White Lies by Jayne Ann Krentz

up.”
    “Well, she’s here. I think it’s safe to say that she knows there’s something not quite right about my story.”
    “Damn. You can’t let her screw this thing up. There’s too much riding on the project.”
    “She doesn’t seem inclined to blow my cover,” Jake said. “Says she’s used to the fact that everyone lies. In any event, she’s scheduled to fly back to San Francisco day after tomorrow.”
    “Think you can control her until then?”
    “I don’t think anyone can control Clare Lancaster,” Jake said. “At least not for long. But with luck she won’t wreck the project. I called because I’ve got a question about her.”
    “What?”
    “I came across a file that says she has applied for a position at Jones & Jones on several occasions.”
    “Every six months, regular as clockwork. She’s been persistent, I’ll give her credit for that.”
    “Why does she get rejected?”
    “Why the hell do you think?” Fallon said patiently. “Because she’s a level-ten lie detector. Make that a level ten with an asterisk.”
    “Seems to me like someone with her talent might be very useful to a business like yours.”
    “Maybe. But not a ten. They’re way too unstable. When her first application came in I had one of the analysts do some background research on other members with her kind of talent. Turns out there have only been a half-dozen or fewer in the entire history of the Society. Most of ’em were either extremely neurotic or downright crazy. Four committed suicide. It’s a tough talent to handle.”
    “You rejected her because you thought she’d be unable to do the job?”
    “This is an investigation agency, Jake,” Fallon pointed out drily. “You know as well as I do that in our business everybody lies—the clients, the suspects and the J&J agents. No level-ten-with-an-asterisk lie detector could last long under that kind of pressure. She would have been a risk to herself and others in the field.”
    “You may have underestimated her.”
    “It’s possible, but I have to go with the probabilities,” Fallon said philosophically. “Whatever you do, don’t let her mess up your assignment.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Six
    Fallon Jones got up from behind the battered mahogany desk and went to stand at the window. He was always aware of the weight of Jones family history when he was in his office.
    The desk, like the distinctive glass-fronted bookcases and the Egyptian motif wall sconces, was in the Art Deco style. They had been among the original furnishings in the West Coast branch of Jones & Jones when it opened for business in Los Angeles back in 1927.
    Eventually Cedric Jones, one in a series of Joneses to head the branch, had made the decision to move the office to the secluded beachside town of Scargill Cove on the northern California coast in the late 1960s. Cedric had brought most of the L.A. furniture with him. When Fallon inherited the job, he kept everything, right down to the wall sconces.
    Back in the 1960s, Scargill Cove had been a remote village populated by an eclectic group of hippies, New Age types, artists, craftspeople and others seeking refuge from the relentless forces of the modern world. A psychic detective agency fit right in with the rest of the neighborhood.
    Not much had changed in Scargill Cove over the years. It sometimes seemed to Fallon that the town was trapped in a time warp. That was one of the things he liked about it. He worked here alone, supervising his far-flung team of part-time investigators, analysts and lab techs via the Internet and his cell phone. Once in a while he considered hiring an assistant but had yet to act on the notion.
    He knew what Jake and the others thought about his decision to run his empire from this hidden place on the coast. But he needed his privacy in ways the others could never understand. Virtually all the members of the Jones family were strong sensitives of one kind or another, but his particular talent was unique in the Jones line. No one else understood it.