to buy only one house in her lifetime—at least until she married and had children. Even then, if she loved the house and it was big enough for a family, she thought she could persuade a husband to live with her.
The image of an extremely sexy Zach Slade rose to her mind and made her whole body warm as she recalled the way he looked at her. Broad shoulders, tall and sleekly muscular, but with a lean look that made her think he’d recently lost weight. An ex–deputy sheriff, and shot. She had enough data to look him up online when she returned home.
In the meantime, she could keep him, and two prospective children, in mind as a “sample” family while she real estate shopped—think of two cars instead of one, or a minivan, and make sure the schools were good . . . not quite what she’d told Arlene already, so she’d do that after this first set of viewings.
Selling Aunt Sandra’s home on the lake in Chicago gave Clare quite a budget. But what should have been fun became wearying. Enzo accompanied her and made comments, lifting his ghostly leg on trees, then walking
through
them. Did he truly mark his presence somehow? She hadn’t noticed any doggie scent.
Anyway, he was distracting, and she had to watch herself from answering him.
She also felt the chill tingle of presences, knowing that there
were
ghosts in the house or on the land, but not from her “time period.” She thought she could live with that, though.
How Sandra had lived in a house that had been built in the time period she was sensitive to, Clare didn’t know; the very idea made her shudder.
• • •
“There are cases cops can’t touch,” Rickman said, eyes serious, as he stood leaning against the front of his desk.
Zach hadn’t sat down this time, but moved to one of the office’s windows, staring over the city at the interesting buildings and blocks interspersed with trees. “Yeah, a case the cops can’t touch? Like what?”
“Like an old woman trying to track down her mother’s heirlooms.”
Zach snorted.
“Those pieces mean something to her, Zach,” the PI said in a gentler voice than Zach would have expected from a military officer.
“She lost her mother when she was young, was sent to her father’s relatives. Mrs. Flinton wants the pieces back. They remind her of her home before her mother died.” There was a long pause. “She needs what the psych people call closure, Zach.”
That socked him in the gut. Closure. Something none of his family had gotten.
There was no closing the cold case of the murder of his brother twenty-three years ago. The case of the drive-by shooting of James Slade remained open.
Yeah, Zach had heard a lot about closure in individual and family grief counseling. Knew how the lack of the
who
and
why
ate in the gut.
Destroyed a family.
Rickman said, “There’s an auction tonight where Mrs. Flinton believes some of her mother’s antiques might be, but I don’t like the way she was contacted.”
“Scam,” Zach said.
“Yes. So far I haven’t had any luck in finding out deep background on the seller. The auction house says he’ll be there tonight. You’re an observant man, Zach. A hard man, but someone I think Mrs. Flinton might trust just because you come off so straight.”
Zach grunted.
“As I said earlier, I think you could be an asset to my firm.”
Zach had done nothing to make the guy like him. Hardly cared if people liked him. Would rather have respect.
“And I respect you,” Rickman said, like he’d figured out that aspect of Zach’s character, too.
Zach knew he was being influenced by the compliment, but also believed the head of the private investigative firm was sincere.
“Tell me the details.” Zach walked, cane sinking into thick gray carpet, from the window to hitch a hip on the arm of one of the client chairs, the cane helped him balance.
“We’re talking about several pieces of expensive furniture and an antique silver plate service for six,
The image of an extremely sexy Zach Slade rose to her mind and made her whole body warm as she recalled the way he looked at her. Broad shoulders, tall and sleekly muscular, but with a lean look that made her think he’d recently lost weight. An ex–deputy sheriff, and shot. She had enough data to look him up online when she returned home.
In the meantime, she could keep him, and two prospective children, in mind as a “sample” family while she real estate shopped—think of two cars instead of one, or a minivan, and make sure the schools were good . . . not quite what she’d told Arlene already, so she’d do that after this first set of viewings.
Selling Aunt Sandra’s home on the lake in Chicago gave Clare quite a budget. But what should have been fun became wearying. Enzo accompanied her and made comments, lifting his ghostly leg on trees, then walking
through
them. Did he truly mark his presence somehow? She hadn’t noticed any doggie scent.
Anyway, he was distracting, and she had to watch herself from answering him.
She also felt the chill tingle of presences, knowing that there
were
ghosts in the house or on the land, but not from her “time period.” She thought she could live with that, though.
How Sandra had lived in a house that had been built in the time period she was sensitive to, Clare didn’t know; the very idea made her shudder.
• • •
“There are cases cops can’t touch,” Rickman said, eyes serious, as he stood leaning against the front of his desk.
Zach hadn’t sat down this time, but moved to one of the office’s windows, staring over the city at the interesting buildings and blocks interspersed with trees. “Yeah, a case the cops can’t touch? Like what?”
“Like an old woman trying to track down her mother’s heirlooms.”
Zach snorted.
“Those pieces mean something to her, Zach,” the PI said in a gentler voice than Zach would have expected from a military officer.
“She lost her mother when she was young, was sent to her father’s relatives. Mrs. Flinton wants the pieces back. They remind her of her home before her mother died.” There was a long pause. “She needs what the psych people call closure, Zach.”
That socked him in the gut. Closure. Something none of his family had gotten.
There was no closing the cold case of the murder of his brother twenty-three years ago. The case of the drive-by shooting of James Slade remained open.
Yeah, Zach had heard a lot about closure in individual and family grief counseling. Knew how the lack of the
who
and
why
ate in the gut.
Destroyed a family.
Rickman said, “There’s an auction tonight where Mrs. Flinton believes some of her mother’s antiques might be, but I don’t like the way she was contacted.”
“Scam,” Zach said.
“Yes. So far I haven’t had any luck in finding out deep background on the seller. The auction house says he’ll be there tonight. You’re an observant man, Zach. A hard man, but someone I think Mrs. Flinton might trust just because you come off so straight.”
Zach grunted.
“As I said earlier, I think you could be an asset to my firm.”
Zach had done nothing to make the guy like him. Hardly cared if people liked him. Would rather have respect.
“And I respect you,” Rickman said, like he’d figured out that aspect of Zach’s character, too.
Zach knew he was being influenced by the compliment, but also believed the head of the private investigative firm was sincere.
“Tell me the details.” Zach walked, cane sinking into thick gray carpet, from the window to hitch a hip on the arm of one of the client chairs, the cane helped him balance.
“We’re talking about several pieces of expensive furniture and an antique silver plate service for six,
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