CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
FORD EVANS HAMILTON OPENED his eyes and blinked the blurry room into focus. Pain splintered through his skull and throbbed along his nerve endings, and he lifted a cautious hand to probe the back of his head. It felt like an overripe cantaloupe.
What the hell had happened? Hearing muted voices, the clink of heavy crystal, he drew his eyebrows together. Was there a party going on?
Images flickered and floated on the peripheries of his mind and his brow grew smooth. Ah, yes. That’s right. There was a party—the one he’d thrown to watch McMurphy squirm. Well, McMurphy and one or two others, but the point was he had guests and he’d come into the library for a box of cigars to go with the after-dinner brandy. And…Jared had been there, right? Ford scowled as bits of their argument came drifting back and he suddenly recalled the shove his son had given him as the boy had stormed for the door. Jared was nothing but a blotch on the Hamilton name. Both his children were big disappointments.
The faint swish of fabric brushing against the Aubusson rug snagged his attention. He turned his head, wincing as fresh agony stabbed like a series of ice-pick thrusts from cranium to tailbone. He was going to make Jared rue the day he was born. Peering sourly at the slowly merging double image of the person kneeling by his side, he demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?” Then he pushed the question aside with an impatient wave of his fingers. “Never mind that.” He extended his arm imperiously, furious that he hurt all over. “Give me a hand.”
“Oh, I intend to,” the person murmured. “I plan on giving you a helping hand straight to hell.”
Then faster than Ford’s confused mind could process the facts, the razor-sharp silver-handled letter opener that usually rested on his mahogany desk flashed downward. And his heart exploded.
CHAPTER ONE
“COME ON, DARLIN’,” John Miglionni murmured to the curvy little redhead. “Just let yourself go. You know you wanna—it’ll feel so good.”
He sucked in a satisfied breath when she did as he urged. “Yes!” he whispered…and zoomed in the lens of his camcorder on the woman across the field as she finally swung herself up onto the back of a quarter horse at least fifteen hands tall. His client, Colorado Insurance, would be ecstatic, as this would go a long way toward putting a serious crimp in the woman’s multimillion-dollar disability claim against the company. The injury she had insisted under oath rendered her unable to ride her beloved horse was clearly fraudulent.
He kept his camera trained on her as she took the horse over the paddock fence and galloped across the high plains that spread out east of Denver. Once she was no longer identifiable through the lens, he packed up his equipment and headed down the road to where he’d left the dusty, beat-up old tan pickup truck he was using for this morning’s surveillance.
Forty-five minutes later he banged through the front door of Semper Fi Investigations, grinning when his office manager Gert MacDellar jumped and slapped a hand to her bony chest.
“Good Gawd, Almighty,” she snapped, glaring at him over the top of her rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye glasses. “You scared a dozen years off my life! And at my age, boy, I can’t afford to lose a single minute, much less more than a decade.”
“As if you aren’t gonna outlive us all, Mac.” John hooked a leg over the corner of her desk, perching a bun on its solid oak corner. He handed her the camcorder. “Download this for the Colorado Insurance file. Then tally up the final invoice to include three and a half hours for today.”
Her faded blue eyes, which were several shades lighter than her rigidly upswept hair, lit up behind the pristine lenses of her glasses. “You got her?”
“Yes, ma’am. Dead to rights.”
Gert whooped and plugged the high-tech digital camcorder into its docking station. Downloading its contents with one hand, she used the other to pull a short stack of pink “While You Were Out” slips from beneath a chunk of polished quartz. “Here. You had a few calls.”
John read the first slip, then slid it to the back of the stack. He handed the second message back to Gert. “Give this one to Les,” he said referring to the engineer he’d recently hired to handle the increased spate of product liability cases that had been coming his way. Scanning the next message, he narrowed his eyes and looked back up, pinning Gert in place as he thrust that one, too, at her.
“You know I don’t do domestic cases anymore.”
“Well, you oughtta,” she said unrepentantly, making no move to take the slip. “They pay very well.”
“Yes, they do. They’re also chock-full of highly charged emotions and invasion of privacy problems, and frankly I’m not interested in sneaking around taking pictures of people having quickies. Now, if one of the spouses is hiding assets on the other, I’m your man, and I’ll be more than happy to ferret them out. But if they just want someone to dig up dirt they can use to bury their partner, refer ’em to the Hayden Agency down in LoDo.” He dropped the message slip onto the desk.
Gert huffed and gave her lacquered updo a comforting pat, but she argued no further and John looked at the last note.
And smiled. “All right, now this looks much more my thing. Give me a runaway any day of the week.” Settling himself more comfortably on the edge of the desk, he gave Gert his full attention. “Tell me about this one.”
She perked up, her disgruntlement forgotten. “Have you read about that tycoon down in Colorado Springs who got himself stabbed through the heart with a letter opener?”
“Yeah. Somebody—Somebody Hamilton, wasn’t it?”
“Ford Evans Hamilton. His daughter, Victoria, is our potential client. Well, I actually talked to the lawyer, but you get my drift. Ms. Hamilton’s seventeen-year-old half brother, Jared, disappeared the same day Daddy bought the farm.”
“The kid kill him?”
“According to Robert Rutherford, the attorney, Ms. Hamilton, or Evans Hamilton, or whatever she calls herself, swears young Jared isn’t capable of that kind of violence. But he’s been in trouble before—and he’s definitely a person of interest to the police, so she’d like to locate him before they do. Apparently he has a tendency to give a lot of attitude when he’s cornered or scared and she knows that lipping off to the cops won’t improve his situation.”
Having suffered similar tendencies as a youth, John could readily identify with the teenager and he flashed his office manager a big, feral smile. “Then isn’t it lucky for her
