Chapter 1
A car rumbled into my neighborhood. Its engine sounded worse the closer it got. I could speculate any number of reasons for the sound—a broken piston or misaligned timing, for example. It would have been nonsense, though. I don’t know anything about motors yet pretend to understand every word from a mechanic’s mouth.
When the vehicle slowed in front of my house, I filed the paperwork on a recently finished case. Over the years, I’ve learned to document my actions better. Back when I was on the job, writing a decent report was necessary for a successful prosecution. Now, it was important for covering my ass—too many details might come back to haunt me and not all of them through the court system.
From my desk, I had an unobstructed view of A.M. Cannon Park if the front door was opened. The noisy car had stopped, but it wasn’t visible from where I sat.
Two little boys ran through the park, dragging kites behind them. Their mothers stood with their arms crossed. The women were engaged in a conversation, too bothered with their story to help the struggling boys launch their toys into the air.
A heavy door squeaked. It was the long metallic shrill old steel cars develop. When it slammed closed, my dog barked. Corporal was in the backyard. It was a comfortable spring morning—too nice for an aging Shepherd to spend it lying indoors.
There was a shushing sound I couldn’t place until a woman came into view and headed up the sidewalk toward my house. The heels of her untied combat boots dragged as she walked.
She was a tall, thin woman with dark hair. Her faded jeans pooled into the scuffed boots. Her hands were shoved into a tattered green Army jacket she kept wrapped tightly around her.
Corporal continued to bark.
Unseen hands were a cause for concern even from an attractive woman, and I pulled open my desk drawer. A .40 Glock lay there. I wasn’t one of those paranoid types who carried a gun wherever I went, but I wasn’t a fool either. An ounce of precaution as they say. I rested my hand on the gun.
The woman and I made eye contact through the screen door, but I remained seated. She ascended the front concrete stairs in two long strides.
“You John Cutler?” she asked with her nose almost to the screen.
“I am.”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Help yourself.”
She removed a hand from a pocket and opened the door. When she stepped inside, she pulled the other hand free of its pocket and the jacket parted to reveal a Queen half-shirt. A thick chain ran through the loops of her jeans and a padlock secured it in place. The metal belt appeared uncomfortably tight, and several links dangled down between her legs.
I lifted my hand from the gun and pushed the drawer closed.
Dark mascara highlighted her darting, green eyes. She scanned my office. There wasn’t much to see—just a desk and a couple of metal folding chairs. Outside of the occasional internet search, the computer was for show. I did most of my paperwork by hand. The office doubled as my home, but the bedroom at the back of the house wasn’t much to brag about either.
She had a strange allure, much the way danger emits a siren call to attract the foolish. Too many things threw me when considering her age. Baggy clothes hid most of her thin frame, but the half-shirt revealed a flat stomach. A younger woman seeking attention likely would have dumped the jacket in this weather and shown off the body under that cutoff shirt.
Besides the mascara, the woman wore no other makeup. Faint lines creased the edges of her mouth and a hint of crow’s feet played at her eyes. We might have been the same age, but her hair appeared unnaturally black. Perhaps she colored it. Gray speckled my hair now that I was pushing forty. I gave up guessing and assumed we were the same age.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
She stopped checking the room and her gaze settled on me. She shoved her hands back into her pockets and pulled the coat tight once more. “You ever search for a missing person?”
I nodded.
“You find them?” The way she asked it carried more than a hint of challenge.
I nodded again. I didn’t bother to mention the person I found had been murdered. It didn’t seem the time for such a revelation, especially with her undercurrent of provocation.
She looked down and tapped the toe of her boot against the floor.
Something held her back from just spitting out what she came for, so I tried easing her into a conversation. “What’s your name?” I asked.
She stopped tapping her toe. “Daisy.” As if almost an afterthought, she added, “McLaughlin.” She straightened, pulled her shoulders back, and thrust her chin out. “Daisy McLaughlin.” The Army jacket was from a generation before her, but perhaps she had served in the military.
“All right, Daisy,” I said. “Do you live around here?”
She shook her head. “Up in Metaline.”
When I cocked my head, she shrugged.
Metaline was two hours north of Spokane. There likely weren’t any private detectives in that small town but coming this far for help seemed excessive. “Is someone missing?”
“My boyfriend, Nick.” She cleared her throat. “Nicholas Gossett.”
She stared at me as if I should have recognized the name. Or perhaps her expression was because I hadn’t written anything down. I grabbed a pad of paper and jotted the missing man’s name. “How long has Nick been missing?”
The woman continued to watch me.
“Daisy?”
She blinked and looked away. “Three days.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“You said you could find a missing person.”
“If he’s missing you should notify the cops.”
Disappointment crossed her face and her legs stopped moving. “They won’t help.”
“How do you know?”
“They’ll say…” Her fists dug into the pockets. “They’ll say he’s on a bender.”
My pen hovered over the notepad. “He’s an alcoholic?”
“He doesn’t drink anymore, but you know how cops are.”
“Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
She watched me with unfocused eyes as she tapped the heel of her boot against the toe of the other.
“Daisy?”
“Will you help us?” she asked.
“You didn’t answer my question. Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s your boyfriend.”
“He’s made his mistakes. I’ve made mine.” She flashed an awkward smile. “We both have pasts.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know.”
I made a lot of past mistakes that I wouldn’t share with my girlfriend. Maybe some of those mistakes would come back to haunt me. I left the question alone. I could always circle back to it later.
“Have you fought recently?” I asked.
“Me and Nick?”
“That’s right.”
“We don’t fight.” Her knees rubbed together. “Never, in fact. We’re lucky that way.”
“Has he seemed depressed?”
“Not usually.” Daisy’s hand slipped out of its jacket pocket and the flaps parted. She grabbed the padlock and twisted. The chain link belt tightened further around her thin waist. Her face contorted in pain and her knuckles whitened. When she let go, a peacefulness returned to her features.
Since starting my private investigation business, I’ve learned to screen clients. Early on, I accepted too many cases that turned out to be wastes of time. I got paid, but I spent countless hours chasing my tail. Clients could create many stories which required the aid of a detective.
My spouse is cheating on me.
An employee is stealing from my business.
Our child wants to kill us to get their inheritance.
When I discovered zilch in those investigations, not only did the client feel I failed, but I squandered my time on their bullshit stories. I liked getting paid, but I also enjoyed feeling as if my work mattered.
Several things seemed wrong about Daisy McLaughlin.
Right out of the gate, nothing seemed to add up about her story. For a concerned girlfriend, she didn’t know much about her partner or, at the very least, she was dancing around the truth. One meant she wasn’t aware. The other meant she was lying.
Daisy also gave off some strange vibes. The undercurrent of danger remained. Even though the loose Army jacket and floppy combat boots detracted from her figure, something hyper-sexualized was going on underneath. She wrenched the lock with the intensity of a mechanic trying to break loose a stuck bolt.
She watched me with an odd curiosity in her eyes. It wasn’t the way a cat watches a mouse, but it was close. Her gaze was closer to the way a lioness observes a zookeeper. The former depends on the latter for its food and safety, but the lioness would kill the zookeeper even to the detriment of its own life. It was in the big cat’s nature.
Daisy McLaughlin would surely turn out to be a client I’d regret keeping. It would be best if I ended the interview. I set my pen down and interlaced my fingers. “I can’t help you.”
She blinked. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not familiar with Metaline.” It wasn’t a lie, but I’m sure I could have worked around it well enough. It was a convenient excuse to get out of the work.
Daisy shoved her hand back into the jacket pocket. “He told me to never contact you.” Her mouth puckered as if trying to contain her words. “But I figured you would understand.”
“Who?”
“I’m breaking a promise by being here.”
“Lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Daisy pulled back her shoulders and defiantly thrust her chin out. “You’re not even half the man he is.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Your father.” She turned and slapped the screen door open. “Thanks for nothing.” Daisy hurried down the stairs. Her boots scuffed along the sidewalk as she ran.
The words stunned me. Your father.
I stared at the screen door’s mesh as it went out of focus, blurring everything. The sounds of the neighborhood warbled, suddenly becoming irrelevant. It was as if the world shook.
Your father.
I sat there for a moment, testing the words on for size. When my wits returned, I realized she was getting away. I hopped to my feet and knocked my chair over with a clatter.
Outside, a metallic door squealed.
I jumped around the desk and banged through the screen door.
A late ’70s Chevy pickup started and its engine revved. The truck lurched forward. As it drove by, Daisy extended her hand toward the passenger window and flipped me the bird. Even though I couldn’t hear her, I could read her lips.
“Asshole!”
