Where Danger Hides Read online

  Sudden exhaustion blanketing her, Miri powered down the laptop and went to turn off the lamp by the couch. The beaded evening bag lay there, open. It would have to go back with the dress. Miri unzipped the interior compartment and dumped everything onto the couch. She sank to the cushion and stared at another reminder of her past, of survival skills she apparently hadn’t left behind. She traced her finger along the smooth leather billfold she’d lifted without thinking.

  Chapter 3

  Dalton and Fozzie stood in a crowd of departing guests waiting for the valets to ferry their cars back.

  “I’ll send the ‘mission accomplished’ e-mail,” Fozzie said. “My money says the boss isn’t going to want the face-to-face until Monday.” He grinned and flashed a scrap of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. “And I’m spending the rest of the weekend with a glorious redhead named Clarissa. I saw you with a classy brunette. You going to be seeing her again?”

  Dalton shook his head. “Nope. We never even exchanged names, much less phone numbers.”

  “Losing your touch?”

  “I told you. I’m not interested. I danced with half a dozen women to pass the time. We’re supposed to blend in, remember. Not be memorable. Besides, I’ve got bigger things on my mind.”

  Dalton mulled over finding leads on Rafael while they waited. In twos and threes, expensive cars—predominantly black or silver—hummed to the apex of the driveway, and hard-breathing, red jacketed youths exchanged vehicles for gratuities.

  “Pay the man, mate,” Fozzie said when their car arrived.

  Dalton reached into his hip pocket. His empty hip pocket. Puzzled, he patted his breast pocket, then the front. Nothing but his butterscotch stash. “Dammit!”

  “What?”

  “My wallet’s gone.”

  “You lost it? You want to go back?”

  Dalton replayed the evening, freeze-framing on the short scuffle with the waitress in Andrew Patterson’s study. “That little—” He shook his head. “No. Drive.”

  Fozzie slipped a bill into the valet’s hand and levered himself into the car. Dalton slid into the passenger seat, and they followed the curved driveway to the street. Two blocks away, Fozzie pulled over. “You sure you didn’t drop it? Maybe someone picked it up and turned it in.”

  “Oh, someone picked it, all right. Right out of my pants while I was in the study and you were turning off the water in the bathroom. The waitress.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we go find her?”

  “That would violate the ‘blend in’ rule. Besides, the caterers are gone. I’ll call them tomorrow and find our little wench.” Irritated as he was, Dalton admired her for pulling that stunt—and getting away with it. He was really off his game.

  “Suit yourself.” Fozzie pulled away from the curb and headed down the hillside. “She get much?”

  “Not much cash. Mainly hassle.” He slapped the dashboard. “Shit. Double shit.”

  “What now? You said you didn’t have much cash. What else did you have?”

  “About the most top secret piece of information out there. I’ll have to kill her.”

  Fozzie swiveled his head and glanced at Dalton. “What the hell were you carrying?”

  “My HLB cover ID.”

  “So? What can she possibly find out from that? It’s got less information on it than a business card. Unless . . .”

  “Right. She’ll know my first name.”

  Fozzie’s laughter exploded through the car.

  * * * * *

  By nine-thirty Monday morning, Dalton sat at a computer terminal in one of the back offices at the headquarters of Blackthorne, Inc., taking advantage of the access to the Department of Motor Vehicles databases. That Horace Blackthorne hadn’t given up any of his weekend for a formal report reinforced Dalton’s conviction that Saturday night’s assignment was trivial. He struck the keys with unnecessary vehemence.

  He’d blown a good hour this morning laying on the charm with the owner of Taste of Heaven, Patterson’s caterer, finally scoring the names of possible employees meeting his vague description. The woman also added it was equally likely she’d hired his mystery woman through a temp agency she used when she needed extra staff.

  He sucked on a butterscotch candy as he worked through the catering list, eliminating possibilities, hitting dead ends, noting potential matches. With only names to work from, nothing to narrow the search, it was slow going. Hell, for all he knew, his mystery woman didn’t drive, so searching the DMV lists was a waste of time.

  Dalton’s missing ID said he worked for a company called HLB Imports and Exports. Anyone searching would find a tiny office, open “by appointment only,” located alongside a dozen legitimate businesses in a fifteen-story office building. The same building that housed the swank, ultra-modern offices where Blackthorne, Inc. received ultra-rich clients seeking ultra-discreet private investigators and almost-invisible bodyguards. Blackthorne, Inc.’s not-so-public operations, where Dalton actually worked, were headquartered in a field station miles from the city.

  Although Dalton wasn’t worried about the waitress discovering his identity from his ID card, he’d rather not have to ask for a replacement. That would entail a report ending up on the boss’s desk, and quite likely an up close and personal ass-chewing.

  Dalton had eliminated half the list when his cell phone signaled a text message.

  Blackthorne with a 9-1-1.

  He grabbed his sports jacket and hustled toward the elevator, shoving his notes in the pocket on the way. The boss was ready for the face-to-face report on the gala’s dog and pony show. Maybe he’d tell Dalton what the crazy assignment was all about. Dalton didn’t care. It was over, and it was time to get back into the field to hunt for Rafael and his drug smuggling ring.

  Anticipation rippled through him. He tapped his foot while the elevator numbers lit up in slow motion as he ascended to Blackthorne’s inner sanctum. When he exited the car and strode to the end of the hall, it was like moving through time. Nothing swank and ultra-modern here. The scratches and gouges in the wainscoting had darkened over the decades, in contrast to the brown and green striped wallpaper, which had faded.

  Lingering smells of tobacco and floor wax teased Dalton’s nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, the familiar scents both calming and invigorating. He opened the door to Blackthorne’s outer office and glanced around for Fozzie but didn’t see him. Confident his partner wouldn’t have exposed his gaffe, Dalton smiled for Madeline Scott, Blackthorne’s assistant. As always, she wore a tailored suit. Navy blue pinstripe today, with a pale blue blouse, and the inevitable strand of pearls. A throwback, like this office, although today her silver hair was shorter, in a style much softer than her usual tightly twisted knot.

  “Good mornin’, Maddie darlin’. You’re exceptionally lovely today. I like the new look.”

  She touched her hair, her eyes widening when her fingers contacted unfamiliar territory. A faint blush tinged her cheeks, and she smiled. “Thank you. My daughter dragged me to a makeover session Saturday.”

  “Not much of a challenge, seeing how they had near-perfection to begin with.” Dalton tilted his head to the closed door behind Madeline’s desk. “Is he ready for me?”

  “He certainly is.” She pressed a button on the phone and announced Dalton’s arrival. Without waiting for the response, he stepped behind her desk and tapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  He twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

  Horace Blackthorne sat behind his battered steel desk, poring over the contents of a manila file folder. Dalton took two paces into the room and waited for the ritual to play out.

  Blackthorne closed the file folder, gave it a tap, then placed it in the wire box on the corner of his desk. Without raising his head, he removed his half-frame reading glasses, snapped them into a leather case, and slipped them inside his jacket.

  “Sit.”

  Dalton knew it was an acoustical quirk, but Horace Blac
kthorne’s deep voice filled the space like a ten-speaker stereo system. He pulled out one of the utilitarian chairs and complied. The man wore an unreadable expression.

  “Saturday night?” Blackthorne said.

  Dalton plucked a folded piece of paper from his jacket and dropped it in front of his boss. “As ordered. One letter from a Mr. William Bingham, regarding an insurance rider for an emerald bracelet. And in its place, the envelope you gave us.” Fed up with the formalities, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Shit, Blackie. What’s this all about?”

  The use of the familiar name sent one of Blackthorne’s eyebrows up a few millimeters. Normally, Dalton reserved the childhood nickname for his distant cousin to non-work-related venues.

  Blackthorne fixed his gaze beyond Dalton. “A small wager with Andrew Patterson, pointing out he would benefit from a better security arrangement.”

  Dalton bit back the curse. “You mean that whole thing was nothing but grandstanding?”

  “I prefer to think of it as demonstrating the superior abilities of Blackthorne personnel. Out-of-the-country undercover work incurs significant expenditures. It’s not as if we can hold our own gala to raise funds, considering nobody is supposed to know about that part of the company.” Blackthorne tapped a file folder with his index finger. “I seem to recall numerous requests for upgraded surveillance equipment. Andrew Patterson’s museum contract alone would supplement the budget considerably.”

  “Great. We’ve demonstrated our superiority. Good for Blackthorne.” He gave an abbreviated fist pump. “Now, I’m ready to put together a team and get back to Colombia. Rafael’s setting up a new string of drug-processing plants. We wipe them out, we make a huge dent in the influx into the States. Don’t you care that people die because of him? And our people have been dying trying to stop him?”

  Dalton detected a fleeting twitch of a vein at Blackthorn’s neck. He’d punched a button. Probably the wrong one. He set his back teeth to keep from saying more.

  “Loss of life is part of the business, regardless of our personal feelings. We don’t simply chase drug lords on your whim.” Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed. “Or is there a client I’m unaware of?”

  Dalton slumped. “No, sir. But damn, we could sneak in and do some serious damage to their drug train. Can’t you tie it to a legitimate op?”

  Horace Blackthorne leaned forward and placed his palms on the desk, half-rising. “The way you took it upon yourself to do last week? When you’re sitting on this side of the desk, young man, you can make those calls.”

  “Come on, Blackie. You know I can blend in anywhere. There’s got to be a way.”

  Dalton waited. Blackthorne’s nostrils flared before he continued.

  “For your own good, and the good of Blackthorne, Inc., there will be no OCONUS assignments for you for at least three months. You’re becoming fixated and it’s affecting your work.”

  The thought of three months inside the continental US jabbed like a knife in Dalton’s belly. He clenched his jaw.

  Blackthorne lowered himself into his chair. “I had half a mind to send you on enforced R&R, but Mr. Harper needed it more. Consider yourself on domestic investigative detail until further notice.”

  Dalton nearly groaned out loud. He knew his frustration flashed on his face like a neon sign. But lying on some beach definitely wasn’t for him. Work was his answer. At least private investigation wasn’t as big a slap as personal security detail, which meant babysitting for spoiled offspring of the too-rich and too-famous.

  “Yes, sir.” Dalton stood, prepared to leave before he dug his hole any deeper. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” he added, anxious to get back to his search for his mystery waitress.

  “You can wait right there.” Blackthorne opened a side drawer and tossed something on the desk. A wallet. A very familiar wallet. The scowl that crossed Blackthorn’s face was definitely not unreadable.

  Dalton tried for a smile. “Thanks. I dropped it last night.”

  Dalton reached for his billfold, but Blackthorne’s palm slammed on it first. His gaze burned through Dalton like a laser.

  “You want to try that one again?”

  Dalton kept his spine straight, his chin lifted, even as he wished Scotty would beam him up. He swallowed. “Someone took it, sir.”

  “Stop with the ‘sir’ crap. And sit down. Mistakes are one thing, honesty’s another. I won’t tolerate less, and you know it.”

  Fire burned Dalton’s neck. He managed to keep his eyes level with Blackthorne’s as he sank into the chair.

  “Do you know who took it?” Blackthorne asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Elaborate, please.”

  Dalton sighed. “A waitress from the catering company. She was in the study when Fozzie and I went to exchange papers. But the lights were off, and I didn’t get a good look at her. I’ve already got a list of personnel from the caterer, and I’ll find her soon.”

  Blackthorne picked up a pen and tapped a slow cadence on the desk. “You’re telling me you were in a situation where I expect my people to be diligent and cautious, and you allowed a waitress to pick your pocket? Are you sure you weren’t engaged in some other activity at the time?” He lifted an eyebrow. “I am aware of your reputation, and of Mr. Mayhew’s.”

  “Dammit, I’m sorry. You knew I didn’t want to be there, I knew it was some sort of bullshit assignment—and okay, I wasn’t in it one hundred per cent. But when the stakes are for real, I stand by my record. You know how I operate. I’m good. Damn good, but let me do what I’m good at, not this gamesmanship crap.” He’d overstepped the limits, but he didn’t care anymore. “Some little gal lifted my wallet. She got some cash, and my cover ID. It didn’t affect the op. And since it’s been returned, no harm, no foul.”

  For an instant, Blackthorne’s eyes softened. “I know this time of the year is hard for you. I don’t want you distracted and getting yourself—or anyone else—killed.”

  “I can handle it,” Dalton insisted.

  “Saturday night’s slip says otherwise.”

  Dalton’s jaw ached from all the clenching. “I need to keep busy, sir.”

  “And you will be. But stateside, on investigative assignments. You’ve already missed the important question about your pickpocket.”

  Dalton stood there, puzzled, until the answer—or, the question—dawned on him. Shit. Maybe Blackie was right. “How did she connect me to you?”

  Blackthorne nodded, obviously satisfied he’d made his point. “Indeed. But I’d like you to meet your next assignment.” He pressed a button on his phone. “Mrs. Scott, we’re ready.”

  The door opened. When a woman entered, Dalton stood. If Madeline Scott had spent Saturday having a makeover, this woman must have had a makeunder. No makeup, brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. A shapeless sweater a size too big and loose-fitting khaki trousers revealed little of the woman inside. Nondescript with a capital N. His mind whirled through possible reasons she would be hiring a private investigator. Cheating husband? Blackthorne didn’t do that kind of work. And considering Blackthorne’s rates, she didn’t seem the typical well-heeled client.

  The woman crossed the room and sat in the second visitor’s chair, the scent of a fresh spring breeze cutting through everything else. Dalton eyed her more carefully.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He froze.

  Chapter 4

  Miri watched Texas go from puzzled to slack-jawed when she sat down. He’d connected the dots. A touch of embarrassment, then full-blown irritation.

  She smiled. “I’m Miri Chambers. I believe we’ve met.”

  He gave her a long, hard stare, all expression erased from his face. “Twice, apparently.” He shoved the wallet in his hip pocket. “Excuse me if I have mixed feelings about the return of my property. I see your laryngitis is better.”

  Despite the heat flooding her face, she wouldn’t break eye contact. “Must have been a twenty-four
-hour bug.”

  “Miss Chambers has proven to be a rather . . . resourceful . . . young woman,” Blackthorne said, “given she was able to return your wallet with so little to go on.”

  “No big deal,” Miri said. “I was having trouble sleeping and picked up a James Bond book. When I did fall asleep, something clicked. Sometimes I let my imagination run away with me. Most of it was pure luck. Under other circumstances, I doubt I’d have found Mr. Dalton.”

  “It’s just Dalton, Miss Chambers. I trust you’ll remember.”

  A heavy emphasis on the Dalton. The Texas accent tempered the threat in his eyes, but perhaps Mr. Blackthorne hadn’t been kidding about Dalton’s sensitivity to his given name. She filed it away as another piece of information.

  In the bright lights of Mr. Blackthorne’s office, she took him in. Absorbed him was more like it. Strong jaw, his lower lip fuller than the upper. The broad nose and unruly eyebrows kept him a notch or two below Greek god status. But he was more than the sum of his features. The man was aware of his looks, but obviously comfortable with them. She’d bet he was not the sort who checked his reflection every time he passed a window.

  She realized he was waiting for a response. She blinked. “All right, Just Dalton. And I’m Miri.”

  Mr. Blackthorne cleared his throat. “Miss Chambers is your next assignment, Dalton. If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for an appointment. The conference room on this floor is available so she can brief you.”

  Miri watched Dalton’s mouth open as if in protest, then close as he and his boss exchanged glares. Although, to be fair, Mr. Blackthorne didn’t really glare. His face barely changed, but it was obvious Dalton read it perfectly in the instant before his boss slipped on his reading glasses and reached into a wire basket for a file folder.