he said, his voice tight. “It would be. So what tipped you off to Cisco?”
Okay,
she thought. It was time to put her cards on the table, or rather her card. She'd only had one reason for coming to Cisco. Lifting her hips off the seat, she searched in her pocket for the piece of paper that had sent her on her doomed mission. Unfolding it, she smoothed the page open on her leg.
“This is from Wilson's calendar, a page from June. At the bottom, on Saturday, it says ‘Pick up Betty. Contact Quinn Younger, Cisco, Utah, for nine-one-one.'” She glanced up at him. “That's the kind of Porsche he went off in, a nine-one-one.”
“A nine-eleven, yeah,” he said, his expression growing even darker.
She hated to ask the next question, but she had to know. “So . . . uh . . . do you know this Betty lady?” As impossible as it had seemed, she hadn't thrown out the possibility of seventy-two-year-old hormones being the catalyst for the crazy happenings in her grandfather's life.
“Betty,” Quinn repeated with a short laugh, giving his head a disbelieving shake. “Betty is the candy-apple-red Dodge with the pink piping.” And it was SDF's baby, the most cherried-out machine in their Steele Street garage, a car so reeking of girly-girlness, the only one of them with enough balls to drive it in daylight was the boss, Dylan.
Son of a bitch,
Quinn silently cursed. Dylan really had done it. He'd contacted old Doc McKinney and brought him in on the operation—for reasons Quinn was damn well going to find out—and then he'd paid McKinney off with free rides in Betty and one of the Porsches.
And the 911? He wasn't going to tell her, but “Contact Quinn Younger in Cisco, Utah, for 911” didn't have a damn thing to do with a Porsche 911 and everything to do with what the old man should do if he found himself in trouble and needed help. Dylan was the only one who could have told Wilson about Cisco.
He'd been wrong. Things weren't looking up. They were going straight to hell, and if they all weren't damned careful, they were going to take Regan McKinney, her grandfather, and her kid sister right along with them.
C
HAPTER
6
W ORK, WORK, WORK. They were going to work him to death—and it would almost be worth it. He had a whole warehouse full of dinosaur bones to catalogue and identify.
Wilson McKinney hummed to himself as he moseyed from one plaster-covered fossil to the next, his glasses low on his nose, checking the numbers against his clipboard.
The men running around had really gone after the femurs and the tibias, looking for their missing guns. Yes, he'd figured that much out, that the guys at the warehouse had lost a bunch of guns, though why in the hell they thought someone would be hiding guns in dinosaur bones was beyond him.
Foolishness, pure foolishness. It was a good thing they'd called in an expert—namely him.
Of course, it was too darn hot to really be working with nothing but a darn fan blowing on him. All a darn fan did was blow the darn air around. Air-conditioning was what the darn warehouse needed. Air-conditioning.
Not that he couldn't take it. He'd been in a lot hotter places than a warehouse in . . . in—well, wherever the hell he was. Hell, yes, he'd been in hotter places than this. Spent his whole darn life in hotter places, digging up bones.
Though, swear to God, he'd never dug up anything even half so interesting as the three-hundred-pound peach of a fossil he'd found over near the generator, on table four.
His face split into a broad grin. Just wait until Regan got a look at number 42657. By God, he ought to just give her a call—and he would have, by God, if his darn phone worked, but he'd forgotten the darn charger. There was a phone in the warehouse. He heard it ringing every now and then, but he hadn't figured out where the darn thing was. He would, though, and by God, then he'd give Regan a call.
Oh, well. He'd be home soon, and he could tell her all about it. He ought to be
Okay,
she thought. It was time to put her cards on the table, or rather her card. She'd only had one reason for coming to Cisco. Lifting her hips off the seat, she searched in her pocket for the piece of paper that had sent her on her doomed mission. Unfolding it, she smoothed the page open on her leg.
“This is from Wilson's calendar, a page from June. At the bottom, on Saturday, it says ‘Pick up Betty. Contact Quinn Younger, Cisco, Utah, for nine-one-one.'” She glanced up at him. “That's the kind of Porsche he went off in, a nine-one-one.”
“A nine-eleven, yeah,” he said, his expression growing even darker.
She hated to ask the next question, but she had to know. “So . . . uh . . . do you know this Betty lady?” As impossible as it had seemed, she hadn't thrown out the possibility of seventy-two-year-old hormones being the catalyst for the crazy happenings in her grandfather's life.
“Betty,” Quinn repeated with a short laugh, giving his head a disbelieving shake. “Betty is the candy-apple-red Dodge with the pink piping.” And it was SDF's baby, the most cherried-out machine in their Steele Street garage, a car so reeking of girly-girlness, the only one of them with enough balls to drive it in daylight was the boss, Dylan.
Son of a bitch,
Quinn silently cursed. Dylan really had done it. He'd contacted old Doc McKinney and brought him in on the operation—for reasons Quinn was damn well going to find out—and then he'd paid McKinney off with free rides in Betty and one of the Porsches.
And the 911? He wasn't going to tell her, but “Contact Quinn Younger in Cisco, Utah, for 911” didn't have a damn thing to do with a Porsche 911 and everything to do with what the old man should do if he found himself in trouble and needed help. Dylan was the only one who could have told Wilson about Cisco.
He'd been wrong. Things weren't looking up. They were going straight to hell, and if they all weren't damned careful, they were going to take Regan McKinney, her grandfather, and her kid sister right along with them.
C
HAPTER
6
W ORK, WORK, WORK. They were going to work him to death—and it would almost be worth it. He had a whole warehouse full of dinosaur bones to catalogue and identify.
Wilson McKinney hummed to himself as he moseyed from one plaster-covered fossil to the next, his glasses low on his nose, checking the numbers against his clipboard.
The men running around had really gone after the femurs and the tibias, looking for their missing guns. Yes, he'd figured that much out, that the guys at the warehouse had lost a bunch of guns, though why in the hell they thought someone would be hiding guns in dinosaur bones was beyond him.
Foolishness, pure foolishness. It was a good thing they'd called in an expert—namely him.
Of course, it was too darn hot to really be working with nothing but a darn fan blowing on him. All a darn fan did was blow the darn air around. Air-conditioning was what the darn warehouse needed. Air-conditioning.
Not that he couldn't take it. He'd been in a lot hotter places than a warehouse in . . . in—well, wherever the hell he was. Hell, yes, he'd been in hotter places than this. Spent his whole darn life in hotter places, digging up bones.
Though, swear to God, he'd never dug up anything even half so interesting as the three-hundred-pound peach of a fossil he'd found over near the generator, on table four.
His face split into a broad grin. Just wait until Regan got a look at number 42657. By God, he ought to just give her a call—and he would have, by God, if his darn phone worked, but he'd forgotten the darn charger. There was a phone in the warehouse. He heard it ringing every now and then, but he hadn't figured out where the darn thing was. He would, though, and by God, then he'd give Regan a call.
Oh, well. He'd be home soon, and he could tell her all about it. He ought to be
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