Colton 911: Hidden Target
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Colleen Thompson
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Harlequin🏙️ Contemporary
HarlequinChapter 1
According to the information Allie Chandler read on the glass door as she rushed up, panting in her dripping wet clothes, the Lone Wolf Brewery wouldn’t open for another hour. With a groan of pure frustration, she smacked the heel of her hand beneath the grinning wolf’s head logo—and sucked in a startled breath when the unlocked door pushed open.
At least she could add this to the very short list of things that had gone her way this morning, since the ceiling of her hotel room had sagged down and given way to a waterfall moments after she’d returned from her run. Shrieking with horror, she’d scrambled about frantically, first rescuing her expensive computer equipment and peripherals, followed by all the shoes and clothing she could salvage.
Someday you’ll look back on this and laugh, she tried to tell herself. At the moment, however, that was almost impossible to imagine as she struggled to haul her bulky suitcase, large backpack and an equally outsize tote bag inside the small bar area to confront the man who’d put her up at the four-star hotel, where he’d assured her all of his family’s business associates had been happily staying for decades.
Wrestling her temper, she reminded herself the flood—the result of a guest on the floor above hers falling asleep while running a bath—wasn’t his fault. Nor had he arranged for the heavy early May sky to open up on her way over here from the train station, as if to make up for the fact that the hotel deluge had missed her. Still, as her dripping running clothes and bags slowly formed a puddle around her feet and thunder rumbled with a sound like giants bowling overhead, she couldn’t help thinking she’d look more like a private investigator and less like a half-drowned rodent fished out of floodwaters if the man could have simply answered his phone this morning like a reasonable person.
A bronze-skinned woman with silvering hair in tiny, beaded braids climbed down from the stepladder she had been using to reach the industrial-style stainless-steel light fixture she’d been polishing, one of a number hanging above a bar dominated by rustic woods and wood-and-metal stools. Wearing a leather black vest over her Lone Wolf T-shirt and a row of silver piercings along one ear, she appraised Allie coolly.
“Hate to send you back out in that weather,” she said, nodding toward Allie’s bags, “but the bus station’s a couple of blocks down.”
“Oh, no,” Allie said, understanding her mistake. As raindrops pelted the high-set exterior windows, she explained, “I’m not looking to catch a bus. I was just hoping to—”
“Sorry, but our restrooms are for paying customers only, and besides, we aren’t even open yet. I’m not sure which of those two geniuses unlocked the door so early.”
The bartender cast an aggrieved look toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the rear of the room, which gave a clear view of the craft microbrewery’s production floor. There, Allie spotted two young men in protective coveralls and boots working, one spraying down enormous steel hoppers while another scrubbed a large kettle in an oversize sink. Neither appeared to notice the older woman’s irritation.
“I need to see the owner,” Allie told her before nodding in the direction of a tall, dark-haired man, who appeared oblivious as he sat with his back to them at far end of the bar. The sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up, and he had a tablet computer lying in front of him. But what truly caught her eye was his focus on a wooden paddle holding four small glasses containing liquids in varying shades of amber, which he’d bent forward to examine at eye level, as if he were sizing up the head of foam on each. She doubted that any man she’d ever dated had ever regarded her with the same degree of appreciation.
Brushing aside the odd thought, and the light shiver that went with it, she said, “I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
“That’s Jones Colton, yeah,” said the bartender, whose dark brown eyes hadn’t softened, “but I’m not about to interrupt the man while he’s in the zone and testing product. Besides, if you’re here selling something or looking to apply for work, you need to drop a note online, same as everybody else.”
“I’m not selling anything, and the fact is,” Allie said, so frustrated by this point that she let slip, “I already work for him, the same as you do.”
Colton straightened to type rapidly on his tablet without ever looking their way. Which was less surprising now that Allie noticed the earbuds he was wearing.
“Then how come you aren’t sure what he looks like?” the bartender challenged.
“Because we haven’t met in person. Yet,” Allie fired back, chilled to her soaked skin and tired enough of this game that she put her head down and strode directly toward the man who’d offered her this out-of-town job by phone only three days earlier—which had proven to be perfect timing, as far as she was concerned.
Tossing aside the cleaning rag she’d been using, her self-appointed gatekeeper lunged and made a grab for her, shouting, “Hey you, hold up right there! Jones!”
Allie, whose agility more than made up for what she lacked in height, let go of the suitcase and ducked around the taller, more solidly built woman. But she hadn’t allowed for the wider tote that she was carrying, which clipped the top of a stool as she passed by and sent it crashing down onto the polished concrete floor.
In the high-ceilinged space, the sound rang loud as a gunshot beneath the weathered wooden crossbeams. Startled by the noise, Jones leaped to his feet, whipping around to stare down at the two women with startled, deep blue eyes.
Gorgeous eyes, Allie couldn’t help but notice, set in a face even more handsome than his photo from the microbrewery’s website, with a polished, yet effortlessly casual appearance that made her all too aware of how shabby she must look with her lack of makeup, long, sodden ponytail, black leggings and running shoes, and a long-sleeved T-shirt now clinging to her sports bra like a second skin.
“What on earth’s going on here?” he demanded, removing the earbuds as he looked from Allie to the bartender. “Yolanda?”
“You tell me.” Shrugging, the older woman gestured angrily toward Allie. “She just came sloshing in through the front door, claiming that she works for you.”
“It’s Allie, Allie Chandler.” Squelching forward, she thrust out her hand. “We’ve spoken on the phone and via email. I just got into town last night.”
“Ms. Chandler?” Ignoring her outstretched hand, his eyes flared as he stepped back to give her a head-to-toe once-over. “What on earth? You’re soaked through and shivering—just look at her, Yolanda. The poor woman’s lips are practically blue.”
Giving her a once-over, Yolanda grimaced. “Let me go grab a couple of dry towels out of the storeroom—and a mop, too, before somebody breaks their neck on this wet floor.”
“I’ve got a mop right here. You just worry about the towels,” Jones said before she hurried off.
“Th-thanks,” Allie called, her face heating, “and sorry about the dramatic entrance.”
She’d hoped to make a better impression on this client, who had lured her here with the offer of a bonus big enough to convince her to turn down the law enforcement agencies for which she normally consulted. And unlike the last department she had worked with, this guy was desperate enough for answers that she doubted he would get too particular about her methods—or try to stiff her if she colored outside the lines.
“I can’t imagine it was your choice to show up drenched,” Jones said, gesturing for her to take a seat. “But I’m glad for the chance to meet you in person. I don’t understand, though. I thought you said you’d be bringing yourself up to speed for the next few days, mostly working from the hotel.”
“I’m afraid that place is no longer an option,” she said before telling him about the impromptu appearance of Niagara Falls in her room.
“That’s terrible about you losing half of your clothes and shoes,” he said, sounding properly appalled as he grabbed a mop from behind the bar and quickly swabbed at the floor where she’d been dripping. “Buy whatever you need to replace them, or send anything salvageable to a dry cleaner. Send me the receipts, and I’ll be sure to reimburse you.”
She nodded her appreciation. “Thanks for that, but the important thing is, I saved all my equipment, along with the research I’ve done so far into your father’s and your uncle’s...deaths.”
She chose the word carefully, barely stopping herself from using the more emotionally charged assassination. The more she’d learned about the simultaneous long-range shooting of the twin brothers outside of their sixty-million-dollar intellectual property corporation, Colton Connections, the more she’d come to suspect the brothers’ unsolved murders qualified as such. Not that she’d gotten a lot to go on from her brief conversation with Joe Parker, the Chicago PD detective who’d run the investigation until the FBI had stepped in more recently after two more men—with no known connections to the original victims—were killed under similar mysterious circumstances with an equally frustrating lack of leads or progress. But then, she was never brought in to unravel easy cases, which was exactly the reason that she loved her work.
“About that.” Holding the mop handle like a staff, Jones Colton raised one palm and looked around as if to reassure himself that none of his employees was in earshot. “If it’s all the same to you, let’s just keep what you’re doing for me quiet for the moment. As far as anybody here’s concerned, you’re an old college friend visiting from out of town.”
As a cover story, it would have played well, since she’d learned in her background research that the two of them were the same age: twenty-seven. Even so, she shook her head. “I’m afraid that I’ve already blown that. When I couldn’t get past your bartender, I let it slip that I work for you, too. I hope that’s not an issue.”
“Yolanda’s my bar manager,” Jones corrected, replacing the mop where he had grabbed it, “and you didn’t tell her what you were doing for me, did you?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that,” Allie assured him, still upset with herself about her earlier slip, no matter how cold and wet and stressed out she’d been feeling.
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “But getting back to your hotel issue, I don’t understand. Why couldn’t they just move you to another room?”
“Several rooms were damaged, and they’re completely full,” she added. “Besides that, they’re saying that because of that big music festival being at the same time as a couple of conventions, they’re unable to assist with alternate arrangements. Although, in my opinion, unwilling is more like it.”
Jones shook his head. “That’s damned disappointing. I’m sorry I ever put you up there, but don’t worry. We’ll find you somewhere else to stay. I’m afraid it may not have quite as many amenities or be as upscale, but—”
“I need privacy and security, not fancy bars and turndown service, and definitely somewhere,” she said as an errant lock of hair sent a drip down her nose, surprising her with a sneeze she barely covered in time, “a whole lot drier. Excuse me.”
After blessing the sneeze, he said, “I promise you I’ll see to it. I only wish you’d called the moment you ran into trouble instead of getting yourself soaked coming here.”
Crossing her arms, she made a face. “Before you get too invested in that lecture, you might want to check your cell phone.”
“My phone?” But he dutifully pulled it out of his back pocket, and then winced, undoubtedly seeing evidence of the missed calls and texts from her numerous attempts to reach him.
Sheepishly, he looked up at her. “I owe you an apology, I see. I’ve been getting so many junk calls lately that I turned off the ringer while I was testing this last flight before tonight’s big tasting dinner. Wish you’d thought to phone the brewery.”
“The number rang and rang when I tried, so I took a shot and grabbed a train here when I couldn’t find a car.”
“You took the L here?” he asked. “The nearest stop’s four blocks away.”
“Funny,” she said, her flatly, “it seemed much farther in a downpour.”
“So, the hotel was a bust, your new boss’s let you down and even the sky here’s opened up and drenched you,” he said in summary. “Other than that, Ms. Chandler, how’re you finding Chicago so far?”
As uncomfortable and out of sorts as she felt, she found herself laughing in response to his wry smile. “Let’s just say if you were trying to motivate me to quickly sort out your case and get back to the Southern California sunshine, you’re off to a great start.”
Despite the jest, Allie meant to avoid returning home for at least a few weeks, even if she had to book a room under an alias once this job was finished. And she’d be keeping a close watch over her shoulder, possibly for a good long time to come.
Sobering abruptly, Jones’s gaze latched on to hers. “Quickly would be ideal.”
In his voice, she heard not only hope, but the strain of a brand of desperation that she remembered all too well herself. Swallowing back the ache of old grief, she felt the weight of the challenge she was facing, the responsibility of bringing to justice the killers—Chicago PD’s forensics had determined there had definitely been a pair of them, each simultaneously firing a long-range rifle from a different vantage—to allow a shattered family to heal.
Whatever it takes to break this case wide open, I promise you, I won’t let you down.
Her mood lifted when she spotted Yolanda bustling toward them, a pair of folded towels in her arms.
Handing one to Allie, she said, “I just pulled these out of the dryer, so they’re nice and warm for you.”
With a sigh of pure relief, Allie wrapped it around her upper body. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said gratefully as she snuggled into the blessed heat.
The dark brown eyes softened. “How about I start some coffee, too, to warm you up?”
“A cup would be most welcome. Thanks,” said Allie. “Was it Yolanda?”
“Yolanda Miller,” she responded with a curt nod.
“And I’m—”
“This is Allie Chandler,” Jones broke in, cutting her a look that warned her to go along with his explanation. “I’ve flown her here all the way from Los Angeles to lend the business her eagle eye. She may look a little soggy at the moment—” his smile was sympathetic “—but she’s actually a very successful brand and marketing consultant.”
“A brand consultant?” Yolanda blinked in confusion before abruptly going on the defensive. “What do we need one of those for? We’re doing just fine, aren’t we? Better than fine, since we were featured on that segment of Chicago Weekender and all the ladies gotta load of that handsome mug of yours on their TV screens.”
Allie smirked at Jones’s look of exasperation—and the swift flush that rose from his collar.
“Come on, Yolanda,” he said, clearly attempting to recover his dignity. “Every business owner wants to rise to the next level—especially now that we’re going all respectable, being served at True.” Glancing at Allie, he explained, “My cousin’s restaurant’s been quite the hit, especially since word’s gotten out that she was nominated for a James Beard award in just her second year of operation.”
Allie, who traveled so much and worked such odd hours that her knowledge of the restaurant landscape was largely limited to takeout and delivery, still knew enough to say, “That’s quite impressive.”
“We’re all very proud of Tatum,” he said. “I just want to be sure my product and my brand are both up to the challenge.”
Yolanda assured Jones, “Course you’re good enough,” before turning a fierce look on Allie. “Now this fancy California branding stuff’s all well and good, but don’t mess with our smiling wolf’s head logo, Miz LA. That boy’s got some sass to him, just like this one.”
When she nodded toward Jones, he flashed a grin framed by a perfect set of dimples. “You heard my right-hand woman, Allie. The logo stays.”
After studying if for several moments to give her so-called expert opinion credence, Allie agreed, “I wouldn’t change a thing about it.”
With a satisfied nod, Yolanda said, “I think we’re gonna get along just fine, then. But as soon as I start that coffee, I’d best get back and run through our bar bites menu with the new short order cook and make sure she’s ready for her first shift.”
“I’ve got the coffee. Thanks, Yolanda,” Jones said, moving behind the bar and grabbing a pot to fill it.
As the bar manager hurried toward a doorway leading to what must be a kitchen, he measured out grounds from a canister and started the pot brewing before turning back to lean on his forearms on the bar. “It was her younger son who designed my logo,” he explained, his tone hushed. “That’d be Harrison, the nineteen-year-old she and her husband lost in an accident last year. He was quite the artist, and their pride and joy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Allie might not be much of a people person, but she felt a surge of genuine compassion. Pulling the towel a little tighter around her, she claimed the barstool across from Jones and shrugged. “And if it makes you feel any better, I really do think your wolf’s pretty cute.”
“He’s supposed to be edgy, not cute.” Straightening, he folded well-muscled arms across a broad chest that tapered toward narrow hips and an admirably flat stomach. “And maybe a little bit badass, but a lot discerning.”
Allie couldn’t suppress a smile. “Let me guess—because that’s how you see yourself, right?” In her experience, men as good-looking and successful as Jones Colton had no shortage of ego. Though she’d learned he’d walked away from the family business—and the guaranteed path to success that went with it—at a young age to find his own path, she could imagine he would instinctively look down on someone like her, who remembered all too well what it had felt like going to bed hungry and still clipped coupons out of habit. Not that it was any skin off her teeth what he thought.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he scoffed, gesturing toward the gleaming silver tanks on the floor of the brewery beyond the glass wall. “It’s about what my customers aspire to, how they see their best selves, whether they’re twenty-five-year-old Cubs fans stopping on the way home from Wrigley Field for a cold one or well-heeled, serious beer tourists.”
“Beer tourists come to Chicago? I thought that was just a thing in Germany.”
“Good draft beers are brewed all over, with different styles for different tastes and regions, even seasons of the year—but I know you didn’t come here to talk drafts, especially while you’re standing around courting mildew in those wet things.”
“No, I definitely didn’t,” she admitted. “Fortunately, I do have some dry clothes inside my suitcase.”
“I’ll tell you what, then,” he suggested. “How about I take you back to my office—I have a little bathroom with a shower in there, too, if you’d care to avail yourself? That’ll give you a chance to get all cleaned up while I help out my people through the opening rush. Then we can talk at length, in comfort.”
“Right now, that sounds about perfect. And if I finish up before you’re ready, I can always pull out my laptop and get some work done.”
“Great, then. Let me bring your coffee. How do you take it?” he asked.
“Black, with one sugar,” she said decisively.
“Coming right up,” he told her, “though eventually I plan to prove to you that I’m a better brewmeister than a barista.”
She nodded, forcing what she hoped passed for a smile before saying, “Not before I show you that I’m a better PI than I am a more-than-slightly-soggy marketing consultant.”
His expression sobering, he cut a look around them, once more checking as if to make certain that no one else was in earshot. “Right now, I’m just praying you’ll turn out to be the miracle worker your references were claiming—because I’m afraid that’s what it’s going to take to find the cowardly sons of bitches who’ve torn my family apart.”
Two hours later, Jones shifted the flat, white box he was carrying to one hand and knocked at the door of his office so as not to startle the woman he had left inside. A woman he’d been warned had a one-track mind when it came to her work, without a lot left over in the way of social graces.
“Oh, if anybody can get the job done, I reckon she’s the one to do it,” one of her references had told him. The sheriff of a rural West Texas county, the man had given her full credit for cracking a money-laundering ring the prior summer.
“Whatever tricks she picked up hackin’ as a teenager had her runnin’ circles around everybody on our task force, even that computer forensics expert the Feds sent out to help us,” the lawman had told him. “But she’s an odd duck, that little lady. She’d rather stay in all night grindin’ over that computer than bend an elbow with the fellas once the shift was over. And if you try and crack a joke around her, she’ll as likely as not ask you to shut the door behind you on your way out of whatever broom closet you’ve got her workin’ in as give you the time of day.”
“I’m not hiring her for a hostess at my bar—or looking for a girlfriend, either,” Jones had told him. Even if he weren’t running himself ragged lately trying to keep up with the demands of the microbrewery while dealing with the fallout of the murders, he had a strict personal policy against getting involved with women he employed, knowing it would end up far too awkward when he inevitably grew restless after a short time and moved on. “So her being focused on her work sounds ideal to me.”
“Yeah, well,” the sheriff had confided, “it never hurts a gal to put on a pretty smile now and again instead of scowlin’ every time somebody kids her about brewin’ up another pot of coffee for the boys.”
Figuring the man was lucky she hadn’t dumped that scalding coffee on him for his so-called sense of humor, Jones entered the office at Allie’s invitation.
“Sorry, I kept you waiting so long,” he told her, the mouthwatering aroma from the white box wafting around him. “We had a delivery of hops come in that I had to personally check out, and then one of the hoses broke loose on the number three tank. It made quite the mess before we got it...”
He forgot what he was saying as his gaze found Allie, who was sitting behind his desk, looking completely in her element as she worked at a slim, modern-looking laptop. But it wasn’t her equipment, or even the flattering pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses she now wore that surprised him, but how thoroughly she’d transformed her appearance since he’d last seen her.
“You look a lot more comfortable,” he said once he found his tongue.
“I feel like a new woman, now that I’m all cleaned up and out of those wet running clothes. Thanks for the use of your shower and your office.” With a pleasant smile, she pushed back the glasses on her head, where they sat like a tiara atop her light brown hair, which hung long, loose and sleekly straight, now that she had dried it.
She’d dressed simply, donning a lightweight white sweater over a pair of jeans. But with her fresh-scrubbed face and slim, ringless hands, with their neatly trimmed and buffed nails, he found that he didn’t miss the higher-maintenance frills so many of the women he’d dated seemed obsessed with.
“I’ve brought some lunch to make up for the wait—and my lousy hotel recommendation,” he told her, setting the box on an empty corner of the desk.
She sniffed appreciatively at the scents of Italian herbs and cheesy goodness, her eyes smiling as she stood. “So this is what you call an apology?”
“You like Chicago thin-crust pizza? I ordered one, tavern-cut with all the good stuff on it, from a place just down the block.”
“I’m not sure about that particular style, but my rumbling stomach has decided that it smells a whole lot like forgiveness.”
After he produced a roll of paper towels from a storage cabinet, he offered her a cold beer to wash it down.
“I’d love the chance to sample your brews another time,” she said, “but I’ll stick with water during work hours.”
“Even if your new boss gives you a pass?”
“Especially then,” she said solemnly, her gaze connecting with his own, “since any employer who shows up on my first full day with fresh, hot pizza and an offer of fine craft brew is an employer who deserves the very best work I can give him—just the way your father and your uncle deserve justice.”
He nodded, sensing that she absolutely meant what she was saying. And feeling more optimistic than he had in months. It was enough to convince him that he’d done the right thing after all, going behind his family members’ backs in hiring a woman with a reputation for getting answers that the police—and more recently even the FBI—couldn’t.
After grabbing them both bottled waters from the mini fridge, Jones claimed one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk, only to glance over and see her still standing behind the desk, her light brown gaze locked in on the screen of her laptop.
“Allie?” he asked, her intensity reminding him of a lioness from a nature documentary, who might at any moment burst from cover to take down the zebra she’d been stalking.
“Sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “I was just checking out some of the chatter from area bulletin boards for gun enthusiasts in the weeks before the murders, looking for offers or inquiries regarding private gun sales, or maybe somebody asking about a gunsmith who hand loads the particular ammo that was used—”
“Hand loads?” he asked, shaking his head.
“That’s when the gunpowder and other components are reloaded and pressed into an existing casing. Shooting enthusiasts often prefer it because they can customize the load to the weapon they’re using. When you’re planning to shoot from long range, little details like that can make all the difference.”
“The police never said anything about that.”
“Ballistics weren’t clear on the casing, but it was a place for me to start, especially since the members of this bulletin board imagine they’re safe from enterprising snoopers like myself, with their paltry little password. Amateurs.”
“Have you found anything yet?” he asked, excitement building to hear what sounded to him like a great idea.
“Not yet, and it might prove to be a total bust. But I’m afraid I can be like a dog with a bone, once I zero in on an idea.”
“Don’t apologize for that,” he assured her, as he struggled to drag his hopes back to a more realistic level. “After all, it’s the reason that I hired you.”
What looked like relief eased her expression, the relief of someone he suspected was used to being an outsider, a young woman judged for not happily pouring coffee and deferring to the older cops she often worked with.
The insight prompted him to offer a smile. “Better hurry, before your lunch gets cold.”
Closing the laptop, she came and joined him. “Thanks.”
As Allie bit into her first slice of supreme pizza—after discreetly picking off the mushrooms and hiding them inside her paper towel—she murmured happily and closed her eyes, chewing slowly. “Mmmm. This... This is...”
“Good, huh?” he asked, surprisingly turned on watching this petite hacker-turned-PI lost in a world of her own pleasure. It got him to wondering what other Chicago delights he might introduce her to, a thought that had his imagination running in an altogether new direction before he clamped down ruthlessly on his libido.
The sheriff had been right. She was pretty enough—beautiful, even, when she flashed one of those fleeting smiles his way, but he warned himself to forget it. Put everything about her out of your mind but the job she’s here to do. A job you can’t risk distracting her—or yourself—from for a single second if you ever want another good night’s sleep.
Heaven only knew, he hadn’t had one lately, not without the nightmares about learning of the murders. And the guilt that plagued him still, remembering how he’d gotten wasted—falling down drunk—the night before the funeral and then shown up disgustingly hung over...as if it wasn’t bad enough knowing that he’d never have the chance to truly make his father proud.
I’ll make it up to you, Dad and Uncle Alfie. I’ll spend whatever I have to, take any risk that’s needed, to find whoever took you from us.
“This is amazing. Thank you,” Allie said, sighing over her a second slice with an air of blissed-out reverence before wiping off her hands.
“Then how about another?” he asked as he finished up his own.
Lowering her water bottle, she shook her head. “Thanks, but I’d better quit while I’m ahead. Otherwise, you’ll just find me snoring in your office later—unless you’ve already somehow managed to find me someplace to stay?”
“I took a look at the vacation rental site online, and Yolanda checked a different app as well, but I’m afraid there’re no vacancies available anywhere I’d be comfortable recommending. I do have an idea, though, if you’ll hear me out instead of walking out.”
“Why would I—”
“I’m talking about you staying at my place. I have a house, you see? A restored bungalow with a nice guest room—”
She frowned, her forehead creasing. “I don’t know about that, Jones. I need my own space to work, and plenty of privacy to focus.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” he admitted, knowing that his territoriality about his living quarters, his need to decompress alone after his noisy, social shifts, was a large part of why his previous relationships hadn’t lasted longer, as well as the reason his siblings and cousins had started referring to him as the family’s lone wolf long before he’d ever thought of starting up the brewery. “But I’m sure we can make this work. The truth is, I’m not spending all that much time at home lately, between the business and checking in on family.”
She still looked uncertain. “Your family...”
“Mostly my aunt and mother. They’re twins, you know, just like my father and his brother were, and it’s great that they have each other to lean on, and their business to distract them, too. Still, this has been a terrible time for them—for them and all the family, since we got the news.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but...would it be possible that you could stay with one of them?”
“Stay with my family?” he asked, not understanding.
She flushed slightly. “Instead of at the house, with me, I mean, so I can work uninterrupted?”
Frowning, he shook his head, taken aback by her request. “Listen, Allie, I’m already putting myself out offering to share my space, but I’m not willing to let you root me out of my own home. If you’re worried I’m thinking of trying something inappropriate with you, I give you my solemn word right now that I’m absolutely not interested in anything like—”
“Oh, no, it isn’t that.” She shook her head and raised her palms, color flaming in her cheeks. “I’m sure you understand completely...the professional boundaries of our arrangement.”
“Good,” he said, the word coming out more harshly than he meant it to, mostly because he was irritated over his earlier attraction to her, “because the only thing only I want from you is directions to the sons of bitches I mean to see pay for my dad’s and uncle’s murders.”
I’ve done it again, Allie realized, watching Jones duck his head against another light shower to load her things into the trunk of a sleek blue BMW.
“Don’t forget to buckle up,” he advised as they climbed inside, his admonition so stiff that she knew her instinct was on target.
I’ve definitely alienated one more person I’m going to have to work with within hours of meeting him by saying the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, said in the wrong way. She’d never known exactly. She only understood there was something missing in her makeup. Some factor that made smooth social interactions simpler for others than they seemed to be for her.
By this time, it should come as no surprise, nor should it bother her as long as she was left in peace to unravel the perplexing—and deeply fascinating—cases that stymied investigators whose hands were tied by a frustrating array of laws and regulations. Laws and regulations that she considered on a case-by-case basis, some of which she deemed...debatable. Trivialities to be dispensed with to stop the kinds of men and women who brought families to grief.
Including happy families such as her own had once been, so she understood the impotent rage Jones must be feeling, his burning need for justice, even if she couldn’t put those feelings into words.
But even in the name of setting the greatest wrongs right, there were lines she knew better than crossing. And judging from what he’d said, she realized it was time to set him straight on the issue before she invested any more of herself into this venture.
“When I took on your case,” she said as the car glided along wet streets hemmed in by modern mid-rise buildings, “I agreed to help you find the killers.”
He slowed to a stop, leading a small pack of traffic, as ahead of them, a light cycled from amber to red.
Flipping on his wipers long enough to clear a few leaves and strands of pollen from the glass, he challenged, “Don’t tell me you’re already trying to manage my expectations.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m trying to manage your behavior afterward, once I’ve tracked down these killers.”
“If you track them down, don’t you mean? Or do you already know something I don’t?” He darted a glance her way, hope flaring in his blue eyes. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, or I already would have. I just want to make it clear, if I find evidence I believe may be strong enough to convince a prosecutor, I’ll need your word that you aren’t planning to do anything crazy.”
He kept his gaze trained straight ahead and asked her in a low voice, “So tell me, Ms. Chandler, how does a former criminal like yourself define crazy, exactly?”
As the light changed, he sped forward, just as her heart leaped at the mention of her past missteps. Yet he wasn’t the first client who’d tried to rattle her by blindsiding her with some unsavory detail discovered from her background, so she controlled her breaths and delivered her answer, cool and smooth as glass.
“Suspected criminal.” None of the hacking charges against her, all of which had occurred while she was still a juvenile, had ever gone to trial, thanks to the FBI special agent in charge and a merciful judge who had given her the chance to get her act together and serve the greater good—along with law enforcement—instead of using her skills to independently dole out punishment to those she decided had it coming. “One who’d rather remain free to hunt true criminals than being locked up for, say, abetting murder.”
“Who said anything about murder?” Jones asked as the small sedan zipped over into the left lane ahead of traffic and quickly caught a green arrow at the next intersection. “Is that what you think I’m plotting, some sort of eye for an eye vengeance for my dad’s and uncle’s deaths?”
“Can you honestly tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind?” she asked, turning her head to take note of the low-slung black sports car that had zipped behind them through the left turn.
Scowling, he drove on, silent for so long that it surprised her when he finally erupted a few blocks later. “Could you really blame me if it has? They were shot down by a pair of snipers and left dying, as if they were garbage, nothing to anybody—not the backbone of a family, a support I never fully appreciated until—until the day it was lost forever.”
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, but he continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard.
“So, yeah,” he admitted, “I have fantasized about tracking down these cowards and making them pay for what they’ve done. After comforting my grandmother, who’s lost two sons, when she was crying, and holding my poor mother when she broke down after the funeral, I even had dreams where I had my father’s killer on his knees, begging me not to blow his worthless head off.”
Moved by the anguish in Jones’s voice, she admitted, “As a girl, I had those same dreams. Sometimes, I still do.”
He jerked a look in her direction, surprise splashing over his face. “What?”
Her stomach flipped, making her wish she could take back what she said. But there was no reversing it, so she forced herself to struggle forward, the words like thorns in her throat. “When I was a kid, my—my dad went missing. The police didn’t find his remains for another seventeen months.”
“I—I had no idea,” he said.
“It’s not something I share often,” she told him, though ever would have been far closer to the truth. “But you were honest with me, so I’m being straight with you now, too.”
“So he—your father was—murdered, like my dad and Uncle Alfred?”
“There was never officially a ruling, but yes,” she said, as memories of searing grief and helpless rage bubbled to the surface. “I have zero doubt that it was murder, nor about who killed him—not that an eleven-year-old was in a position to do anything about it.” And by the time she had been, she had lacked the maturity and judgment to handle things the way that she now wished she would have.
“That must’ve been horrible, especially as a child. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
As they passed a public library, she waved off his sympathy. “It was a long time ago, and I didn’t bring it up because I’m dying to rehash it. I just wanted you to know I get it, what it’s like to want to kill someone who’s destroyed the core of your family, along with your sense of safety and of who you—who you are in this world.”
He glanced her way, their gazes connecting for the barest fraction of a second. Yet it was enough that she felt a ripple of awareness of their shared experience running through her, as clear as the rainwater sluicing off the windows outside.
“You hit the nail on the head,” he said, his eyes back on the road. “That’s exactly what it’s destroyed. Before all this went down, I knew who I was—the youngest of the Chicago Colton cousins, the one who was always so slow to get his act together.”
“What do you mean, slow to get your act together?” she asked as they were delayed by traffic that had slowed to move around a fender bender. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you here right now, driving a nice car on your way to your own home after leaving the thriving microbrewery that’s generating all sorts of excitement, all well before the age of thirty?”
“All true, and I don’t mean to sound a bit ungrateful, except...” He blew out a long breath. “When you’re born into a family of high achievers, where everybody seemed to come out of the gate so certain of what they were meant to do and what steps were needed to achieve it—and they had such damned noble goals, too—continuing the work of Colton Connections, with its focus on inventions that would better society, or helping kids, or teaching at a university or creating cutting-edge cuisine—”
“All worthy ambitions, but none of them for you, I take it?”
“Exactly, but let me tell you, my father was none too impressed by my decision to drop out of the college business program he’d talked me into enrolling in when I couldn’t figure out a major for myself.” Jones gave a rueful chuckle. “It’s a wonder he didn’t track me down and throttle me after he found out I’d withdrawn and used the money for my semester to go backpacking around Europe to investigate a few different opportunities. That was when he cut me off financially.”
So, Jones hadn’t voluntarily turned his back on his family’s wealth after all... Her interest piqued, she said, “I imagine that didn’t help the relationship between you.”
“Let’s just put it this way,” he said as he continued driving, crossing an overpass above a freeway into what appeared to be an older residential area. “The two of us didn’t really speak for years, until I finally came to realize that being forced to go it on my own was the best thing that ever happened to me, and the only reason on this earth I’ve gotten to the point that I have now.”
“In other words, you grew up.” Having tired of dating the kind of men who never would, she nodded her approval.
“Grew up, but I’m afraid it didn’t make me any less stubborn because I could never bring myself to come out and admit to my father that I knew he’d done me a favor in the long run. Just like he never got around to telling me that I’d actually done well with my ‘beer slinging’ after all, not in so many words, at any rate.”
“So that explains why you hired me...because the two of you had unfinished business.”
“We did. But understand this. It damned well didn’t mean I didn’t love the man. It didn’t mean that at all.”
“Of course not,” she said, glancing toward him and then craning her neck to look behind them at the same black sports car she’d taken note of earlier, following them through the intersection.
“Jones,” she warned, her stomach clenching. “That car—”
Before she could say more, a gold SUV merged into their lane just behind them, coming between them and the black car and blocking it from sight.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Is there some problem?”
“I—I’m not sure,” she said, her heart pounding out a warning. They’re here. They’ve found you! How? And does this mean you’re putting your new client—and anyone you come into contact with—in danger?
“Is something going on? You’re dead pale. Tell me,” Jones demanded.
Once more, the SUV, whose driver seemed to be in a huge hurry, pulled out of his lane, this time roaring past them. Only now, the black sports car had dropped off out of sight.
Where could he have gone? Or had she only been imagining they were being followed?
“I’m sorry,” she told Jones, improvising on the spot. “I saw that guy in the gold SUV coming up behind us, driving so aggressively—people like that make me really nervous.”
He cast a sharp-eyed look in her direction. “Is that right? A woman who goes after hardened criminals is terrified of bad Chicago drivers?”
Knowing a challenge when she heard him, she hit back bluntly, “You know how many people die every year from road rage incidents and reckless driving?”
“Too many, I’m certain, and I’m not trying to make light of it. But you were shaking, Allie. I saw it. You can’t tell me that’s all about anything as impersonal as accident statistics.”
“I guess I’m still on edge after my stressful morning, that’s all,” she said. “It’s nothing, really. Or nothing you need to worry about, anyway.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t sound at all convinced. “But if you ever decide that you do want to talk about it...”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said, wanting desperately to change the subject, to bring the conversation back around to his relationship with his father. But she grew tongue-tied at the thought, and so the next few minutes were spent in awkward silence until finally, Jones turned onto a shaded street mainly consisting of restored older homes.
“It’s just up ahead,” he told her, casually waving toward the right. “My humble abode.”
“This is what you call humble?” she asked, her self-consciousness falling away as he pulled into the drive of a handsome, tan brick bungalow, whose bow-front enclosed porch and numerous window frames were painted an eye-catching dark green.
“Hard to believe the place was a partially gutted drug den when I bid on it. When my sister, Carly, saw it for the first time, I believe ‘apocalyptic horror’ was the term she used to describe it.” Snorting at the memory, he grinned and shook his head. “She and Heath, my older brother, both thought I’d lost my mind, and my cousins were about ready to stage an intervention.”
“So you’ve had all this done since?” Though she’d watched shows about such projects on her favorite cable TV networks—had even secretly fantasized about renovating a fixer-upper of her own—the combination of sky-high real estate prices in the LA region and her own lack of skills and knowledge had her conceding it was nothing but a pipe dream.
“A lot of it I did myself, or worked on with a couple of buddies in the contracting business—but for the plumbing and electrical, I hired professionals.”
“Well, I’m impressed that you did any of it. The place is absolutely gorgeous, right down to the landscaping.” She gestured toward the glossy-leafed shrubbery bordering the walkway.
“It’s taken me years, between this and getting the brewery on its feet,” he told her as he shut off the engine, “and I should warn you, some parts of the interior are still a work in progress.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” she said, fascinated to discover this unexpected facet of the one-time black sheep of the Colton family.
After grabbing her things, he led her inside. There, her jaw nearly dropped at the sight of beautifully restored wooden floors, gray walls with simple white molding that led the eye into a living area furnished with a blue sectional and several splashes of brighter color. The clean, modern lines of the furnishings perfectly complemented a tiled fireplace and built-in bookcase that formed the first floor’s focal point.
“You have an amazing eye,” she said, which drew an immediate, self-deprecating snort.
“Actually, I have a mom and an aunt in the home decorating business, so I was smart enough to listen when they told me I needed to do better than the old collector electric guitar and vintage beer ad posters I’d originally put up—at least if I ever hoped that any woman might want to set foot in the space, much less stick around to share it for more than a couple of sleepovers.”
She laughed at that. “So what happened to the cool stuff? Don’t tell me you let them shame you into dumping it.”
“It’s currently living in my basement man cave with my pool table, workout gear and all the unfinished projects that I’m hiding.”
“Sounds like the perfect place for it.”
After putting down her stuff, he gave her a quick tour of the remainder of the floor, which included a modernized gray-and-white kitchen, a dining room, and a beautifully renovated master bed and bathroom.
“Your room’ll be upstairs,” he said, grabbing her suitcase on his way to the steps. Their footsteps echoed as they both ascended, and soon, he was showing her a welcoming room with a comfortable-looking bed situated between two, tall lace-curtained windows.
“These upstairs bedrooms were so tiny, I knocked the wall out between two of them to make a guest room that wouldn’t feel so much like an old-school phone booth,” he said.
“It’s lovely,” she told him, admiring the woodwork and the little antique dresser as he set down the suitcase and she lowered her backpack to the bed.
“I’m sorry there’s no room for a desk in here,” he said, “but you’re welcome to spread out and work wherever you’d like in the house. For as long as you’re here, please make yourself at home.”
“Sounds great. Thanks. So, are you heading back over to the brewery to work?”
Shaking his head, he told her, “I thought I’d take a few hours before I need to get ready for this evening’s tasting dinner—which reminds me. Yolanda was asking if you’d be there tonight, and it got me to thinking, why wouldn’t you? You know, as my new marketing consultant?”
“At True? This evening?” She stiffened, feeling the blood drain from her face as she imagined herself among all those well-dressed, undoubtedly well-heeled people, the kind of people who seemed to come equipped with a sixth sense that informed them the likes of her did not belong. Shaking her head, she took a step back. “No, I don’t think so, Jones. I can’t—I couldn’t possibly, on such short notice.”
“Why not?” he asked her. “After all, most of the family’s going to be there. It’ll give you a chance to meet them, add your first impressions to whatever other background research you’ve been doing.”
“I don’t—That isn’t really necessary,” she said, forcing out the words with difficulty as her throat began to tighten.
Looking nearly as uncomfortable as she felt, Jones confessed, “By the way, I haven’t told any of them about you except my sister, Carly, and to be honest, I’d rather not let the others know what you’re really here for, either. I don’t want to get their hopes up, after so many months of disappointment, just in case nothing turns up.”
“That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “The last thing I need is your family calling me for updates or to run their individual theories by me. It would only slow me down.”
“But I still think you should come tonight. You’ll need dinner later anyway, and you did say you wanted to try out my beers, didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “Don’t you remember? Half my clothes were damaged in this morning’s flood. I don’t even really know what it was I salvaged and stuffed inside my suitcase, but I’m sure it’s not suitable for a—”
“It’s not the opera, Allie. It’s a dinner with a beer tasting. I do have to show up on the early side to shake some hands and say hello as guests arrive, but I promise you, no one’s going to be all that dressed up. I’ll be wearing jeans myself.”
“You’re a guy,” she pointed out, her heart fluttering like the wings of a trapped moth. “And basically, the star of the show tonight besides, so the rules are different for you.”
“I’ve got an idea, then,” he said, snapping his fingers as it came to him. “Let me text Tatum. She’s just about your size, and I’ll bet she’d be able to help you out with something.”
“I said no, Jones, so don’t bother your cousin while she’s getting ready for this dinner,” Allie blurted, seeing in his eyes that she was coming across as shrill and difficult, but the idea of being backed into a corner, put on display and forced to act out some farce he’d chosen for her was pushing all her buttons. “I told you I need peace and quiet and space, so I’ll be happier—far happier—working here. Alone.”
