Rough Rider. B.J. Daniels

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      “Hank doodled a dog. A girl with a dog. So there must be more than this,” he said, indicating the file.

      She shook her head. “Talk about jumping to wild conclusions.” She picked up the flashlight from where she’d left it lying on the desk, the beam lighting most of the room, and shone it on the single sheet in the file.

      “Hank had his own system. He numbered the pages in each file, keeping a running tally. It was his idea of organization. If you look on the back of the file, it shows how many papers are in each file. That way you can tell if anything is missing.”

      “Your partner got his office broken into a lot?” Boone quipped.

      “It’s the nature of the business,” she said offhandedly.

      He turned the folder over. There was a one on the back. One sheet of paper inside. He looked up to see her headed for the door. “Wait a minute, where are you going?”

      “Home to bed,” she said, after picking up three file folders from the desk where she’d stacked them earlier.

      “That’s all you’re taking? Aren’t you even going to lock the office door?”

      “What’s the point?” she said over her shoulder. “If there was anything in here worth stealing, it’s long gone now.”

      Taking the McGraw file, he went after her, catching up to her at the stairs. “Look, Ms. West—”

      “C.J.” She met his gaze. In the dim light of the naked bulb over the stairs, he noticed her eyes were a rich, warm brown, the same color as his favorite horse. “Yes?”

      He realized he’d been staring. At least he had the sense not to voice his thoughts. He doubted she would appreciate her eye color being compared to that of his horse’s hide even if it was his favorite. “You should at least have my phone number, don’t you think?”

      He started to reach for his wallet and his business card, but stopped when she smiled, a rather lopsided smile that showed definite amusement. “I already have it.” Reaching into her pocket, she brought out his wallet.

      “You picked my pocket?” He couldn’t help the indignation in his tone. “What kind of private investigator are you?” he demanded, checking his wallet. His money and credit cards were still there. Now he knew what she’d been doing in the bathroom. All she’d apparently taken was his business card.

      When he looked up, he saw pride glittering like fireworks in the rich brown of her eyes. “I’m the kind of PI who doesn’t take anything at face value. I’m also the kind who doesn’t work with amateurs, so this is where we part company. I’ll call if I find out anything about your sister or the kidnapping.” With that she turned and disappeared down the stairs.

      He caught up with her at the street. “I’m not leaving town. If I have to, I’ll dog your every footstep.”

      “As entertaining as that sounds—”

      “I’m serious. I’ll stay out of your way, but you can’t keep me out of this.”

      She smiled as if she could and would and climbed into an older-model yellow-and-white VW van. The engine revved. He thought about following her to see where she lived. But he wasn’t going to sit outside her residence all night to make sure she didn’t give him the slip in the morning. He couldn’t force her to help him anymore than he could make her keep him in the loop.

      The woman was impossible, he thought as he climbed into his pickup and watched C.J. West drive away. A car a few vehicles away started up and left, as well. He glanced at it as it passed but didn’t notice the driver. His mind was on C.J. West.

      He knew nothing about her. She, he feared, knew everything about him, or would soon. The entire story of his family’s lives for the past twenty-five years was on the internet.

      Swearing, he reminded himself what was at stake. He couldn’t go home without good news for his father. Hank Knight had started a file. He thought of the brief file now lying on the seat next to him. “Pink ribbon. Pink grosgrain ribbon.”

      It didn’t take much of a mental leap to come up with a pink ribbon since Oakley’s horse had a blue ribbon on it. If that information had gotten out, then... But pink grosgrain? Had their attorney Jim Waters released that information to the PI? Or had Hank already known about the toy stuffed horse and the key bit of information about the pink ribbon?

      Now more than ever, Boone believed that Hank Knight had known something about the kidnapping. Had maybe even known where Jesse Rose was. Or at least suspected. And it might have gotten him killed.

      One way or the other, Boone had no choice. He was staying in Butte and throwing in with this woman whether she liked it or not. He just hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.

       Chapter Five

      C.J. closed her apartment door and leaned against it for a moment. Tonight, being in Hank’s office, she’d felt him as if he was there watching her, urging her on.

      Tell me who killed you! she’d wanted to scream.

      She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he’d left behind a clue. Some lead for her to follow that even whoever had ransacked the office wouldn’t get, but she would because she and Hank had been so close they could almost read each other’s mind.

      Until recently. Lately he’d been secretive.

      But did it have something to do with the McGraw kidnapping? Just because she’d found the file in Hank’s hiding place, it didn’t mean it was the last case he was working on. While she and Boone had found a couple of recent case files, neither of them had seemed like something that could get Hank killed. Then again, like Boone had said, any case could turn violent.

      She’d tossed the three file folders from fairly recent cases of Hank’s on the kitchen table as she’d come into the apartment. Now she moved to them. Other than the McGraw file, there was one labeled Mabel Cross. Inside, she found a quick abbreviated version of Mabel’s problem. The woman suspected that her niece had taken an antique brooch of hers. But she also thought her daughter’s husband might have taken it. She had wanted Hank to find it and get it back.

      The second file folder was labeled Fred Hanson. His pickup had been vandalized. He was pretty sure it was one of his neighbors since they’d been in a disagreement. He wanted to know which one of them was guilty.

      The third case, Susan Roth Turner, suspected her husband might be having an affair.

      C.J. sighed. None of those seemed likely to have gotten Hank killed. But she knew better than to rule them out since other than the McGraw file, they were his most recent cases and three of his last ones before he was to retire.

      Moving to the refrigerator, she poured herself a glass of red wine and headed for the couch. This was the hardest part of her day. As long as she was busy taking care of all the arrangements for Hank’s funeral, tying up loose ends with their business dealings and looking for his killer, she could keep the grief away.

      But it was moments like this that it hit her like a tidal wave, drowning her in the pain and regret. Hank had taught СКАЧАТЬ