helped,” he answered curtly, facing the video camera attached on the wall opposite the chairs. If “Handler” wanted a long explanation, he’d ask for it.
“You’re part of the Gray Wolf Pack. We have an impeccable reputation, and that’s partly because I won’t tolerate unprofessional behavior like tardiness.”
Daniel said nothing. A warning had been given, and excuses about car trouble wouldn’t help. At Gray Wolf Investigations the only thing that mattered was results. The agency specialized in catching thieves, finding missing people, and retrieving lost or stolen property around the Four Corners area, or beyond if required. They were the best. Gray Wolf usually took on cases the police wouldn’t or couldn’t accept, and their reputation had been built on the nearly one hundred percent success rate they maintained.
The agency also assured secrecy and privacy for both clients and personnel. Cases were kept strictly confidential, and known only to Handler, who was the owner of the agency, Mr. Silentman, his assistant, the operative assigned to the case, and the client. Names were kept to a minimum, once the case was accepted. Each operative had a code name assigned to them by Handler. Daniel’s was Lightning, and his cases usually involved a high level of action and/or quick extractions that suited his nature and training perfectly.
The fact that none of them, except possibly Mr. Silentman, ever saw Handler had certainly piqued Daniel’s curiosity, especially at first. To make sure everything was legit, he’d done an exhaustive background check on the agency before applying for a job with them, but everything had checked out.
He’d speculated that Handler had chosen to keep his identity a secret because he was a public figure, or maybe Handler and Mr. Silentman were one and the same. Mr. Silentman looked like a man who wanted to be thought of as polished, but knew he didn’t quite make the grade. Perhaps inventing “Handler” had been his way of adding a touch of mystique to the agency so that clients were bound to remember. But no matter what the explanation, the bottom line was that Handler continued to be a mystery.
Yet, despite all the open questions, being associated with the best private investigation agency in the southwest had certainly appealed to Daniel. He’d worked hard to get the job though it hadn’t been easy. At first Handler had been skeptical about hiring him. Daniel was told that all the operatives were required to carry a firearm, something Daniel refused to do. He’d obeyed that policy during his eight years as a cop, but he’d sworn the day he left that he would never pack a gun again.
Yet, after seeing the full extent of Daniel’s skills as a master of several martial arts disciplines, Handler had changed his mind and offered the tough Navajo loner the job. As Lightning had proven, even something as innocent as a straw, in the right hands, could become a deadly weapon.
Now, even after three years with the agency, Daniel only knew two other members of the Gray Wolf Pack—as Handler called them—his cousin, Ben Wanderer, who had recruited him, and Riley Stewart, a former Denver cop they’d both known for many years.
“Lightning, I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Silentman now. As always, he’ll be your contact,” Handler said.
A tall Navajo man with black hair and brown eyes strode into the room. He was a big, self-confident man who could appear threatening simply by changing his posture and standing ramrod straight. Daniel always got a feeling that Silentman was a street kid who’d spent most of his life trying to forget his roots, and the taint that had left on his soul. Although Daniel knew his first name was Burke, Silentman had made it clear that he preferred to be addressed by his last name.
Daniel wondered if Silentman was a code name or his real name. He’d probably never know. The name wasn’t unusual for a Navajo, but he’d never met a family by that name. Then again, the Rez was a very big place.
At the moment, in his Western-cut suit, he looked like a cross between a cowboy and an oilman. Yet something about his eyes and the tension in his rigid shoulders told Daniel that he was a man who’d seen violence up close and personal and was capable of dishing out as good as he got.
Silentman handed Daniel a large, brown envelope. “Examine the contents, please,” he said, then sat on the leather chair across from Daniel.
Daniel opened the envelope, and a photo of an attractive dark-haired Anglo woman fell into his lap.
“Meet Miss Hannah Jones. She’s the twenty-eight-year-old niece of Robert Jones, a real estate broker and deacon at the Riverside Mission Church in Farmington.”
Daniel studied the portrait. Hannah Jones was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way. A man would remember Hannah for life once he’d gazed into those hazel eyes. Her black hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves like a dark veil against her alabaster skin. She didn’t use much makeup, and that fact only served to heighten the natural innocence mirrored on her face. She was the type of woman who would make a man willingly give up a playoff game to take her grocery shopping.
Hearing a knock, Silentman stood up and opened the door leading to the waiting room reserved for clients.
A tall, balding man wearing a herringbone jacket, conservative brown tie and coordinating slacks came in and greeted Silentman.
He walked stiffly to one of the leather chairs, and as he passed by, Daniel noticed the large bandage that covered an apparent injury on the back of his skull.
“This is Robert Jones. He represents our Riverside Mission clients,” Silentman explained, taking the paper sack Jones handed him. “He’ll brief you on the rest.”
The man never offered to shake hands with Daniel, making him wonder if it was out of respect for the investigator’s Navajo ways, or for another reason entirely. Prejudice reared its ugly head everywhere, even here, a stone’s throw from the Navajo Nation. Or maybe Deacon Jones just didn’t mingle with the hired help.
“I’m very worried about my niece, Mr.…Lightning, is it?”
Daniel nodded once.
“She’s been…fragile most of her life.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Daniel said.
Robert Jones pressed his lips together and stared at the floor for a long time before answering. “My niece has had severe psychological problems in the past. She’s not usually violent….”
“You don’t have to mince words with me,” Daniel said, addressing the man’s obvious reluctance to speak freely. “I’m on your side. But I need to know exactly what I’m up against, and what’s expected of me.”
“Fair enough.” Deacon Jones leaned forward to speak, grimacing from the effort. “Hannah spent time in a psychiatric institution many years ago, and perhaps should be there now. Truthfully, my niece hasn’t been right since she came to live with me after her father committed suicide fifteen years ago. But this time, I think she’s really gone over the edge.”
Daniel thought about the bandage on Jones’s head, wondering if someone had coldcocked him. It was clear Jones was in pain.
“There’s a bandage at the base of your skull. Did she do that?”
“I was clobbered from behind, so I can’t honestly tell you if she’s responsible,” he said in a heavy voice. “All I can say for sure is that I saw Hannah’s purse on a desk when I came into the church office. I heard movement behind the door, then suddenly felt this incredible pain. I went numb and passed out.
