One

“Maxine, Sinclair is coming your way,” Jace said.

I reflexively touched the tiny listening device in my ear when I heard his voice. I texted a quick <<k>> even though I knew he could see me from whatever corner he was hiding in. It was my turn to discreetly follow our client’s husband.

We’d tag-teamed Frank Sinclair since he left his office ten minutes earlier. It wasn’t hard to spot the forty-five-year-old, slightly balding businessman. He was taller than most people around him. And it helped that his wife had texted a picture of him this morning. Although he’d removed the dark blue jacket, Frank still wore the vest that matched his pinstriped slacks.

From the contented grin on his face, he enjoyed walking the busy city sidewalks. That, or he was looking forward to something. Lunch with someone special, perhaps? Frank’s wife hired Larabee Investigations to find out who that someone was.

The unusual, heavy, morning monsoon had subsided, leaving downtown Phoenix relatively cool for mid-July. The city had an impressive high-rise skyline. While not as massive as New York or San Francisco, the modern office buildings could compete, architecturally, with any coastal city. I could breathe here. Everything—everyone—I loved was here.

I kept a few moving bodies between Frank and myself. Losing my target now would give Jace Atmore another reason to doubt my abilities and judgment. Technically, I was his employer, but he had a dozen more years of private investigative experience to his credit.

While he never verbally criticized me, I could see disappointment on his subtly frowning lips whenever I failed to live up to his professional ideals. Jace didn’t seem to take me seriously, possibly because I’d married Harry Larabee, the late founder of the PI firm. I was a widow for eighteen months now, and I’ve missed Harry every day since his death.

Frank strolled inside a small restaurant. I was a couple of steps behind him then. Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother with the hostess for seating. He went straight to a cozy table near the back, already occupied by an attractive woman.

Yesterday, for a generous gratuity, I’d prearranged a table at most of the eateries within a three-block radius of Frank’s office, not knowing where his lunch “date” would take place. After I gave a smile and a nod to Kayla, the hostess, she gave me a menu and an expedited pass to the front of the line. I took a seat two tables away, facing Frank and the unknown woman.

Tandy, my client, didn’t want to know the specifics of identifying the woman or even how long the affair had been going on. All she wanted to know was if Frank was a scab of a husband, and if she should pick him loose and let her heart heal.

I flicked my phone’s camera to video mode and filmed from around the edge of the menu. Judging by the embarrassing kiss they were locked in, Tandy wouldn’t have a reason to trust his lying butt again.

~*~

Twelve hours later.

Leaning back in my lumbar-supporting executive chair, I stretched my arms up high, extracting wonderful spine-crackling relief. I stared out the window at the lightning flickering on the dark, southern horizon. With all the electronic paperwork squared away on the Sinclair case, all I needed to do was hit save and I’d be done with it. Tandy was satisfied, if not happy about the outcome. With the e-payment securely in my account, Larabee Investigations would be in the black for another two weeks—if nothing disastrous came up.

I ran my finger along the laptop’s track-pad and clicked on the disk icon, saving the current document and its attached pictures of her husband’s meeting at the restaurant and illicit trip to the Hotel San Carlos. Tomorrow, I’d email it to Tandy so she’d have physical evidence of her husband’s infidelity—if she chose to use it against him in a divorce. I was too tired tonight to think about wording a sympathetic note to go along with the file.

But my night’s work wasn’t over. I had other cases still open.

For the past two weeks, investigator Blake “Bullet” Davenport and a young intern had been imbedded in the warehouse department of a big store where inventory was disappearing a little bit at a time. After Bullet did a thorough background check on each employee, he found a few with questionable histories that didn’t line up with their applications. Since he didn’t send another email today, I guessed he would update that case at our usual morning briefing.

I pulled up Jace’s last email, sent—I glanced at the computer’s clock—thirty minutes ago at eleven forty-two p.m. He’d worked late tonight, too. If he’d gone home, he didn’t knock on my door to say goodnight.

I stretched my shoulders back and continued to read. He had his case nearly completed, according to his report. It was a simple case of embezzlement at a small jewelry design company. Our client didn’t want the police involved. She only hired family.

Sometimes families could be a blessing—a needed support system during a time of sorrow. But other times, they were an anchor around the heart. I inherited three stepchildren when I married Harry seven years ago. The oldest daughter and son had already moved out before I moved in, but the youngest was only eleven at the time. Becca took her dad’s death hard. Her mother had died when she was five. At Harry’s funeral, she told me she considered herself an orphan. That hurt me, even though technically she was right.

I clicked on Becca’s latest email. Eighteen going on thirty, she needed money again. No pleasant greeting. No “I love you” in closing. “Not tonight, Kitten,” I said, as I closed the laptop lid, shutting down an argument I knew would happen the moment I replied her to ask why.

I got up and headed to the studio-sized fridge I kept in the corner of my office. In it, I had a variety of sodas, fruit juices, single-serving milks, and food in various stages of decay leftover from when I couldn’t finish meals I’d brought from home. A snack would keep me awake until I got home.

Just as I reached for a half PB&J sandwich from today’s lunch, my phone rang. My ornery side wanted to let it go to voicemail, thinking it was Becca calling since I hadn’t returned her email. But I had only one phone line, and I used it as my business phone as well as my personal. I checked the caller’s ID. It had a number with a California area code. Hmm. Curious, I touched the little green phone icon, accepting the call.

“Larabee Investigations. Maxine Larabee speaking.”

“Maxine, I need your help—” an anxious, unfamiliar woman’s voice said in a rush. She had a hint of a southern accent. Not a common inflection in Arizona.

I forgot about my hunger. The fatigue I’d felt a moment ago disappeared in an instant of sudden excitement. “How can I help you, miss…?” I’d left the sentence open in what I thought was an obvious question.

“My life’s in danger,” she said, again with urgency, but this time she nearly whispered it.

“You need to call the police—”

“No! No, I can’t do that—the publicity wouldn’t be good.”

Publicity? That was more curious. “Are you in immediate danger?”

“I—I’m not sure. May I come to your office? I’d like to hire you, but I can’t discuss it over the phone.”

I checked the clock again. Midnight. “Can this wait until morning?”

“No! I need help now, and y’all come recommended by Scottsdale City Councilman Henry Caplin.”

Oh! That was major name-dropping.

Councilman Caplin’s death threats and near abduction two years ago happened to be one of the highest profile cases ever to come through Larabee Investigations. While Harry took the lead, Jace became a major fixture in Caplin’s life, going everywhere with him as his personal bodyguard. Jace’s muscular stature and intimidating height seemed well-suited for that duty.

Harry actually found the man behind the organization intent on intimidating the councilman into changing industrial building zones, but it was Jace who physically saved the councilman from being hauled away by three men into a waiting Suburban. It had earned our company a tidy sum, along with several new cases. And now another one—if this woman and Caplin were indeed friends. I needed to keep her happy. “Do you know where my office is?”

“Yes—I can be there in twenty minutes. I’m coming by taxi.”

“Fine. I’ll be waiting down in the lobby to let you in. What’s your name, please?”

There was a pause. “Taylor Hodges.” The line went silent a moment before I heard three soft beeps. She’d hung up.

I wanted to do an Internet search on any Taylor Hodges from California before I let a stranger into our locked building. Sitting behind my desk again, I lifted the laptop lid, waking it up. Using the most logical spelling, I typed it in the search box. The name Taylor Hodges wasn’t unique. There were at least forty-two people using that name on the Internet. I disregarded the men. The voice was definitely feminine.

I clicked on “images”. The screen immediately filled with small pictures of probably every person using that name with an electronic footprint, along with the incidental pictures of cats, dogs, and weirdly enough—sheep. What piqued my attention were the photos of celebrities I recognized from a recent TV show.

I’d DVR’d every episode of this last season’s Marry Me and watched them in a marathon weekend. The tall, black-haired, impossibly well-built His Royal Highness Prince Dante of Monterra had me drooling with his smooth, lightly Italian accented voice, along with most every other woman with a pulse.

I’d never seen a man with such perfect manners—one who seemed so conscious of a woman’s movements, her needs. He was, in two words, deliciously charming. Although there’d been episodes when he looked shyer than his usual confidence. It was during the finale that they revealed Dante’s identical twin brother, Rafael, had double-teamed the contestants.

Neither man offered marriage to the last two contestants. That instant “happy forever after” ending hadn’t happened. Sadly, I’d rooted for the gorgeous redhead, Genesis, winning in certain episodes. In other episodes, the obvious explosive chemistry between Lemon and Dante practically sparked the living room drapes on fire. They both left unengaged. Although I loved it when the prince told that nasty British actress, Abigail, he didn’t love her and that he was going after Lemon. The hysterical screaming breakdown that woman had as he walked away—was awesome. Anyone with eyes could see what a bad girl she’d been. But that made for a great drama-filled show.

I clicked on the “news” and used Marry Me as a key word to search for any articles I could find on the show—and there were many. It seemed every ex-contestant had to give a detailed tell-all to a willing reporter. They’d flooded the electronic airwaves after the finale aired.

Sure enough, after a little search, I confirmed that the field producer of Marry Me was named Taylor Hodges. Her name would probably be in the end credits of the show, too. What were the chances that the pretty brunette standing in the background of the same picture as the prince was my newest client?

After I slipped my shoes back on, I grabbed my handbag. Inside a special compartment was a .380 caliber semi-automatic. Harry made me carry it for defense purposes.

I lifted the long strap over my head and hung it on my shoulder. Now I had both hands free as I went out into the reception area. Of course, Willow, our fifty-six-year-old receptionist, had already gone home. I looked at the other three office doors, hoping Jace or Bullet were still working inside. Their lights were off. I’d need to do this on my own. How hard could it be, meeting with one scared woman?

Being in an empty building gave me the creeps—so maybe there’d be two scared women.

The corridor lights had been dimmed. In reality, the work I’d done tonight could’ve just as easily been done from my home computer after I’d changed into pajamas. I ran my hand up the back of my head, making sure any stray hairs were tucked up in my usual French twist up-do. Looking professional was very important when meeting a client for the first time, especially with someone who sounded like they could afford to pay our fee, so I guess it was fortunate that I’d hung around the office for this long.

As I stopped at the lobby’s front door, a taxi pulled to a stop by the curb. A moment later, a young woman stepped out carrying a large bag. When she looked at me, I immediately recognized her face—Taylor Hodges, the field producer of my favorite TV show—a woman who personally knew two incredibly handsome royal princes. Solving her problem could make Larabee Investigations high profile enough I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about the next paycheck.

I couldn’t get the door unlocked fast enough.