and descended on the vacant house the women had inherited in Deadwood, South Dakota, and where each had last been seen, in hopes of claiming the reward. Even tabloid reporters had dived into the frenzy. Everyone had come up empty. “You’re nuts.”
“You wanted credibility. Not even considering the million bucks the Winslows are offering to locate their daughters, find them and you’d be able to write your own ticket. You’d be in so much demand, you wouldn’t even need me.”
“I can’t afford to go on a wild-goose chase. You know that. Not to mention the expense of traveling all the way to Deadwood. I need a paying job.”
“That’s why I’m willing to stake you.”
Cord briefly eyed the cash. Two stacks. Made up of hundreds. Temptation pulled at his gut. “Why?”
“For half the reward money, and publicity for my agency.”
“So why the sudden interest?” he asked, waiting for her to squirm. This was a bunch of crap. They both knew it.
She didn’t even blink. “Because the Deadwood house has been sold. The new owner is tearing part of it down and having some extensive renovation done to the rest of the building in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. This may be the last chance to uncover any clues.”
He still didn’t buy her motive. “The Winslows sold the house when it’s their last link to their daughters? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The corners of Leslie’s mouth quirked. “But I heard that the almighty Malcolm Baxter convinced them that the place was a dead end. Probably got a kickback from the Realtor for convincing them.”
Cord knew she’d never liked Baxter, either. Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t sure. Probably had more to do with professional rivalry since the guy was a shameless publicity whore and managed to snag the best clients. Cord’s dislike went deeper, and Leslie, the conniving little witch, was using Baxter to play Cord. “What makes you think I can do what no one else could?” Grudgingly, because the man did have an uncanny knack for closing a case, he added, “Including the almighty Baxter.”
“You’re good at tracking.”
Cord smiled in spite of himself. Coming from anyone else he would have found the remark a snide commentary on his being half-Navajo. Hell, too bad it hadn’t come from Baxter. It would’ve been Cord’s perfect excuse to pop the guy. Show everyone just how good his shoulder had healed, at the same time send the smug bastard halfway to hell. But someone like Baxter was far too slick and cunning to be an open bigot. Especially not here in good old liberal Hollywood.
Unlike some of the townspeople who lived near the reservation. When the economy was down, there were folks who accused the “dirty, rotten Indians” of taking their jobs, taking food out of the mouths of their children. Cord had been a blameless child himself when he’d crossed into their world. But they’d dragged him through the mud, spat in his face, shaved off his long black hair.
Had circumstances been different when they’d first met, Baxter could’ve been any one of those men. Cord knew the truth of that deep in his gut. He saw it in Baxter’s eyes. They reminded Cord of a past he wanted to forget, pure and simple.
But he wouldn’t let that distract him now. Leslie was right, he was damn good at tracking, but the idea that he could make headway on the high-profile case was ridiculous. He knew exactly what this was about. The sparkling eyes, the phony excitement in her voice, all a nice touch. But of course she’d been a decent enough actress at one time.
“If I’m so good at tracking, why can’t I go after Mad Dog,” he reminded her. “That could net us each a nice payoff.”
Leslie sighed with disgust. “Let it go, Braddock. I’m not helping you cripple yourself for life.” She flipped through the first stack of hundred-dollar bills, as if mentally counting, but he had a feeling she had something else on her mind. “You still seeing Brenda Carlisle?”
“Occasionally. Why?”
Leslie’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “This town isn’t good for you anymore, Cord. Some friendly advice? Get the hell out while you still can.”
He knew she meant well. Brenda was just like the rest of the women in his circle, a circle getting smaller by the day. She was a taker. And lately he had less to give. He shouldn’t resent Leslie’s concern. She was the closest person he had to a friend. He did, anyway.
Clutching the back of the leather guest chair, he watched her lay the two stacks of bills on her desk and then slowly push them toward him.
Hesitating, he tightened his grip. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tinted window and caught his watch. The gold gleamed under the beam of sunlight. Damn, he didn’t want to have to pawn it again.
Cord clenched his jaw, and reached for the money. Only a year ago he’d been sitting on top of the world, his phone ringing off the hook with job offers and A-list party invitations. Then one wrecked shoulder and it had all come to this. His pride was as fragile as the colored beads his grandmother had strung to keep food on their table. And here he was, accepting charity.
2
SHE WAS A SLY ONE, that Leslie. Cord shook his head as he sank to the edge of his bed, irrationally annoyed at the plushness of the burgundy comforter his interior decorator had insisted upon, and pulled off his boots. Not only had Leslie slipped him enough money to pay next month’s rent, but she’d also effectively stopped him from chasing down Mad Dog.
The guy was big and mean but dumb as they came. Wearily, his gaze went to the leather duffel bag sitting on the floor near his walk-in closet. He still hadn’t checked on flights to Deadwood. Going there would appease Leslie, but be a huge waste of his time. He laughed humorlessly. Time was about the only thing he had lately. No money. No prospects. Just a hoity-toity apartment he could no longer afford.
He could downsize, get a cheaper one bedroom in Culver City. Unload some of the furniture through one of those fancy consignment shops. Getting rid of some of this stuff wouldn’t kill him. But the Porsche…
Man, he loved that car.
Even after two years he got a kick out of how valet parkers rushed to the curb when he pulled up. Nah, the car was a deal breaker. He had to do whatever it took to keep her.
He kicked his boots in the direction of the armoire, and then lay back and closed his eyes. The air conditioner kicked on with a low hum and he knew he should get up and close the window. Better yet, turn off the air. Eighteen years he’d been away from the reservation and he still hadn’t acquired a taste for the indoors. He liked an actual breeze skimming his face.
Summers on the reservation had been hotter than hell itself. Burning wood to cook hadn’t helped. Come winter, the mountain of wood Cord kept chopped and the scratchy handmade wool blankets were the only things that kept them warm. His grandmother never complained. Not even when, at seven, Cord had been dropped at her doorstep because his mother had died in a car accident and his father didn’t want to be saddled with a kid.
Cord never thought about his old man, but his grandmother, Masi, he still missed. Diabetes stole her from him two days after he’d turned fifteen. The image of his grandmother’s cold limp body came unbidden and he ruthlessly dismissed it. He’d been clutching her hand for over an hour before his friend Bobby Blackhawk
