Joss blinked and sat up. “Wait a minute, isn’t the International Stamp Expo in Stockholm next week?”
“Yes, but I’ve got too much going on here. I can’t go.”
“No, but I could,” Joss said, her eyes flashing. “Remember? Travel is likely.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why is that ridiculous? You did it.” A chance, she thought, a chance to make things right.
“I went to Las Vegas. This is Stockholm. You don’t even speak the language,” Gwen said in exasperation.
“I’ll find someone who does. Hell, I’ll hire a translator. Look, Gwen, all of this was my fault.”
“It was both of our faults.”
Joss shook her head. “If I hadn’t left Jerry in the store with access to the safe, he’d never have had the chance to steal everything.”
“He would have gotten to them sooner or later,” Gwen countered. “I should never have hired him.”
“Which you did because of me. I’m going.” In an instant, it had gone from a passing thought to something Joss wanted passionately. Needed passionately.
“There are other ways.”
“How?” Joss jumped to her feet and began pacing. “You’ve done all the work here. I’ve just sat around doing nothing.” And it had rankled her, every minute. “I want my chance to make it right. You already had yours.”
“And I almost got a bullet in my brain, remember?” Gwen said hotly. “It’s too risky. Silverhielm isn’t just some rich guy. He had Stewart hurt, Joss. He scared him to death. It’s not a job for us. It’s a job for the police.”
“The police aren’t doing anything,” Joss flared. “Do you want to just write off a million dollars of Grampa’s retirement? I don’t. I can’t, Gwen. I couldn’t live with it.”
“You may not live if you try to get it back.”
“So I’ll get some help.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’ll call my friend Tom, the promoter at Avalon.”
“A music promoter’s going to be able to go with you to Stockholm and get stolen property back from a criminal?”
“Why not? A sportswriter helped you. Look, Tom knows this town inside and out. He might be able to point me to someone who could help.” Joss sank back down in her chair and looked at Gwen pleadingly. “I want to do this, Gwen. I need to.”
Gwen sighed. “Well, we’ve still got most of my poker winnings as a war chest. We’ve got the money to do it, but only if you find someone who can really help you,” she warned. “Not the music promoter. Someone who’ll know what to do when you hit Stockholm.”
“Okay.” Joss reached out for her coffee and took a sip. “Can he be cute?”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t cook all this up just so you could have sex on an airplane, did you?” Gwen asked skeptically.
Joss laughed. “Who, me?”
2
JOHN BAXTER leaned back in his chair and stared at the check in his hands. Smack in the upper end of the five figure range. Not bad for three months’ work, he thought in satisfaction. For the first time since he’d started his executive security business two years before, he’d banished the wolf from his door. Not just banished it, kicked its ass from here till Sunday.
It was about time for a vacation.
The corner of his mouth curved a bit at the thought. It was an uncompromising mouth, some might have said hard, as they might have called the planes of his face hard with the high cheekbones, straight nose and taut jaw. Lines of care had been etched into his forehead and bracketed his mouth, but those who looked closely enough would see lines of humor as well.
Always, it was a face that was impossible to read. He’d cultivated the look in the seven years he’d spent working for the FBI and then Interpol. Even now, two years later, his eyes could still flatten into cop eyes that gave away nothing.
He hadn’t left because he couldn’t handle the work, he’d left because he’d been sick to death of politics and the endless levels of supervision and interference. Then again, he’d always done his best work alone.
He tore the check along the perforation and endorsed it, laying it on top of the deposit slip he’d filled out so he could hit the bank on the way home. His office was spare, the mahogany desk clear of nearly everything but a blotter, the check and the phone that now burbled at him.
He picked up the receiver. “Baxter.”
“Bax, Simon Fleming.”
“Hey, Si.” Simon Fleming, his contact at Mayfield, Cross and Associates. The young attorney was quick, a little cocky and hellaciously good at one-on-one basketball, as Bax regularly found out the hard way. Bax was under retainer to do occasional investigations for the law firm and they, in turn, sometimes steered clients his way. Like the client who’d written the hefty check Bax was currently admiring. “I didn’t think you lawyers worked this late.”
“Are you kidding? I’m trying to make partner. This is lunchtime.”
Bax grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So what’s up?”
“I’m sending someone over to see you. She’s a friend of one of our clients, needs some work done.”
“She?”
“Damsel in distress. Isn’t that what you P.I. types live for?”
“I’m not a P.I., I’m an executive security specialist.”
“So that’s why your rates are so high.”
“My rates are high because I’m good.” Bax scrubbed at his wavy brown hair, kept cropped short for convenience. “So what’s her problem?”
“Like I would know? I’m just trying to help out a client. It’s your job to make me look good.”
Bax grinned. “Is that covered by the retainer?”
“Making me look good? You know it, buddy.”
“Then I want a bigger retainer.” A light flashed on the phone. Bax frowned. “Wait a minute, she’s not coming over here now, is she?”
“Dunno. Depends on how desperate she is. I talked with her a little while ago.”
“Hell, Si, it’s the end of the day. I’m surprised the receptionist is even still out there to page me.”
“Maybe you’d better go check it out.”
“Whatever
