Текст книги "Dream Eyes"

Автор книги: Jayne Krentz

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Three

“What makes Gwen think that Ballinger was murdered by paranormal means?” Judson Coppersmith asked.

He was on the porch of the small cottage, tilted back in a wooden chair that was propped on its two rear legs. The heels of his running shoes were stacked on the railing. He held the phone tightly to his ear so that he could hear his brother over the dull roar of the breakers crashing on the long strip of beach.

There was a storm coming in on the Oregon coast, and the little town of Eclipse Bay was going to take a direct hit. He was looking forward to it. With luck the energy of the gale would prove distracting, at least for a while. He needed a distraction. Lately the days seemed endless and the nights were even longer.

The layers of gray that surrounded him—from the leaden sky to the weathered boards of the cottage—went well with the gray mood that had descended on him after he’d made it out of the flooded caves. He wasn’t sleeping well, which was a good thing because when he did sleep, the dream was intense. And it was getting worse.

“Gwen is a talent,” Sam said patiently. “Like us, remember?”

Oh, yeah, I remember you, Dream Eyes,Judson thought. He’d encountered her on only one occasion—a month ago when he’d driven to Seattle to meet Sam’s fiancée, Abby Radwell—but he wasn’t likely to forget Gwen Frazier.

The four of them had gone out to dinner together at a restaurant in the trendy South Lake Union neighborhood of the city. He’d taken one look into Gwen’s witchy green-and-gold eyes and immediately started contemplating a long hot night spent amid sheets made damp with sweat. He had convinced himself that the attraction was mutual. There was no way he could have been wrong about the energy that had sparked in the atmosphere between them that night. No way. There had certainly been no doubt in his mind that Gwen was exactly the distraction he had needed to get his mind off the damn dream.

But the vision of a night of sexual relief had gone down in flames when Gwen had looked at him and said those four little words. I fix bad dreams.

It was at that point that he realized he had completely misinterpreted the look in her mysterious eyes. She hadn’t seen him as a potential lover. She had viewed him as a potential client—vulnerable and in need of her professional expertise.

He now had a new four-word rule. Never date psychic counselors.

“Gwen sees auras, doesn’t she?” he said into the phone. “Dead bodies don’t have auras, so I don’t understand how she could pick up much at a crime scene.”

“Abby says that Gwen’s talent is a lot more complex than she lets on,” Sam said. “Don’t forget those two have known each other since they were locked up in high school together.”

“Locked up?”

“After their psychic talents started to manifest, Abby and Gwen both wound up in a boarding school for troubled youth, the Summerlight Academy,” Sam explained. “In Abby’s case, her family figured she was psychologically disturbed. Gwen ended up there after the aunt who had raised her died. It’s a long story and not a happy one. Abby says there were bars on the windows.”

Judson exhaled slowly. “That had to be rough.”

“Knowing Abby and Gwen has brought home to me the fact that you and I and Emma don’t always appreciate just how damn lucky we were to grow up with parents who managed to deal with the paranormal side of our natures.”

Meeting Abby Radwell had changed a lot of things for his brother, Judson thought. Sam had fallen for Abby like the proverbial ton of bricks after Abby had hired him to investigate a case that had involved murder, revenge and a rare psi-encoded book.

The couple had announced their intention to marry immediately. Willow Coppersmith had flown into a mild panic. Claiming some rights as the mother of the groom, she had beseeched Sam and Abby to wait until she could plan a more formal wedding.

A compromise had been reached. The wedding was scheduled for the end of August, less than three weeks from now. Judson was pretty sure that the negotiation had been Abby’s doing, not Sam’s. Abby had struggled all of her life to find a real family. Now that she was about to join the Coppersmith clan, she wanted to start off on the right foot with her new mother-in-law.

The gala celebration was going to take place at the family compound, Copper Beach, on Legacy Island. The normally secluded enclave in the San Juans was now abuzz with activity as Willow and the wedding planner she had hired exercised their remarkable talents for organization to pull together a large-scale event in a short span of time.

Judson suspected that there were probably no more than five men on the face of the planet who would have enjoyed the commotion associated with the planning of a big wedding. Sam was not among those five, but he was the groom, so he was stuck coping with the hubbub created by the constant comings and goings of caterers, photographers and florists.

Judson felt a little sorry for him, but he figured Sam could handle the situation. In any event, he knew that in his present mood he would not be good company. Also, in his present state, it was best to avoid Willow. She had a mother’s intuition. If she found out about the recurring dream and the sleepless nights, she would freak. That was the last thing anyone—especially Sam and Abby—needed.

“Look, I understand that you want to take a break before we decide what we’re going to do with Coppersmith Consulting,” Sam said. “But this is a family situation. Abby says that Gwen is really upset about Ballinger’s death. Gwen wants an investigation, and she’s not going to get that from the local cops. All we’re asking you to do is make a quick trip to Wilby and figure out what happened to Ballinger.”

“What if it turns out that Ballinger was murdered by paranormal means? What the hell will Gwen expect me to do about it? It’s not like this is one of our old agency jobs where I can go in, analyze the scene and turn the problem over to Spalding so that he can make the problem go away. Regular cops and prosecutors don’t think much of the woo-woo stuff. They need hard proof to build a case, and that’s not always available.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sam said.

“It’s why we don’t do much private work, remember?”

“I know, but this falls into the friends-and-family category,” Sam said.

“I get that, but that still begs the question. What will Gwen Frazier expect me to do if I determine that her friend was murdered but can’t find any usable evidence?”

“You’ll think of something,” Sam said. “You always do. This is very important to Abby. She says Gwen needs closure.”

“Closure for what?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Evidently Gwen has a history there in Wilby.”

“This thing is starting to sound more complicated by the minute.”

“Two years ago, Gwen was one of seven subjects in a research study conducted by the dead woman. The study was designed to try to find a way to prove the existence of paranormal talents.”

“Safe to say that the study was a failure,” Judson said. “No way to prove what can’t be scientifically measured. The Coppersmith R-and-D lab has been working on that problem for years.”

“Sure. But that’s not the big story about what happened in Wilby two years ago.”

“There’s more?”

“Turns out one of the research subjects in the Ballinger study, a guy named Zander Taylor, was a serial killer who specialized in stalking and killing people who claimed to be psychic. Until he arrived in Wilby, most of his targets were probably frauds—a mix of storefront fortune-tellers, tarot card readers, mediums and assorted scam artists.”

A flicker of awareness arced across Judson’s senses. Something that might have been curiosity stirred inside him. It was the first time he had felt anything other than the weight of the gray since he had returned from the island. He took his feet down off the railing and stood.

“Let me take a flying leap here,” he said. “This Zander Taylor wanted a challenge. He volunteered for the research study in order to find himself some real psychics to murder.”

“You do know how the bad guys think,” Sam said. “You nailed it. He succeeded in killing two members of the research study before he tried to murder Gwen. Obviously, he failed but it was a near thing, and Abby says Gwen was badly traumatized by the attack. Now Ballinger’s death has brought back all the bad memories and vibes.”

Another tendril of curiosity flickered through Judson. He looked down at the amber-colored crystal in his ring. The stone was glowing with a little energy in response to his slightly jacked talent.

“How come we’ve never heard of Taylor?” he asked. “That kind of story should have been all over the news. I can see the headlines now. Serial Killer Stalks Psychics.”

“Taylor never made the news because no one ever realized that he was killing people,” Sam said. “In the case of the Wilby murders, the first two deaths were attributed to natural causes. Taylor’s death was ruled a suicide.”

Judson contemplated the restless, gray ocean. “What did the local cops say about the deaths?”

“I’m told that the Wilby chief of police—guy named Oxley—had his suspicions but he couldn’t prove anything. That was fortunate for Gwen.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Gwen was the one who reported all three deaths,” Sam said. “You know how that would have looked to any halfway competent cop. The person who finds and reports the body usually goes to the top of the suspect list.”

“And this morning she finds another body.” Judson whistled softly. “What are the odds, huh?”

“You can see it from Oxley’s point of view.”

Judson wrapped one hand around a wooden post and watched the summer storm sweep in over the ocean. “Okay, got to admit there’s an interesting pattern here.”

“Evidently, when Oxley arrived at the scene this morning, he did not hide the fact that he doesn’t like coincidences.”

“He really believes that Gwen may be responsible for all of the murders?”

“He never could prove that there were any murders, but, yes, he has his suspicions. Gwen is in no immediate danger of arrest, but for her own peace of mind, she needs to find out what is going on. She knows Abby so she knows that you and I are in the psychic investigation business.”

“We were in the business before I pretty much put us out of business,” Judson said.

“We’ll find another client. Got to be more where that one came from.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said. “Losing our number one client is no big deal, given what we now know about said client.”

“Except that, aside from the security work we do for Coppersmith, Inc., it was pretty much our only client. And we didn’t lose the client. I destroyed the whole damn agency.”

“Not a problem,” Sam said. “We’ll find a replacement. At last official count, there were close to a thousand different government agencies, departments and offices involved in the U.S. intelligence community—and a couple thousand more private contractors. I’m sure we can find one that is interested in the services of a consulting firm that specializes in paranormal investigations. But for now, we need to do something about Gwen Frazier’s case.”

The wind sharpened. So did Judson’s senses. This time it would be different, he thought. This time Gwen needed him. She would not be able to treat him like one of her psychic counseling clients.

“All right, I’ll drive to Wilby and take a look,” he said.

There was a short pause on the other end of the call.

“One more thing you should know about Gwen Frazier,” Sam said finally.

“Yeah?”

“She sees ghosts,” Sam said.

“What the hell?”

But it was too late. Sam had already ended the connection.

Judson stood quietly, letting the energy of the oncoming storm and the prospect of seeing Gwen again stir his senses.

After a while, he turned and went back inside the cottage to pack for the long drive to Wilby.

Ghosts were no big deal. He saw a few every night in his dreams.

Four

Gwen sat at a small table in the tearoom of the Riverview Inn and watched the dark-haired man with the eyes of a raptor enter the lobby. An eerie storm of amber lightning flashed and sparked in the atmosphere around Judson Coppersmith. The disturbing heat in his aura had not diminished since the disastrous evening in Seattle. His dreams were growing more powerful.

The effect that Judson had on all of her senses had not lessened, either. A near-violent rush of awareness, an effervescent excitement mingled with dread and an uncanny sensation of knowing, shivered through her. The same intuitive certainty that had both compelled and alarmed her that night in Seattle came crashing back. This is the one.

The paranormal fire that surrounded Judson roared in the cozy lobby of the old Victorian inn. But Gwen knew that she was the only one who could see the flames. The handful of guests seated in the wingback reading chairs did not look up from their books and magazines. Riley Duncan, the front desk clerk, did not take his eyes off his computer screen.

Trisha Montgomery, the proprietor of the Riverview Inn, was seated across the table from Gwen in the tearoom. She, too, was oblivious.

“Between you and me, you should try to stay out of Nicole Hudson’s way while you’re in town,” Trisha said. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That woman isn’t right in the head. You know as well as I do that she wasn’t what anyone would call stable two years ago. I can tell you for a fact that her mental health hasn’t improved in the past two years.”

“Don’t worry,” Gwen said. She suppressed a small shudder. “I have no intention of crossing paths with Nicole if I can avoid it.”

“That won’t be possible, not if you hang around for more than a day or two,” Trisha said dryly. “Wilby is one very small town.”

Trisha was in her late thirties, an attractive woman with short, curly brown hair that framed a fine-boned, heart-shaped face. Gwen had met her two years earlier at the start of Evelyn’s research study. At the time, Trisha had been a newcomer to Wilby, a newly minted multi-millionaire who had made her fortune in the high-tech world. She had retired at an early age to do what she had always dreamed of doing—run a quaint B&B in the Oregon woods. To the surprise of just about everyone in town, she had made the old inn a year-round success.

Gwen tried to pay attention to Trisha, but her eyes kept returning to the lobby where Judson was approaching the front desk. She knew that the storm of amber light that blazed around him was a vision conjured by her psychic senses. Normally, she kept her talent tamped down when she was around other people. But today she was tense and very much on edge and therefore not in full control. Her other sight had flared a moment ago when Judson had opened the door. Even though she had been anticipating his arrival, seeing him for the first time after a month of thinking about him far more often than was good for her had rattled her senses and raised her talent.

What on earth was going on in Judson’s dreams that caused her to perceive him like this—a hard, relentlessly determined man walking through a storm of hot amber light?

She had a talent for analyzing dreams, but she needed context to comprehend what her intuition was trying to tell her. Judson was still very much an enigma, and given his reaction to her offer of dream therapy that night in Seattle, she had a feeling that he intended to remain a mystery.

He must have sensed that he was being watched because he stopped before he reached the front desk and raked the small lobby with a single glance, sizing up the handful of guests the way a predator considers potential prey.

She knew that he had jacked up his talent a little because at that point some of the guests belatedly became of aware of something dangerous in their midst. A few of them raised their eyes from their magazines or broke off conversations long enough to glance around, instinctively searching for whatever it was that had raised the hair on the back of their necks.

But as was so often the case, they chose to ignore the primal message that their senses were sending. After all, this was a warm, safe place, and the newcomer looked well dressed, calm and controlled. He made no overtly threatening moves.

The guests went back to their magazines and conversation. Perhaps their intuition had told them what had been clear to Gwen when he walked through the door. They were safe. None of them was Judson’s intended prey today. He was here for her.

With an effort of will, she forced her vision back down into the normal zone. The surreal ultra-light fire winked out, but the sense of recognition was as strong as ever. This was the man she had been waiting for—not just since she had made the phone call to Abby—all of her life. Her pulse beat faster. Her fingers tightened on the teacup.

Pull yourself together, woman. She had always been a dreamer, but she had learned long ago not to get carried away by her own dreams.

At that instant, Judson looked at her through the open French doors of the tearoom. Another unsettling jolt of awareness thrilled her senses. She was pretty sure that she saw a flash of heat in his topaz eyes.

She inclined her head in what she hoped was a cool, polite acknowledgment of his presence. He returned the small gesture—equally cool and polite—and continued on to the front desk to check in.

Gwen turned her attention back to Trisha.

“Is Nicole still running the florist shop?” Gwen asked.

“Oh, yes,” Trisha said. “She’s really good at the business, even if she is a bit nutty. Handles all the weddings, funerals and high school proms in the area. She does the weekly arrangements here at the inn.” Trisha angled her delicate chin toward the floral display that sat on the round table in the lobby. “But last month I stopped by her shop to discuss some changes I wanted to make in the flowers that go into the rooms. The door of her office was open. I’m telling you, the inside looked like some kind of weird shrine to that man she was seeing two years ago, the one who went over the falls.”

Unease twisted through Gwen.

“She’s still carrying the torch for Zander Taylor?” she asked, just to be certain.

“I’m afraid so.” Trisha made a face. “And she still blames you for his death. As far as I can tell, Zander Taylor was the only serious relationship she has ever had. She’s great with flowers and animals, but not with people. I thought you should know. You might want to be careful around her.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Gwen said.

“I see you booked a week with us for yourself and this Judson Coppersmith,” Trisha said, probing gently.

“I need time to arrange Evelyn’s funeral and take care of her legal and business affairs,” Gwen said. “Judson is going to help me.”

Trisha frowned. “No offense, but why you? Didn’t Evelyn have any family?”

“No. She left everything to me.”

“I see. I hadn’t realized that.” Trisha gave her a commiserating smile. “You probably won’t have any trouble selling the house she lived in here in town, but what on earth will you do with the old lodge out at the falls, the place she called her research lab?”

“I have no idea,” Gwen said truthfully. “I suppose I’ll hire someone to clean out the equipment and the instruments she installed and then try to sell the place. I’m hoping I can get things wrapped up in a week, but there’s a lot to handle.”

“This Judson Coppersmith you’re expecting is a friend?”

“Not exactly, more of a financial adviser,” Gwen said. She was proud of the smooth way that came out. She had been working on Judson’s cover story all morning. “He’s had some experience with this sort of thing, settling estates and such.”

Trisha’s expression cleared. “Good, because I think you’re going to need some help. I doubt that Evelyn paid much attention to her business affairs. All she cared about was her research.”

“I know.”

“She was a real eccentric in a town full of that particular breed, but I’m going to miss her.”

“So will I,” Gwen said.

Trisha cleared her throat. “Sara, one of my housekeepers, says there’s a large cat in your room.”

“Evelyn’s cat, actually. Max. I couldn’t leave him there at the house. There’s no one around to feed him. I didn’t know what to do with him, so I brought him here with me. I hope that’s not a problem. I brought his litter box with me. I’ll pick up some cat food later.”

“It’s okay.” Trish smiled. “I allow pets.”

Judson had finished at the front desk. He walked through the doors of the tearoom, a leather bag in one hand. His profile suited his hawklike eyes, Gwen thought, all sharp planes and angles. There was a prowling, muscular grace in his stride. He wore khakis, a gray crewneck pullover and low boots. The unusual amber-colored crystal in the black metal ring on his right hand caught the summer light streaming through the window. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn that it glowed, as if infused with some energy. Just like his eyes,she thought.

Judson stopped at the table and pinned her with his bird-of-prey eyes.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said.

“Judson. Nice to see you again.” She managed a bright, welcoming smile. “You made good time. This is Trisha Montgomery. She owns the inn.”

“Welcome to the Riverside Inn,” Trisha said, smiling warmly.

“Thanks,” Judson said.

“I understand you’ll be staying with us for a few days while you help Gwen settle Evelyn Ballinger’s affairs,” Trish continued.

Gwen knew a rush of panic. She had not had time to brief Judson on the cover story she had concocted.

Judson looked at Gwen, utterly unfazed, his brows elevated ever so slightly. “That’s right.”

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief and flashed him an approving smile. He had handled the situation very smoothly. As well he should, she thought. He was a security consultant, after all.

Trisha got to her feet and took her computer bag off the back of the chair. She hitched the strap of the bag over one shoulder. “If you two will excuse me, I need to have a chat with my cook. Please let me know if I or anyone else on the staff can help in any way.”

“We’ll do that,” Judson said.

Trisha went briskly toward the kitchen. Judson lowered himself into the chair across from Gwen. He set the leather bag on the floor near his feet.

“So, we’re here to settle Ballinger’s affairs?” he said, speaking in very neutral tones. “That’s our story?”

“Well, it’s not like I can announce that we’re conducting a possible murder investigation, now, is it?” Gwen said. She spoke crisply, authoritatively. It did not require psychic intuition to know that with a man like this a woman had to take charge right at the outset and stay in charge. Guys like Judson Coppersmith were far too accustomed to giving the orders.

“Probably best not to bring up the word murderyet,” Judson agreed. “You’d be amazed how that subject tends to upset people.”

“I realize we can’t discuss it in public. The room I booked for you is next to mine on the third floor. There’s a connecting door so we can talk privately without being seen coming and going from each other’s rooms.”

“Wow,” he said, his voice still perfectly neutral. “Connecting doors.”

She was starting to get flustered. “The inn is a little more expensive than either of the two motels in town, but it’s actually a good bargain when you consider that we get breakfast and afternoon tea.”

“Afternoon tea?” Judson repeated thoughtfully. “Will there be scones and clotted cream?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be picking up your expenses, of course.”

Something that looked suspiciously like amusement came and went in his eyes. “I’ll keep track and make sure you get a detailed accounting when I send you my bill.”

No doubt about it, he was laughing at her.

“I realize that you consider this case very low-rent compared to the jobs you’re accustomed to handling for some no-name government intelligence agency. But Abby assured me that due to some unfortunate circumstances on your last mission, you are currently without a client and that you would give this investigation your full attention.”

Judson’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Rest assured you have my full attention, Gwen Frazier.”

A middle-aged woman in a white pinafore apron appeared at the table. Her nametag read Paula. She handed Judson a menu and beetled her brows in a severe manner.

“It’s almost four o’clock,” she warned. “Tearoom closes at four. We’re out of sandwiches and cakes. I think I’ve got a couple of scones left, but that’s it.”

“Just coffee, please,” Judson said.

“Huh.” Paula was obviously disappointed that Judson was not going to argue about the closing time, but she recovered quickly. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black,” Judson said.

Naturally, Gwen thought. How else would a man like Judson Coppersmith take his coffee?

Paula eyed Gwen. “More green tea?”

“Please,” Gwen said.

“Heard you’ve got Evelyn Ballinger’s cat upstairs in your room,” Paula said.

“That’s right,” Gwen said.

“Gonna take it to the pound?”

“No, I’ll probably haul Max back to Seattle with me.” Gwen paused. “Unless you know someone who might like a nice cat?”

“Nope. Got too many cats around here already. Folks from Portland are always driving up here to dump their unwanted cats and dogs on the side of the road. Besides, according to Sara, the housekeeper, Evelyn’s cat isn’t a nice cat. Sara says it hissed at her from under the bed when she cleaned your room today.”

Paula stalked off toward the kitchen.

Judson waited until she was out of earshot. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a cat.”

“For now, apparently.” Gwen said. She lowered her voice again and leaned forward a little. “How long do you think it will take you to conduct the investigation?”

“Depends how far you want me to go with it.” Judson kept his own voice at a normal, conversational level.

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It will take me about five seconds at the scene to determine whether or not your friend was murdered.”

“Really? Your brother made it clear that you’re a professional investigator and that you have a talent for this sort of thing, but five seconds at the scene of the crime doesn’t sound like enough time to conduct a thorough investigation.”

Judson swept her misgivings aside with a slight motion of one powerful hand. “Murder is murder. It leaves a calling card, even when it’s done by paranormal means. But you already know that, don’t you? You must have sensed something when you found your friend’s body—something that made you suspect foul play.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “Okay, obviously, I have my suspicions, but my talent is kind of dicey when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“Dicey?”

“I read dreams and view auras. I don’t investigate murders. Look, the bottom line here is that I need to be absolutely certain about what happened to Evelyn. That means that I need an investigator who is willing to spend more than five seconds at the scene.”

“Is that right?” Judson lounged back in his chair and shoved his booted feet straight out under the table. He hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt. “What, exactly, do you want from me?”

“Well, I expect you to determine cause of death, for starters.”

“You mean, you want to know if Ballinger was killed by paranormal means.”

“Yes. I admit that given her health history it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that she had a heart attack or a stroke. I want to be sure.”

“What else?” Judson asked.

“If you conclude that she was murdered, I want you to find the killer, of course.”

“See, that’s where things can get—what was the word you used? Oh, yeah, dicey.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Complicated?”

“Very complicated.”

“Because you aren’t particularly good when it comes to identifying the killers?” she asked in her sweetest tones.

“Nope. I’m good at that, too.”

He broke off when Paula returned to the table with his coffee and the check for Gwen to sign. Paula hovered while Gwen scrawled her name and a tip on the little slip of paper.

Paula took the signed paper and departed in the direction of the kitchen.

“She didn’t look impressed with the tip that you left,” Judson observed.

“Well, she should have been impressed. It was a good tip. I’ve worked as a waitress. Everyone knows that ex-waiters and -waitresses always overtip, even when the service is lousy.”

“I’m just saying she didn’t look impressed.”

“And she doesn’t like cats, either. Forget Paula. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. You said you’re good at identifying the bad guys. So what is the hard part of a murder investigation for you?”

Judson picked up his coffee. “The complication in situations like this is finding the type of evidence that we can take to the local cops, the kind they need to make an arrest and build a case.”

“But isn’t that what you and your brother do?”

“Not exactly,” Judson said. “Mostly we work off the record.”

“Off the record?”

“Didn’t Abby explain what it is that Coppersmith Consulting does?”

Gwen hesitated. “She said you conducted security investigations for a government agency that recently shut down due to severe funding cuts.”

Judson looked pained, but he did not correct her.

“That’s true,” he said. “But the great thing about working for our former client was that the guy in charge wasn’t overly particular about the sort of legal technicalities that regular law enforcement has to deal with. Sam and I were hired to gather intelligence and make security recommendations. We were not in the business of making arrests.”

“I see.”

“Is there a problem here?” Judson asked.

“I’m not sure yet. Did your brother warn you that if we do manage to prove that Evelyn Ballinger was murdered, the local chief of police will probably consider me to be the lead suspect?”

Judson drank some coffee and lowered the cup. “I believe Sam did mention that possibility, yes.”

“Let’s get something straight here, Judson. I’m employing you to find the person who murdered Evelyn Ballinger, assuming she was murdered. I expect you to do so in a way that keeps me out of jail.”

“I usually charge extra for that kind of work.”

She stared at him, speechless for a few seconds. Judson used the time to down more of the coffee.

“Are you serious?” she finally managed.

“No.” His smile was cold steel and his eyes burned. “Don’t worry, you’re getting the friends-and-family rate. That means you won’t pay extra for little add-on services like making sure you don’t get arrested for murder. I’ll throw those in for free.”