the items in her case. A nice clean kill, that was. She'd retrieved a tiny syringe from the fresh box she'd bought with a forged 'script and filled it with the tranquilizer from the amber bottle nestled inside a bundle of gloves for protection. The ketamine. She plunged the needle in and sucked out the tranquilizer. She loaded it into the disassembled auto-injector. With a quick twist and a compression of a spring, she had the Epipen-type auto injector back together. Only this brand was smaller, slimmer. Admiring her ingenuity and skill, she returned it to its proper place in the kit.

A square cutout in the corner of the case housed a roll of green plastic-covered garden wire, a small pair of wire cutters, a few bandages, a spare pair of contacts, and a trash bag. Her tools were ready. Calmness tingled through her body. She was ready.


Bean poured a shot of very good scotch he'd bought using the top Benjamin from the stack of Cynthia Hodge's bills. He'd been drinking cheap rot-gut brands over the last few weeks. Annie was chomping happily on her indulgence as well. Tuna Feast the can had read. He thought the picture of the white longhaired cat on the can was the perfect negative of his little black Annie.

He popped open a spanking new laptop. The new computer was part of the reason his funds were dangerously low this month. He'd been watching a thug for an insurance company and the mark had caught on, bum-rushed Jim's car at four in the morning with a two-by-four, and swung away. His computer took the brunt of one of the blows. Jim used it to protect his face as the wooden weapon crashed through the windshield. Shock resistant … my ass.

It had been cheaper to get his head fixed than replace the computer. Sadly, he'd needed both. Got a new laptop a week later, but he was stuck with the same old skull. He sipped the scotch in lieu of more pain meds. Only hurt occasionally now. Couldn't discern the pain from his normal morning headaches anymore. On top of the cost of replacing the hardware, he'd lost the revenue from not getting the information for his client. They'd fired him. Asshats.

The screen opened for the INtellix database. He typed in Dan's full name and hit search. Little bubbles swirled in a circle as the software searched nationwide for criminal records on Daniel Kent Hodge. Several hits returned. Oregon, Texas, Florida, and Michigan all listed individuals by that name. He clicked the one listed for Texas. That click costs him eight bucks. Three more listings appeared on the screen. Possible relatives and associates. Cynthia, his mother, and another male in his sixties, deceased, with the last name Hodge. And another man named Halbert Winters.

Arrest record was pretty short for a junkie.

Forth Worth, 2006, Drunk and disorderly. Fined $200 and time served.

Austin, 2007, Drunk and disorderly. Resisting arrest.

Fined $350. Time served.

Neither of those would be pled down from a drug charge. Chances were he hadn't started using while he still lived in Texas.

Jim popped over to another database. Financial trail. Harder to trace, but it might even generate him a sweet social security number. That would be a help. Again, all of Dan Hodge's records disappeared after 2009.

Cold trail. Not looking good for evidence of life. Hopefully he wouldn't find a death record. The stack of cash was burning a hole in his pocket. Finding the kid dead in two hours meant giving most of it back to the redhead.

Jim let another sip linger on his tongue. Annie jumped onto the table and settled beside the laptop to begin her grooming ritual. The cat was so predictable. Always started with her paws gently rubbing over her eyes like a tired baby, ended with her ass. Next step was to try to rub his face.

He scratched her head. With an annoyed, chirping meow she turned away but didn't deviate from her routine.

Jim tried another search tool. The results closely mirrored the INtellix information. How does someone drop off the face of the earth and still manage to come see or call his mother? Maybe he'd snail mailed her. Bank accounts needed socials, credit cards needed socials. This kid had no marriages, no liens, no judgments, no back taxes, and no death record. Not on file anyway.

He Googled. Found one picture of Dan standing next to Halbert Winters. He saved the pic and zoomed in on the banner in the photo's background. Party on the Porch … Texas Circuit Finals Rodeo.

He typed in Halbert Winters. Hal was a veteran of the Pro Rodeo Association. If he was, maybe Dan had been too. He looked up the history page on the association's website. Sure enough.

Annie finished with her ass and padded her way to him, purring, wanting attention. "No way, stinky butt. You're not kissing me with that mouth." He directed her away from his computer.

He scanned the pages. D. Hodge and H. Winters traded the top spot in the saddle bronc events from 2006 to 2009. Both made pretty good money for the finals. Dan had had some cash back then.

The association had an event this coming weekend in Fort Worth. "Maybe Hal is still around."

Annie meowed her agreement at him.

In the meantime, Jim decided to pop in and see what Dan's momma had to say about her baby boy. Maybe she would remember something. Jim was good with talking people into doling out facts. Sometimes facts they didn't even know they knew. It was his talent. Besides, old ladies liked him.


"Get your skinny butt outta my room." The command was almost a shriek. Serious enough to stop Jim in his tracks.

He looked to the open door at his back. Nothing but empty hall. Who was she talking to? He was just shy of 230 pounds these days. No one would call him skinny.

The woman faced away from him, silver hair shining in the late-afternoon sun. The glow was the only thing in the room that looked warm. Beige walls would have made it a bit warmer, but almost every inch below about the five and a half foot mark was haphazardly covered in newspaper articles.

Momma Hodge's retirement suite was little more than a hospital room. A beige couch that might seat two people was jammed into the space between the window and a cinderblock wall. No other seating but the rolling chair Mrs. Hodge currently occupied as she faced the open window. He doubted she could see out from her low angle, but a collection of scuffs on the floor indicated her attraction to the location.

A hospital-gray bed frame with a knot of tangled white sheets was the only other furniture. A small stand held a lamp, a glass of water, and a mirror. Beside the bed at Jim's feet was a two-foot-tall stack of newspapers. Jim glanced at the front page of the one on top. Older than a week.

"I said … " She spun the swivel chair and rolled it several feet until directly in front of Jim. She nudged her glasses closer to her eyes. "You're not Stephen." She chuckled. Shook her head, apparently amused. "But I suppose you knew that, didn't ya?"

"I believe so. Last I checked I was Jim Bean." She was a feisty one to be talking to the staff like that.

"Beam? Like the whiskey? Could sure use a snort of that at the moment. You bring me any?" Her face was painted with hopeful anticipation.

Jim smiled. There it was. Several times a week he answered this question. Used to piss him off. Not so much anymore. He was the one who changed his name. He should have given it much more consideration at the time. He thought it was kind of cool when he did it. He'd been holding an expensive cup of joe from a fancy place down the block from the courthouse. A bean was roughly painted on the cardboard sleeve. Behind him a loud talker was jabbering away on the phone. He was in coveralls, like the mechanics wear. James was scrolled across a patch on his chest. James Bean. Good enough. He'd shortened it to Jim as he filled out the paperwork for the change. And Jim Bean was born.

These days he used the question: "Jim Beam? Like the whiskey?" as a way to judge character. The more uptight or nervous a person was, the less likely they were to bluntly ask him.

He shook his head. She was pretty out there. "No, ma'am. Like green. Green bean, Jim Bean."

She didn't crack the slightest hint of a smile. "Don't know no Bean either." That hope turned to a suspicious glare and a raised lip. "You're not dressed like one of the morons who works here." She was not holding back, more wary.

"Nope. And I suggest you be a little nicer to the people who bring your food." Jim smiled. He didn't want to say the word investigator unless he had to. Might upset her. He wasn't sure if Cynthia told her mother she'd hired a PI.

"Ha. I can make my own way to the food lines, mister. Don't you worry."

He scanned the articles on the wall. Lots and lots of them. Nothing seemed to connect at first glance. Entertainment, sports, political. More obituaries in one place then he'd ever seen. Few had pictures. Most were bold headlines and story copy. They gave him an idea. "I was wanting to do a story on the residents here. One of the morons said you were a firecracker. Told me you'd be a good interview."

"Me? In the paper?" She used the heels of her scuffed black shoes to scoot the chair a bit closer.

He hated to lie to the old girl, but he didn't want to upset her. Given most his life was lived in a lie these days, what the hell? Nothing like the fluidity of ethics. "Mind if I sit?"

"Heck no."

She seemed bright and alert. Cynthia had given him the impression the old woman would be out of it. This exercise may garner him better intel than he'd hoped. He started with how long she'd lived in the facility.

"I've been here almost seven years, best of my recollection. Since right after Kennedy died."

Jim nodded. "Kennedy, huh?" His hopes of accurate information faltered almost as fast as her smile.

"Sad day."

"It was." He'd best get to the point then. She wasn't going to give him Danny's last address. "Heard you have a son, Mrs. Hodge. Daniel?"

"I do." Her face was unreadable. No longer smiling, but not exactly unhappy. "He's a cowboy."

"I heard that too." Jim leaned in, glancing behind again. Never liked his back to the door. But in this case it was to make her feel like he was secretive, that she could trust him. "You know where he is?"

"Out riding horses, last word I got."

"You've heard from him?"

"Not directly. Not in a while. Cindy says he's busy." Her face fell. "But he's promised me cake for my birthday next week. Tuesday. And a clown face. He always wore the best clown faces." She scrunched up her face and rolled her chair to the wall on her right. She plucked down an article. "Five hundred and seventy-five words." She handed it to Jim and grabbed another. "Fourteen hundred and seventy-five words." She pushed herself out of the chair, teetering on the brink of disaster. Jim braced to catch her. She swerved and twisted, grabbing one of the highest and longest sheets taped up. "Three thousand six hundred and seventy-five."

He looked over the long wall coved with the newsprint. "They all end in seventy-five?"

"That they do, mister. You'd be wise to remember that." She tapped her temple and winked.

He smiled down at her as she resettled in her rolling chair. "I'll do that." He sucked in a deep breath. "Anyone else come asking questions about Dan, Mrs. Hodge?"

"My name's Lynette. And only girls come round. But you know how handsome my boy is. Just like his father." She worried at a loose thread from her sweater, inspected it, and then let it fall to the linoleum floor. He'd give her a moment. See where her thoughts went.

She refocused on the paper in her hand. "My Andrew's last article was two hundred and seventy-five."

Jim remembered the name listed on the database. Andrew Hodge. Daniel's father.

She closed her eyes. "Obits ought to be short."


Jim parked the bland Japanese rental among jacked up pickups and horse trailers the next afternoon. He'd thought it was hot in Vegas, but the oppressive Texas heat and humidity had him sweating before he made it five feet from the car and its robust air conditioner.

He'd parked behind the arena area on purpose, guessing that would be where the riders and pros hung out. And as he suspected, there were several guys working horses and moving livestock toward the action.

He looked like a cop in this environment even with his jeans and hiking boots on. Three men stopped what they were doing to watch him approach.

He pulled out his ID. "Name's Bean. I'm looking for Hal Winters."

As expected. No answer. Three blank stares from three thin men in tight jeans and boots. They all had the same look. Pressed bright shirts with patches all over them, big buckles, and dusty well-worn boots. These guys were riders and had been around a while to pick up so much sponsorship.

"I'm hoping he can help me find a missing guy. He's not in any trouble."

The information brought little change of expression. Jim stood his ground and stared at them. The rather short one on the left finally looked down. He was the one who'd spill.

Jim addressed him. "Really, man." He tried to look like he was harmless. "I'm looking for Daniel Hodge. His sister hired me to find him. Their mother's sick. Help a guy out, would ya?"

Shorty nodded and tipped his hat back a bit. "I remember Dan. Haven't seen him in a few years. But you're on target with Hal. If anyone knows, he will."

"And he's here?" Jim was hopeful. Long trip if he wasn't. The circuit standings online had ended with last season. No way to know if Hal was riding the same one this year.

One of the quiet men spit. It landed close to Jim's feet but if it was directed at him, he'd have known. Jim ignored it.

Shorty pointed to a building off to the left of the covered arena. "Having a Coke in the AC would be my guess. Broncs don't go off till later."

"Thanks." AC sounded good to Jim.

Inside the cafe Jim didn't garner as much attention. There were all kinds of people there to watch the rodeo with families, people working the snack bar, even a couple cops in the corner. The seating area sported three long rows of white plastic folding tables. It would maybe hold a hundred people. There were only about thirty scattered around now. No tablecloths. No pretense. The food smelled like a summer baseball park at dinnertime. A huge whiteboard displayed the handwritten menu. Empty bottles displayed the choice of beer.

A couple dozen cowboy hats dotted the room. Jim scanned the faces of those turned in his direction. A cute blonde was smiling up at him as she spoke to her friends. Working. He moved on. A behemoth of a man in a pressed white shirt stood from the table closest to Jim and gathered a plate of fried chicken remains. He nodded. Jim took that as an invitation.

"Hal?"

The man hesitated.

"He's not in trouble. I owe him money." There's a lie that almost always works.

After another once-over the guy evidently agreed that Jim wasn't there for trouble. He pointed to the far corner of the room. No subtlety. Good thing Jim didn't need to sneak up. "Black hat talking with that lady in the green shirt."

Not to mention the guy had a mustache the size of Dallas. "Thanks."

Jim walked straight toward Hal. No surprise to Hal since he'd seen the big fucker pointing his way. Jim still had his ID in his hand. He flipped it open to Hal. The blond girl looked a little frightened. "I'm a PI from Vegas. Cynthia Hodge asked me to help her find her brother, Dan Hodge."

Jim gave the guy a quick minute to think on that. Wanted him to relax. Understand Jim was not there to find him for any troublesome reason.

After about four seconds he said, "I haven't seen Dan in a few years."

"Last time he beat your ass in the regionals." The blonde laughed. Her face was over-tanned from the Texas sun and over-coated in Maybelline. Lips the color of a fire engine. Eyes painted up cornflower blue. A look Jim was used to on the showgirls. Intentionally overdone for the lights and the stage.

Hal smiled. It made it to his eyes. Genuine. "It was."

"You two used to pass that title back and forth from what I could see online." Jim slid into a folding chair uninvited. The blonde turned more his way.

"He was a great rider," Hal said.

"Was?"

"Up and disappeared one weekend." Hal's accent was thick and rolling. He used his index finger and thumb to smooth his handlebar mustache. "Last day of regionals, 2012. His entry fees were paid. He was sitting in first place after the first go round. Never missed a ride before that. Never seen him since."

"Unusual for a guy to disappear in the middle of a competition?"

The blonde tapped an unlit cigarette on the table to pack the tobacco. "I've never heard of anyone else running out like that. I always thought he had to be dead to miss out on the buckle." Jim let his eyebrows rise as she elaborated. "I mean, he was in the money all the time. Had a decent truck but kind of lived out of it. We're on the road a lot, but most of us have a home base. Dan didn't."

"You think he could have gotten mixed up in drugs?"

"Oh. Hell no." Hal straightened, offended by the idea. "This is a real sport, mister. You have to have a clear head to strap yourself to a twelve-hundred-pound animal and hold on. We all get behind it at the bar every now and then, but he took this shit serious. Was saving to move to Montana and buy his own land."

Interesting. Montana's a big place to get lost in. "You guys know any other riders who did that? Move up to Montana?"

They both shook their heads but Hal answered. "I don't know anyone who could save his money like Dan."

If the man had some cash and no drug problem, there had to be a money trail. But why would his sister think he was a druggie? "Could he have started the drugs right before he disappeared?" Jim asked.

Hal pressed that mustache down again, stretching his lips into a frown. "Don't see Dan like that. He was smart. Hardworking. The guy you'd trust your sister with."

"Drugs change people."

Hal shrugged. "I think you're throwing your rope in the wrong direction."

Jim stood and nodded. "I appreciate your time." He said it to Hal but made eye contact with the blonde as well. "One more thing. Anybody else come looking for Dan after he went off?"

"Not that I can think of," Hal said as the woman shook her head.

"Great." Jim had a thought. "I need to get some cash out of the bank. Want to hit the bar myself tonight. What's the biggest bank around here? Don't want to pay too many fees."

"There's a First Texas Fed on Highway 377. I use them. Got an All Points ATM. No fees no matter where I go."

Another leather-faced woman stepped up behind the cowboy. "You best get to the chutes, Hal."

"I'll get out of your way. Have a good show … ride?"

"Go."

"Go. Have a good go." Jim headed back into the Texas heat.

Follow the money.


Jim sat at the bar, his reflection directly below a buffalo butt the size of his first car. The rust-colored, stuffed rear-end was once part of a whole bison merrily roaming the range. Where the hell ever a range might still be these days. Now half a dead bison hung from a bar-back mirror in tribute to the house labeled beer, Buffalo Butt. Jim opted for scotch to accompany the rare piece of meat in front of him. No butt beer.

He pressed his shoulders back and cranked his neck to the side for a crack and stretch before cutting into what might be the end of his almost-decent cholesterol score.

Twelve ounces of marbled perfection. It sliced like butter. Tasted like heaven. The texture of the aged beef was flawless. The seasoning minimal. Perfect. Jim was dog-tired from the late flight last night. A beautiful meal and the scotch was exactly what he needed before an early night and a dawn flight tomorrow. It'd been a good trip. Fast and efficient. Just the way he liked it. One interview and he had a good lead.

Jim stopped chewing when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His dark hair was too long, spilling over his ears, his gray eyes looked gaunt above dark circles. The haggard appearance in the reflection made him wonder what had made Dan go so far off course. The kid was in college, then quit and joined the rodeo, and then turned junkie.

Jim's own life had been buffalo kicked too. His derailment was caused by a co-ed and a false accusation of assault and rape. He'd lost his scholarship, his spot in the FBI training academy, and a good deal of his mother's retirement to make bail. The following scrutiny and mistrust had sent him to Vegas. He'd changed his name and put out his plank declaring himself a PI. Started all over.

In the beginning he'd drunk enough to kill that buffalo hanging above his reflection. He counted himself lucky no one had offered him heavy drugs. He closed his eyes to the darkness that lingered from the self-loathing and anger of his past. Yeah. He'd have been happy for that kind of chemical-induced escape from reality. Maybe Dan had come across a need to indulge, to bury pain, life.

Someone maneuvered into the stool next to him even though there'd been plenty others open along the bar. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down at the steak. He was in no mood to chat with a local.

"Well, Mr. Bean." His gaze snapped back to the mirror. The voice was smooth. The face familiar. "Did we find anything today?"

He blinked a couple of times, letting the confusion of seeing someone completely out of context ease out of his brain. He slowly took another sip of scotch. Catching his tongue. He didn't like being surprised … or followed. He needed to edit his thoughts before he vomited out words he'd wish not spoken to a client. He silently counted to ten to hold his tongue. So the court-mandated anger- management class had paid off. This time.

"There was no need to come all the way to Texas, Ms. Hodge. That's what you paid me for."

"Call me Cynthia." She'd crossed her legs and angled herself to face him. Her elbow was casually draped over the dark-stained wood of the bar. She tilted her head and loose red locks tumbled over her shoulder. It was longer than he had imagined when he met her. That grin was mischievous at best. But damn, she was hot.

"I told you I wanted to see him as soon as you found him. So I figured if you were coming to Forth Worth, why not?"

"Shouldn't have." It came out more of a growl than he would have liked.

Cynthia's spine straightened, her face hardened, and she glanced around as if to make sure no one heard his harsh tone. "Please don't think I'm questioning your prowess as a PI. I'm just anxious."

That didn't help. "You wasted a trip."

Relaxing back onto the bar, her body language changed, softened. Jim got the feeling this woman rarely lost her poise for long. "He's not here?" She eased over even closer. He could smell her perfume. Something exotic. Not fruity or sweet.

"I really didn't expect him to be. But I do have a lead." He decided to hold off telling her his thoughts on Dan having cash at this point. He had no idea how long his techie guy would take to find the money trail. If there was one left to follow.

"Oh?"

"Old friend says he talked about Montana a lot."

"Montana. That sounds about right for Dan. Always loved the thought of the West. He thought Texas was too … not green."

"His rodeo buddies find it hard to believe Dan got into drugs."

She blinked hard. Swallowed. "So did we. It happened so fast. Seems like he was visiting one day and he was fine and then he missed his next planned visit. After that, he was always flighty and we got calls from a hospital once. He'd almost OD'd."

"I didn't find any arrest records."

With that she sat up and recrossed her legs. Jim tried not to notice that they were long and lean. He took another sip.

"I don't find that surprising. I did a criminal background thing online as well." She twisted and glanced around then nodded to the back of the restaurant. "I have the corner booth" She picked up his plate and handed it to him. "Join me. You can buy me dinner with my retainer money." Before he could answer she grabbed his drink. "Sir." The bartender looked up from his phone as Cynthia continued. "I'm moving Mr. Bean to my table. Is that okay?" She urged him out of the stool with a flick of her wrist.

Dammit. He really wanted a quiet evening alone. Sinking into bed in a scotch haze. Like most of his evenings.

He fell into the booth. She said something to the waitress before leaning back to the bartender. With her back turned and the angle she was leaning over the bar, he could see the shape of her ass in that tight denim skirt. He let his head fall back and hit the booth. It was not soft, as the upholstery made it appear. Dammit. A clock to the head would do him good right now.

She turned back to him holding two glasses—his close to empty one and a full one. She showed a good bit of cleavage as she set them in front of his plate and eased into her place behind her plate, which looked remarkably like his. Rare beef and vegetables.

With a wink she raised her wineglass and offered a toast. He groaned internally as he raised his glass. The evening reminded him of a very bad prom date. Wrong place. Wrong girl. Again.

She chatted about Texas and accounting through the meal. She smiled a lot. Even touched his arm a couple of times.

Cynthia was a knockout, but he would never get involved with an active client. She blasted him with that amazing smile again, this time with the head tilt thrown in for a murderous effect. The last gulp of the scotch did seem to help. He felt it. Woozy. Must be the traveling, because two drinks would never make him this relaxed. Damn shame too. Would have saved him a stack of cash during the years he was drowning the reality of his trashed life and bad choice in women.

The waitress stopped by and filled the water glass in front of Cynthia. "You two okay?" The waitress cleared the plates.

"One more?" Cynthia asked.

Jim felt the back of his teeth. His litmus test for years had been to stop when his top front teeth felt a little numb. They were still there and still hard. That little exercise was pretty danged effective. No need to worry. No driving tonight, as the saloon was attached to his hotel. All he needed was to stumble up the stairs to his room. She was buying and he was beginning to enjoy the company. "I think so."

"Good." She turned to the young girl. "I think I'll have a different glass of wine." She picked one off the small list she was handed. "Well, Mr. Bean. What's your story?" she asked when the waitress was out of earshot.

He let out a laugh that sounded a little too feminine in his head. "It's long and sad and I'm in no mood to go down that road right now." And he wasn't. He was feeling light. Happy. Strange.

"Okay. Life history is off limits. How about music? I'm guessing this country music is not your favorite."

She hadn't pushed. He liked that. "I'm a classic rock guy. Grew up with it in the house."

"I would have guessed that." She tossed her hair off one shoulder and scooted around to his side of the booth so she was sitting next to him. She pulled out her phone and tapped into the music section. "Love the classics." The play list was rather fuzzy but he made out ZZ Top and CCR.

With a little twinkle in her eye, the waitress set down their new drinks. The night was looking more and more like a first date. He took another drink. A big one. He needed to back away from his client. Cynthia got her lipstick out of her bag and touched up her lips.

No need to waste the good stuff. He would finish the drink and be on his way.

"Not so fast, big guy." She grabbed the glass and pushed it away from him. "We should have a toast before you slam that down."

Jim looked from the glass to her face. His head felt like it took too long to make that short distance. He blinked. Also sluggish. Travel must be kicking his ass this trip. Not usual, but the bed in this joint felt like sleeping on a fresh doughnut. Soft and unsupportive. He'd tossed all night. "What toast?"

"Here's to you bringing Dan home to me?" She pushed his glass back to him. Then she let her pretty nails trail up over his fingers oh so slowly. The delicate movement mesmerized him.

His gaze took the path up her arm, across that sexy spot just where her neck curved into her shoulder, and then found her recently re- reddened lips.

"You are amazingly pretty in this light." The words were out and he hadn't even thought them. He chuckled to himself. It should be embarrassing. Inappropriate. Client. Bad juju.

Her hand slid over this thigh.

But …

"You're very handsome yourself."

Client. Stop. His thoughts spun to the toast. Dan. "I may not, you know?"

"You may not what, Jim?"

"Find … find him." His lips felt dry. Licking them only seemed to spread the condition to his tongue.

She inched her fingers up the seam inside his jeans along his thigh. It tingled, burned. Nails grazed over his zipper. "You will."

For a moment the sexy smooth lines of her face hardened. She gripped his package. He sucked in a larger than normal breath of scotch-flavored air. Her touch seemed hot. His body jumped to react. "Yeah."

The waitress slipped the bill down. Cynthia opened the vinyl folder and signed it, all with her right hand. Her left was working him through his jeans. He was melting to her touch. His bones had deserted his being. The music in the room picked up in tempo. He felt the melody twisting and turning around his head like he could visualize dancing notes. Humming. He felt like that when he'd had a contact high at his tech guy's house once. Ely was a Viet Nam vet and prone to smoke without thought or care of who was around. He felt that way now. Like he'd been too long in front of Ely's computers while the man puffed away. Floaty. Comfy.

Her hand changed pace. He liked the rhythm.

"What's your room number?"


Cynthia watched as Jim worked diligently at his jean button. He pulled at the fastener with the finesse of a man wearing mittens. The continued failure to achieve his task didn't appear to upset him in the slightest. Rather, he seemed amused by the activity. How long would it continue if she didn't intervene?

Tonight's little game wasn't the first time she'd used GHB. The first foray had left the man vomiting and completely unwakeable. She read on the Internet the next morning that he'd died. Number Four.

She didn't get upset because the experiment failed. The supplier had warned her that the date rape drug produced a very ugly overdose. He was correct. No real loss, him being an over-cologned stranger from a sleazy bar. He was already falling-down drunk and in horrible shape when she'd found him.

She shuddered at the thought of the unappealing naked man on the lime green motel quilt and took a sip from her wineglass.

The fourth time she'd played around with this shit, she managed to overdose another one. Not to the point of danger or passing out, but he couldn't maintain an erection or concentrate on the task at hand. Dead weight. And he remembered too much the next day. She'd messed up that time. Picked a target who was too close to home. And, as should have been expected, it turned into a big mess. That experience cost her a great job and she had to change towns again.

She slipped off her shoes as Jim chuckled at his efforts. He looked younger without all the stress. When she'd first approached him at the bar, he'd looked beaten down. Maybe even sad. Now, playing with his zipper like a nervous teenager, his gray eyes danced with delight.

Sophie tossed away the memory of that past faux pas. Now she had a better job, made more money, and had greater flexibility with her schedule. She was ready for Dan. The house was ready. The plan in place to find him was moving along nicely.

She eased up and kissed Jim's neck. He froze for an instant. He left off working on the button and slowly responded with a deep, if sloppy, kiss. She enjoyed the scotch on his lips and the rough feel of his hands as he dug his fingers hungrily into her hips. Now, this was workable. The mix of GHB to alcohol was perfect. The experience would be useful research for when she got Danny to the house. He would need some coaxing the first time or two. Until he understood.

She let her hand slip back down to the PI's crotch. He was still as hard as he'd been in the bar. The drug was lasting. Maybe he was even harder now. But his rugged breathing worried her.

"How does that feel?" She wasn't sure the cause was the drugs or his excitement.

"Amazing." That sounded strained as well, but she was vigorously stimulating the man. She was sure he would deny her without the drugs. Not because of her looks—no, she had that covered—but because she was a client.

Yet here he was with his baser needs overriding rational thought. She'd provided the catalyst for his actions, but men were low-minded animals, really. They all turned on her eventually. They used her. Always had. Starting with her foster father and all the way through her life, until she got older, smarter. Not soon after she was out of that fucking house, Sophie started turning the tables, using men how she pleased. If she could gain something from it or if she thought they would wound her or detract from her mission, she'd use the blade. Simple plan.

But right now she was enjoying the outcome of this spur-of-the-moment party. Risky in that he might remember, but she felt this one wouldn't talk to anyone about it. He had far too much pride to whine about a drunken sexual encounter with a client. Men rarely cried rape.

He staggered back a little as she twisted the fabric around the metal button. He looked down at the jeans as if she'd accomplished some huge physical feat. His smile was boyish, even charming. Caution tingled her senses. Maybe she shouldn't play with someone she knew again.

She supposed he could get upset and stop looking for Danny. Then she'd have to start over with another PI. But she'd decided on this course as she watched him stalk into the restaurant and pull himself up to the bar. He was a good-sized man. His muscles thick and powerful and he wore a kind of arrogance mixed in with his confidence. He may not know how appealing his masculinity was. But maybe he did outside of work. Maybe he played games with women. Probably did. She liked to take men like that down a notch.

"Take it out."

"Huh?" He pulled his T-shirt off with only a minor amount of flailing and unsteadiness. Jim stood before her bare-chested, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. His balance seemed to disappear and he stumbled backward a few steps. Fortunately, the bed was there to stop his progress and catch him before he hit the ground.

This was perfect. He was happy as pie to be there. To be with her. And she was sure there was some rule in his profession that said don't sleep with clients. One he clung to. One she was able to strip away with ease. She could see it on his face just after she'd put the GHB into his glass. Mr. Bean was not happy to be joining her for dinner. Not that she'd given him a chance to argue. In such a short time, he was very happy to pull his penis out of his pants for her.

She chuckled to herself as she stalked closer to the bed. In this state, the PI was compliant and excited.

"Come to papa." He propped up onto his elbows. "Did I just say that?" His brows drew together.

She slipped off her shirt and apparently all thoughts of his last comment were washed away. Simple. Base. Flash a smile and bit of flesh and they fall all over themselves to give her what she wanted.

She'd managed to accumulate a small fortune with that tactic, conning and stealing and killing. Three pimps died when she'd hit Dallas with her plan to get off the street. Not that anyone missed them.

The plan had been to kill the lowlife fuckers for seed money. Maybe save a working girl's life in the process. Then she took the money, the drugs, and the guns they all hoarded. It was easy enough to sell the stolen shit to make a nice profit. Sophie thought of herself as an entrepreneur, after all. Hadn't taken more than a couple months to get where she didn't have to sell her own body or take out the drug dealers or pimps anymore.

She reinvested almost every dime into the plan. Hard work and savings paid her way through school and earned her a degree. Back then she'd had more money in the bank than any two people her age. Over time she bought several sets of identification. All with real social security numbers. She was smart. Determined. Danny would be impressed.

She eased to the edge of the bed and tugged on Jim's jeans. He did his best to lift his hips and she slid him out of his pants. Commando. "Yay me." She was getting excited as well. Jim Bean was a very nicely built man—defined muscles, nice abs, all without looking vulgar. She liked it. Big and just enough body hair to accentuate his physique. Reminded her of an Italian model she used to drool over.

Jim was mumbling, shaking his head. He'd lost his ability to voice his opinion on the upcoming amusements.

The thrill of taking someone against their will was almost as good as a kill. It was best when she could see the aftermath. The anguish that men suffered at having been violated. It was usually a woman's territory to be used. It gave her such a jolt to turn those tables. No one used Sophie Evers anymore.

She crawled up Jim's naked body, touching and teasing as she went. His muscles flinched and skin twitched as she tickled or stroked. "Are you always this sensitive?"


"Usually when a guy looks as bad as you, he's leaving Vegas, not heading into the party." The man's voice was at least one octave higher than Jim's current tolerance level.

Jim nodded but didn't respond or look his way. No way he wanted to chat with the high-talker for three frickin' hours.

"I take this flight a few times a month," the guy went on as the plane finally settled into its course and quit floundering around the airways like a wounded bird doing its best to make Jim hurl. "These nonstops are hard to get. Sure am glad to have it today. It's my girlfriend's birthday."

The rumbling of the jet engines was like a team of Clydesdales running a long-distance race in Jim's head. He leaned forward and used his thumbs to hold pressure on his temples, hoping for some relief. Nothing. His eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the morning light. The closed plastic window shade wasn't cutting it. Too many others in the cabin were wide open. He hoped this man didn't request that he open it back up. Jim needed what little respite from the glare he could manage. Might have to punch the high-talker in that flapping piehole if he didn't shut up.

Fuck, he didn't remember drinking that much. He couldn't remember drinking enough to feel like this in years. Maybe ever. Not that he remembered much after his client had started rubbing his junk while he stared at the taxidermied buffalo ass. He eased his thick head against the seat back as the plane banked north to head away from Dallas and toward Nevada. The sensation and a tiny bit of turbulence made him swallow hard. Bile. How the hell did he manage to get himself into these situations? Do the job and get paid. Easy. No need to add a fat layer of drama on top. Women. Of course it was a woman. He had to have the world's worst luck when it came to the fairer sex. Maybe he should consider only taking cases involving men.

Those cases would all be men looking for proof of cheating or lying wives. Although, he made a good bit of cash from women looking for proof of cheating husbands.

Behind his closed eyes he saw choppy images of Cynthia in the dark. Flashed moments of the night. The restaurant. His hotel room. Her bare shoulders looming over him. Long red hair in his face. Soft thighs pressed against his. Her breasts caressing his chest as she moved. The silent mental video of her talking to him as she dressed. But those memories were as cloudy as an abandoned fish tank. Hazy. Green. The sound dampened.

"You visiting Vegas?"

He shook his head. "Local."

"Me too. I'm in poker table sales. I'll be glad to be back home. A lonely casino out in the Texas sun was not for me."

The plane jumped again. Usually, turbulence didn't bother Jim much. Hell, he'd jumped out of planes a couple of times, but this time his stomach felt as though the big plane had taken a five-thousand-foot drop in altitude. He swallowed hard. Fighting what quickly was becoming a losing battle. Maybe that famous rare steak was bad. Could have been actual buffalo butt for all he knew. Food poisoning. Maybe that would account for his memories of Cynthia naked. Could it be hallucinations? Fantasies? He hoped so. There had been no real evidence of her stepping foot in his room this morning. No abandoned underwear or lipstick stains.

He searched the seatback pocket for the airsick bag. None.

"Jesus … here man." The high talker shoved the bag from his seatback pocket into Jim's hands. Just in time too. Fortunately, it was just bile. The tiny bag was enough to manage until he shuffled down the aisle to the lavatory. Many eyes on him as he went. He had to stop himself from planting his fist into the face of one guy who gave him the you pussy smirk. Then again, the constant throbbing in his head egged on a burning desire to punch everything. He tried to think back on his anger-management class. They hadn't covered anything about working through the world's worst hangover.

The cramped quarters made it hard to puke into the metal john. He was listing back and forth with the sway of the plane. Public restrooms suck. While he balanced, he considered the thousands of bare asses and men with bad aim who had come before. His best hope was that the minimum-wage cleaning crew did a decent job before he boarded. No other choice.

Fuck. He hated being sick. Felt weak. Out of control.

It ended.

His shoulder banged the wall as he splashed water on his face. He paused to consider the state of his innards. No rumbling. No cramping. All seemed calm. For the moment.

He pushed the door to the side. "Not feeling so good this morning, Mr. Bean?"

She was standing right there. A foot from his face. The shock of seeing her made him almost stumble back. He had to catch himself on the folding door. Her voice echoed around in his skull. "No. Seems not."

With a little pout, she handed him an opened bottle of water. "Drink this."

He choked on the first swallow. Bitter. Fake limes and something spicy. He inspected the half-empty bottle. "What the hell is it?"

The plane bounced over another air pocket. He fell against her. His body responded to the feel of hers even though his head felt like it was being melted by sulfuric acid. Dammit. He hated this situation. No denying it. Hated himself for breaking his own code of ethics. Bright eyes and an impish flash of her dazzling smile convinced him the snippets were memories and not hallucinations. At the moment, drunken fragmented fantasies would have been much better.

"It's aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, and a secret ingredient. Family recipe. My college friend called it the Wings of Angels." She turned to walk back up toward the front of the plane. "Drink it, Bean. You'll feel better by the time we land. Trust me." She glanced over her shoulder and winked.

He watched her walk past his third-row seat, back to first class, and slide in. Right-hand aisle seat.

He took another swig. It was horrible, but what the hell? The only other choice was scotch. The stomach did a little complaining at just the thought of it. He waited another few seconds before making his way to his seat. This time he passed pity-filled faces. The contempt had felt better.

He settled in, chugged his liquid remedy, and then tried to close his eyes and sleep. Within seconds the frayed images from the previous night replayed like a bad horror movie preview. No hesitancy on his part. He could tell that. But the rest was unclear. Out of order.

He'd woken to an alarm set on his phone. He never set his alarm. Didn't usually need it. Maybe Cynthia had done that. But how did she unlock it? He twisted in the seat, searching for a spot on his head that didn't feel as if it was propped against a bed of nails. He didn't remember if he'd felt like he'd had sex this morning. His body was as groggy as his mind.

The guy next to him started to snore. The erratic, guttural snorting was far better than his voice had been.


He hesitated at the gate. Paced a small circle in the midst of the gathered throng anxiously waiting to board the plane he was very happy to have just disembarked. His head was no longer pounding, but his chest was tight. Was she waiting up ahead to speak to him? As promised, Jim felt much better. He wasn't sure he wanted to deal with her right now. Breaking his own rules and the issues it would most likely cause going forward angered him. By all rights …

"Aww. You waiting to walk me to my car?" He turned to see her maneuvering around someone's overturned bag. Didn't slow her down a hitch. She moved with the grace of a tiger.

He shook his head and bit his lip at the thought of the sleek line of her hips. "Not really." He squared his shoulders. "I should drop this case, Ms. Hodge. I have the names of a couple other capable investigators in the city. I can get any of them up to speed in an hour." He realized he was looking at the stained terminal carpet instead of her. Coward.

"What happened between us last night … " He raised his head to meet her gaze. The amused smirk on her face was demoralizing. He deserved it too. There were a few lines he just did not cross. Seducing a client was one of them.

"Don't be silly. It's not like you took my virginity, Jim." She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "You follow that lead you got. Let me know what you find."

"I think it would be best if you contracted with someone else. I apologize for my behavior in Fort Worth."

"Jim, I really appreciate your commitment to being moral or following some PI's ethical code. But we had a few drinks and we had a good time. We're both past the age of playing at making a good time into a lifetime. It was fun. It was in Texas. Today we're back here and you have a job to do. A job I'm paying you very handsomely to do."

"I …"

"Really. I won't become some love-struck teenager over this. I expect you won't either."

He really needed this job. And was genuinely curious as to what happened to Dan. So far, the facts didn't line up. Nothing pointed to drugs being the reason this boy went into hiding.

He wasn't sure he was relieved to be keeping the job and the cash or worried that she was more of a shark than he suspected. "Ms. Hodge. Please allow me to pursue the leads without following me. If I find your brother, you'll be the first to know."

Her shoulders fell and she let out a huff that reminded him of a teenage girl not getting her way. "Are we really going back to this formality, Jim?"

He didn't answer.

"Fine. I will take your request under consideration, Mr. Bean." The cold eyes and aloof look of the businesswoman from their first meeting returned. Good. He could manage that. Naked and beautiful, not so much. "However, this is my case, my brother, and my money. If I choose to be involved, I will. Now, go do your job."

With that, she turned and stalked down the terminal with nothing but a small carry-on bag.


"You no look so happy, my friend," Ely said in a fake second-rate Mexican accent as Jim disconnected his call. Ely often did strange things, so an acute-onset accent was not a real shock.

"Strange client." He turned to see Ely talking to Annie as she sat on his counter. The cat glared at Jim's friend. Beside the fact that he was the best tech guy Jim knew, Ely was gracious enough to watch Annie when Jim was traveling or spending days on a long stakeout. Ely's urban loft was her second home.

The guy had served in Nam. A POW. He let small bits of experiences of his tour and his time in the hands of the enemy slip every now and then, but he never told the whole story. He was a badass then and a smartass now. And he was the best hacker in Vegas. The guy was older and weirder than any of the young bloods in the tech game and many lawyers didn't like Jim to use Ely because he wasn't a reliable witness. But even stoned, he was the best, and most of his cases never saw the inside of a courthouse. Jim knew when to use Ely.

Annie ducked Ely's attempt at physical contact. "I was talking to her. Don't so much care about chew, man." That cat loved to play hard to get. She darted up the counter just out of Ely's reach and then plopped back down to stare blankly and twitch her tail at the two men. "But now that you mention it, you do have the look of a man wid bad hemorrhoids."

"Annie's just hungry. I have a missing man that is really missing and his sister is a serious control freak."

"She the client?"

Jim knew what Ely was getting at. He gave him a shrug.

"She have the cost of admission, hombre?" Ely poured Annie's food from a container kept under the counter. The bowl was a permanent feature on his countertop. While eating, she let Ely run his skinny fingers down her back.

Jim put his phone in his backpack. "Yeah. Cash."

"Then you got no beef with telling the chica what you doing with her money." He gave Jim a creepy grin that showed way too many stained teeth.

If only it were just the giving of information. Jim still felt a little off from his drunken liaison with Cynthia Hodge. His head no longer hurt but his lack of concentration lingered like a bad odor.

"You here to take Annie home?" Ely asked.

"Not yet. Let's see if we can get anything from First Texas Federal on Daniel Hodge. Savings, ATM card, anything."

"Shit. I hate bankers, man. Almost as much as jowers. But not as much as creepy cable guys."

"What is a jower?" Jim was sure the man was stoned out of his mind. He checked for the smoky haze that hung around the high ceilings. The place was an abandoned lawyer's office. Ely bought the run-down building several years ago. It was one of the few pre-seventies buildings in the area that had not been demolished and replaced with a huge hotel. Trump must have missed the listing. Vegas loved the new and shiny. The upstairs to this unique place sported two rooms that now served as bedrooms and a gallery that was—in the past and still today—a library.

Jim's guess was the literature wasn't original to the law office. Who knew? He hadn't spent any time up there. From down here, a good part still looked like law books. The big change was artistic. Ely crafted disturbingly large metal sculptures of eagles and dragons suspended from metal and wood railings around the galley. It was a bit freaky from the ground floor to have them looming overhead all the time. But it was not his place, and Ely loved them.

Enough pot smoke to give Jim something of a contact high lingered. Maybe he could use the buzz to clear the cobwebs.

Ely held up Annie. "Jowers. You know, attorneys." He shook his head, kissed Annie. "Sorry, girlfriend," he said to Annie and put the cat on the floor. "Got to work for the man."

Jim wasn't sure if he was trying to imitate a Mexican accent or if he'd done a Cheech and Chong movie marathon again. Probably the latter. "Can we drop the Spanglish?"

Annie let Ely scratch under her chin one more time before she darted for the stairs. Ely slid behind one of the terminals on his wall of servers, routers, processors, and lord knew what else. The man could find out what an FBI agent scored on their entrance exam. Tracking down a bank account should be fairly easy. It wasn't a local bank, so Jim had no connections to call upon.

Movement high and to his right caught his eye. Jim turned to see Annie circle then settle down in her favorite spot, right on the back of an eagle sculpture closer in size to a VW than the national bird. She loved the precarious position. It used to make him nervous, but Ely had moved a big cushy chair under it in case she ever rolled over in her sleep and took an unintentional dive. After all, she was hanging out near the smoke zone.

Keys clacked at the pace of Morse code. Green lines of text tracked across the screen. Ely grumbled. Jim made his way back over to the kitchen area and opened the fridge.

"I made margaritas this morning!" Ely sounded excited. "Have one. They're amazing, man. I got some Herradura from this dude for fixing his satellite feed. Good shit."

So that was the inspiration for the Spanglish this afternoon. "You got high-dollar tequila and decided it was a good idea to dilute it with juice and salt? No thanks." He was ready to be home with his own scotch and his own bed.

"Ding, ding, ding," Ely sang out and threw his hands up as if he'd scored a winning field goal.

"What you got?"

"I found a K. D. Hodge." Jim moved closer. "Utah, baby." He typed into a window and brought up the database Jim used to track people. They found two listings for K. D. Hodge in Utah. One was a small loan from a boat dealer. Paid in full two years ago. The second an account with First Texas Federal.

"Dude's got no car registration, nothing in that name. If that's your boy, he is playing a serious game of hide and stay hidden." Ely scratched the back of his head so hard Jim thought he'd draw blood.

"If he's a junkie … " Jim started.

"No dammed junkie lives in Bryce Canyon, Utah. Seriously?"

Mountains, red rocks, tourists, and canyons are not the perfect place for someone with a serious drug habit to hang out, blend in. "There is a possibility."

Ely pulled up the Wiki page for the city of Bryce Canyon. Amazing nature shots of snow-covered rock formations and summer hikers neatly placed alongside the printed history, both natural and cultural, for the area. The last shot in the slide show was of happy travelers riding horseback through the spires and standing stones

"Of course. That's it."

"Dude's on a dude ranch!" Ely's sly giggle was more spooky than maniacal. "Gotcha."


The Broken Spur Inn was just ten miles ahead according to the hand-painted sign Jim had recently passed. He'd rolled down his window a ways back as the elevation rose and the numbers on his car's thermometer fell. It was under 50 degrees at the moment. The air gushing into the car felt like heaven after forty-eight hours in Texas and returning to 102 in Vegas. Back home it'd still be 70 even after dark. His phone vibrated against his leg before he heard the ringtone. The number displayed on the screen made him grit his teeth. Cynthia Hodge. At least he was almost there. Too late for her to follow tonight.

"Bean," he fired.

"Where are you?" No greeting. She'd turned cold fast.

"In my car."

"Funny." But she didn't sound amused at all.

He hadn't meant to be. "It's best not to aggravate your investigator, Ms. Hodge. Slows down the progress of the case."

It was best not to sleep with clients too, but …

She laughed. "Really? Well, I wouldn't think looking for an update would constitute aggravation. But you seem to dwell on being unhappy, Jim Bean. Maybe you should see a counselor to help with that pent-up aggression of yours."

Five years of counseling and his therapist was as done with him as he was with her sessions. "Shit doesn't work. I'm still angry."

"Maybe one day you'll tell me exactly what you're so angry about. Maybe I can help. You ooze hostility. I can feel it in the way you move, the way you look at people. Even the tone of your voice screams asshole. My guess is there's a correlation to the women in your life, but I'm no therapist."

Shut up. He wanted to snap it at her. But he was still spending her money in hopes of getting lots more of it. "I'm on my way to Utah. Actually, I'm in Utah as we speak. Weather's great. You shouldn't come."

There was a moment he thought the call had dropped. "Utah?"

"Lead on an old loan. The account was closed a couple years ago, but I'm checking it out. Gonna circulate his picture around the local dives." He saw another hand-painted sign on the right. It was in much worse shape than the last one. A splintered sandwich board only two feet high, tilted and half hidden in the red sand. White with black lettering. Broken Spur This Way! Under the words was a crude arrow missing more paint than not.

"Utah's a big place. What city?"

"Bryce Canyon area. Seriously, there's no sense you rushing out here, Cynthia." He used her first name, tried playing it calm enough so maybe she'd believe he wasn't hiding anything. "I'll call as soon as I know if Dan's here. I'll wait for your instructions once I know. Okay?"

Again the line was silent. The racket from his open window blocked any cellular noise from the conversation. It sounded empty. For a second an eerie sensation crawled up his neck, tickling his hairs. Like someone was watching him. But the road was dark.

"All right, Bean. I'll give you this one. But I want to be alerted as soon as you lay an eye on him. Don't talk to him first. You got me?"

Jeez, pushy woman. "I got it."

She hung up. That time he was sure of it. The beeping of the call dropping. Cynthia Hodge was pissed. He smiled as he pulled up to the Broken Spur Saloon and Inn and parked in front. A second entrance for the saloon was on the left side of the building. More cars parked over there than out front.

He pulled the picture of his prey out of a folder and tucked it in his shirt pocket. It was dead-on midnight. A few people were heading in the direction of the saloon entrance. The rest of the night was dark and quiet. He had a sneaking suspicion Cynthia Hodge was packing her bag.

The lobby area was only populated with a couple swapping DNA on an overstuffed couch. As expected, the inn's decor was a stylized version of the early West. A carving of a howling coyote and two boot-shaped lamps sat on the front desk.

Romeo pried his lips away from his pretty little Juliet's lips. "Jay will get ya up at the bar."

Jim nodded. He headed toward the blaring country music off to the left, past the elevators. The saloon entrance was marked with swinging doors. He pushed in, wondering if people really enjoyed such over-the-top gimmicks in their travel accommodations. He just wanted a bed and bottle. Looked like he'd have both tonight.

Didn't take him long to track down Jay. She was the only one tending bar and her nametag was a dead giveaway. He was an investigator, after all.

After supplying a large number of long neck bottles to a tiny waitress, Jay turned to him. "What'll you have?"

"A room and a scotch."

"Reservations?"

"Bean, Jim Bean."

For an instant, Jay looked like she was going to say it. Beam, like the whiskey? But given she was a bartender, had bright intelligent eyes, and had possibly already seen his name printed out on her list of late arrivals, he correctly decided she would not.

She fingered through a couple papers next to her register, then handed him a key envelope. At least they weren't still using metal keys like in Texas. "212. Upstairs at the back. Nice view in the mornings." She poured the scotch without waiting for a reply. "Anything else, Bean, Jim Bean?"

"Kitchen open?"

She retrieved a small menu. "Just bar food. All full fat and all full flavor."

Jim glanced and ordered the burger without much thought.

She went off and attended to other customers. His stomach was as empty as the canyon out there and wasn't particularly happy about the scotch after the hangover from hell and the drive up here all in one day. He took another sip and turned to scan the room. From what he'd seen online there were only two real bars in the area. This was one. The other was a ways up north. His glance rested on each male face, trying to compare them to the picture of Dan in his head. None matched right off the bat, but the picture was old. Men changed. Grew facial hair. Went bald.

Jay set his food and a glass of water in front of him like it was a drive-by. She didn't slow a step on her way to service the small crowd. The plate was just as he expected. Burger too. Huge and dripping in cheese and barbecue sauce. The best he'd ever tasted. Given the state his body was in, boot leather would probably sate his appetite.

Jay came back to check on him.

"Let me ask you something." He slipped the pic of Dan and Cynthia onto the counter.

She looked down, blinked, and her gaze snapped back to him. Oh. She was good. Covered her recognition fast. But Jim had seen the glint for a half beat. She shook her head.

"You don't know which of the pair I was going to ask you about."

"Don't matter. Even if I did recognize them, you know we got a kind of doctor-patient confidentiality thing going in this business."

He smiled. "Nice. I'm looking for Dan. He's not in trouble. His mother's ill and his sister asked me to help find him."

She managed an eye roll in combination with the lash flutter. She was cute and smart and a hell of a bartender. "You think I'm green enough to fall for that?"

"I think you trust your gut." He pulled out his card. "I'm a PI, not a cop." He slid it over to her. "His mom's in a rest home outside Las Vegas. Her time is short." That might have been exaggeration. Anyone her age was short on days in his opinion.

Jay walked away again. Filled several glass mugs. Washed a few more. She glanced at him more than once. She knew something.

He finished the burger, leaving most of the fries on the plate. It was close to one a.m. when she slid him his third shot. His water glass stood full.

The place was still hopping, but the busiest part of the night was over.

"His mom's sick?"

"Alzheimer's."

"Damn." She huffed and then downed his shot. "You'll find him eventually, I suppose. We're a small town. He's out at Ruby's."

Jim raised his brows. As much for her taking his drink as for wanting more info on Ruby's.

"Ruby's Horse Adventures. It's north of here. He's the barn manager or head wrangler or something like that. Keeps to himself mostly. When he comes in, he's never as drunk as the rest of the bunch. Polite guy." She refilled the shot glass. "You better not be here to cause any trouble or you'll answer to me."


This puzzle was not coming together, and not for missing pieces. To Jim, the mystery had a couple wrong pieces in the mix. Like a puzzle of a cat with random pieces from an Eiffel Tower picture thrown in just to mess with your head. None of Dan's acquaintances had any knowledge of the guy ever using drugs. His existence was so far off the grid he was close to impossible to find. Took a lot of work to have an electronic footprint so light. No Facebook. No cell that could be traced to his name. No job on record. And yet, here he was, a head wrangler or something at a resort in Utah.

Jay had made it sound as though he'd been around long enough for her to judge his character. Bartenders were good at that. And his experience in Vegas had told him female bartenders were particularly talented at it. Jim had been tossed out of some pretty low places by some pretty tough ladies.

He drove the quiet road north the next morning, following a bus from the Broken Spur Inn. It pulled up to the opening of a huge barn. Jim parked at the far end of the lot and watched as hotel guests filed off the aging blue shuttle bus.

He mingled into the back of the group as they made their way to be checked in by a couple of smiling young girls in tight jeans and dirty cowboy hats. He lingered as parts of the group were led off in different directions. Older and less-mobile to the wagon rides, younger and more-agile to the horseback rides. To the left side of the barn was a sign: No Guests Beyond this Point. Looked like the path led to the main house and the back of a snack bar/gift shop building. No doubt the buggy rides let off directly in front of that building when finished. Like how theme parks now guide guests through gift shops after they get off the rollercoaster. Sales. Sales. Sales.

Farther along were cabins. Plain. Not for vacationers. Living quarters. Eight doors. If they all had two bunks, at least sixteen of these hands lived on site. Would explain why there were no real estate or rental records for Dan Hodge. Beyond those were wide open spaces, fenced paddocks with horses milling about, and another big barn. The closest was rugged, less painted than the one customers came through. Likely for working rather than impressing guests. A lot of people around in the Ruby's T-shirts but none were his guy.

He eased his way to the edge of the barn. Two horses were tied in the aisle between rows of stalls that lined each side of the building. Both were resting with one back leg relaxed and seemed content to be tethered and left alone. Better than pulling a wagon. Jim moved along the outside of the barn. It smelled like a horse ranch back here. He peeked around the corner. A tall, thin guy was giving instructions to a young kid with a clipboard. Jim's gut told him the tall cowboy was Dan. His jeans were clean and pressed, his shirt only wrinkled from where he'd sat down, nice crease still down the sleeve. The thing that confirmed what his gut knew was the name Kent stamped on his leather belt.

The horse tied closest to Jim snorted his displeasure at being ignored. Both men turned to look. Jim backed around the corner, but they'd spotted him. His choices were few—turn and run or face the music. They were close and knew this area. Nowhere to go out there but the parking lot or the wilderness. His instinct told him to stay put. Cynthia would just have to get over it; he was gonna talk to Dan first. Besides, this guy was no junkie. Jim's gut was talking to him, he just had to figure out what it had to say.

"Can we help you, mister?" Dan and the much younger man stuck their heads around the corner. Dan tilted his head a bit. "Insurance company says you can't be back here, sir."

They'd given him an out. He could leave and follow Cynthia's orders. "Sorry."

He felt that tingle on his neck again right before he was going to turn and walk away, following her orders. His feet stayed put.

"Are you the boss round here?" he asked, looking at Dan.

"Of the horses, yeah. That's 'bout it."

"I have a couple questions about running a barn, you have a minute?"

Dan looked at the other guy. "Don't worry. I'll get the meds from Doc Milton." With that the kid rushed off toward the main building and the parking lots. "I need to get these two out in the paddock. Can you walk and talk?"

"No problem." Ah, the needs of a workingman. This workingman was clearly not on drugs. Possibly never had been on drugs. What was Cynthia's motive for saying so? Jim would have found Dan for the money. He didn't need to be convinced to hunt someone down. Why the misdirection? And why did it matter to him now? He should back away, call the client, and get his money. Job done.

The guy unhooked the horse and spun it toward Jim. "Hold her." He handed Jim a rope attached to the animal's head. The beast had to weigh a ton, maybe more. She was sniffing his arm, her lips nibbling at his sleeve.

"Is she a biter?"

Dan walked past with the other horse. "Only if you bite first."

The horse followed right on her horsey friend's tail. Jim was along for the ride. He didn't want to bring up anything until he was not attached to a thousand pounds of animal that could kill him with her feet. Dan opened the gate and spun the horse around and took off her head strap. He took the rope from Jim and did the same with that one. It was impressive just how hard they ran to the open pasture, kicking and farting along the way. It was amazing to see in real life. He'd been a city boy most of his life and had never been really close to horses.

"Now." Dan latched the gate. "What can I help you with?"

"You ever ride rodeo?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "A thousand years ago. Yeah."

"In Stephenville, Texas?"

Dan's body stiffened. He took a step back. Boy was going to run.

"I'm not a cop. You're not in trouble."

"You say?"

"Didn't see any paper on you." No warrants, no tickets, no nothing.

"And who are you, mister?" Dan's hip cocked. It was not a fighting stance.

"Jim Bean. I'm from Vegas. A PI. Your sister hired me to find you."

Dan's face twisted up and he scratched his cheek. "My sister? I talked to my sister last month. What the heck would she hire you for?"

Jim's expression must have mirrored his confusion.

"What exactly did my sister say?" Dan's expression changed in a heartbeat from confused teenager to frightened child.

"That you'd been missing for a while." Jim leaned against the fence for support. His gut was screaming at him loud and clear. There was something wrong here. This boy was not a drug addict. Never had been. Cynthia had lied to him about her brother. She followed Jim to Texas, got him drunk and seduced him, probably to keep him off-guard. Keep him from thinking about her or the job too much.

If Dan was telling the truth that meant Cynthia was the puzzle piece he hadn't expected? The odd part that didn't fit quite right? "What … what does your sister look like, Dan?"

"Blond. Short, a little thin."

"Oh, fuck." This was as bad as bad got if the kid wasn't playing him.

"What did she look like when you met her?" Dan stepped a little closer trying to loom over Jim.

Jim had thought he had all his ducks in a neat quacking row and now the little bastards were scattering. The feeling of not being in control, not being sure of himself, dug in his side like a spur. That woman had followed him all the way to Texas to make sure Jim did not speak to Dan. Now he might know why. And to top it off, they'd …

"Redhead. Shapely. Green eyes."

"Sophie. Oh my fuck. Was she in Vegas? Did she talk to my sister?"

"Who is Sophie?"

Dan started walking toward the cabins. He cursed and shook his head. Jim caught up as he hit the wood porch. A single rocking chair sat next to the upside-down bucket that worked as a table. He stopped. "Sophie was a girl I grew up with. We hung out some. I grew up, moved on. She showed up years later when I was in college. The crazy bitch couldn't take no for an answer." He took his hat off, then ran his hand through his hair. "The girl I was dating at the time suddenly disappeared. I was investigated. Almost accused. None of us thought of Sophie as a suspect. I had an alibi. The case was never solved. Sophie disappeared again." He let his thin back slam against the wall. He slammed his booted foot backwards. Boards cracked.

Jim's FUBAR meter sounded the alarm. Dread churned with the acid in his stomach. Been a while since he'd screwed up this bad.

"When Sophie showed up next, it was at a rodeo. I was hooking up with some buckle bunny at a bar. Sophie got all pissed. Said I was cheating on her. Cursed out the girl. Poor thing was no one I'd even met before that night. The next day that girl went missing too. They found her with her throat slit two days later." He rubbed his eyes with enough force Jim heard the squeaking sound of it.

"So you've been living a cash-only life out here in the middle of Utah to hide from Sophie." And Jim had led the spider right to the fly.

"I wasn't sure what to do. I was ready to leave the rodeo circuit anyway. Not being where she'd likely be looking for me only made the idea more appealing. It's not like I was settled down in Texas. I drank too much, played too much, whored around too much." Dan's gaze went out to the stunning rock formations. The view from his porch was travel-magazine perfect. "Turns out the quiet life suits me right down to my Justins. I do my job. Read. Sleep. I don't miss the traveling or the partying at all."

Dan let his head fall back to the wood siding. "It's been seven years. After a couple without hearing word one from her, I was sure she'd gone off and found someone else to obsess over. Or maybe I was overreacting. Either way, Sophie needed some serious help."

"This your place?"

He nodded.

"Let's go inside."

Jim looked around the barn lots before closing the door behind him. The one-room cabin reflected Dan's words. A single worn, overstuffed chair with a thick blanket sat in front of a fireplace. A pot hung over cold coals. Small table for two and an efficient little kitchen. The couch and chair that made up the living room were made of carved logs. Reminded Jim of a lodge in Montana he once stayed in when he was trying to forget his own past. No TV. No phone. Jim understood.

What a fucking mess. The kid had to be right. And that being the case, Cynthia—no, Sophie—had had overnight to catch up to him. He eased over to the thin curtains and peeked out the edge. She was not in plain sight. The day seemed eerily quiet out there. Only a few horses milled about with their heads to the ground, chomping what little grass they could find. No breeze moving their tails, not a soul in sight. Everyone must be on the trail ride by now.

"You're convinced she killed those girls?"

"I need to call Cynthia." Dan pulled a cheap throwaway phone from a kitchen drawer.

"Not a good idea. I think she has Cynthia's phone." Jim pulled out the old photograph. He had to know. If he'd brought danger to this kid, he would never forgive himself. And if that was the case, he worried over Sophie's current mental condition. Well, this was why.

How many times was he going to let his guard down only to have a woman blindside him?

"Is this Sophie?"

Dan sat back on the bed gripping the picture in both hands. They trembled a little. His mouth was a tight straight line and his brows drew in. "Yes, sir. That's her."

Crap.

Jim's mission had just changed.