“I’m serious, Abby.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you are, which makes it all the more hilarious.”
She cut me a look. “It was all in his tone,” she explained. “He can be a really cold SOB sometimes.”
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing in earnest. “Oh, honey, we all know that. It’s his warm fuzzy side most of us can’t find.”
Candice sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on with us lately. It’s like, no matter what the other person says or does, it hits the wrong chord.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “Dutch and I have been having a little of that too lately. I think it’s astrological.”
This won me a smirk. “It’s the planets’ fault, huh?”
I turned in my seat to face her. “As a matter of fact it is. I read in my horoscope the other day that Uranus is being a bully lately, and since he rules innovation and rebellion, he’s causing massive changes for all of us, which is why so many close relationships are being affected.”
“Uranus,” Candice said derisively. “He’s such an ass.”
“Har, har!” I mocked. “Try the veal. You’ll be here all week, right?”
Candice bounced her eyebrows. “Just until Tuesday.”
We spent most of the rest of the day looking at commercial properties. I thought it was incredibly sweet of my friend to point out in several locations where I might be able to host clients. “You’ll get your clientele back up and running before you know it,” she assured me. “You’re just too good not to be successful again, Abs.”
I was also quite surprised at the reasonable rates being charged for office space. The rents were nothing like they were up north. “I can’t get over how cheap everything is here,” I remarked as we left yet another location.
“I know. And have you seen the crime rates?”
“No. Are they bad?”
Candice laughed like I’d actually said something funny. “I was researching the stats right before Brice and I moved, and two years ago there were only like twenty murders in Austin, compared to over four hundred for Detroit.”
My jaw dropped. “Twenty murders for a whole year?”
Candice nodded. “Uh-huh.”
I gazed at the gorgeous rolling hills dotted with bluebonnets and wildflowers. “I could totally get used to living here.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Hopefully, the number of spouses cheating on each other is higher than the crime rate.” I gave her a curious look. “A girl’s gotta eat,” she explained. “Those cases are my bread and butter.”
“I thought your inheritance was your bread and butter.”
“My inheritance is my nest egg. The PI business is my meal ticket.”
My stomach grumbled and I looked at Candice pleadingly. “Speaking of meals, can we please find some food soon?”
“What do you feel like eating?”
I smiled. She’d walked right into that one. “Oh, man, could I go for a Coney dog and some chili cheese fries.”
Candice eyed me sympathetically. “Sorry, honey. There are no Coney places down here.”
“Nuh-uh!” I lived for Coney Island hot dogs and chili cheese fries.
“That’s a Michigan thing,” she explained. “Or a New York thing if you want to get technical.”
“But I can’t live in a place that doesn’t have Coney Island!”
“Well, it’s a little late to go back now. After all, you’re already moved in and everything.”
I slumped low in my seat and muttered moodily for the rest of the drive.
I wasn’t pouty for long. Twenty minutes later Candice and I were seated on one of the picturesque balconies of a restaurant called the Oasis. The famous eatery was built right into a cliff’s face some three hundred feet above the crystal clear waters of Lake Travis, offering some of the most breathtaking views I’d ever seen.
As we sipped our margaritas and snacked on chips and salsa, I leaned back in my chair and sighed happily. “This place rocks!”
Candice adjusted her sunglasses. “I know it’s not a greasy spoon overlooking Woodward Avenue, but I thought it might come in a close second.”
I smiled happily and munched on a tortilla chip loaded with spicy salsa. “It works.”
We sat for several moments in silence, enjoying the ambience, when I noticed Candice eyeing the files I’d brought with me from the car. “I can’t believe you thought you’d work on those here.”
I smiled. “Yeah, well, they’re heartbreaking cases, and I was hoping with a little alcohol and some nice atmosphere my radar might give me a few more clues.”
Candice picked up one of the files and opened it. “Aww,” she said. “She’s a cutie.”
I didn’t know if she was referring to Keisha or Fatina and it really didn’t matter. “She was murdered.”
Candice’s head snapped up. “Oh, no! Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Along with this girl.” I pushed the other file at her. She opened it and her face fell. “What’s your radar saying?”
I shrugged. “That we’re probably looking at a serial child killer.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s a connection to paint.”
“Paint?”
I took another sip of margarita. “I think the killer is a professional painter.”
“You’re talking about the kind that paints houses and not the kind that paints canvases, right?”
“Right. I think it gives him a really good cover when he’s in these neighborhoods to scout for possible victims.”
Candice considered the photo again and was silent for a long time. “I want to help you find this bastard,” she whispered finally.
I smiled. Candice had a big heart. “Those are FBI files,” I told her. “And truth be told, I’m not even supposed to be working on them. I’m suspended, which means I should officially butt out.”
“You’ve never been good at that.”
“There you go, stating the obvious,” I replied, selecting another chip from the basket. “The point is that I have to give those back to Dutch and I’m not supposed to even think about them again until IA clears me.”
“But of course you’ll be thinking about them,” she said, reading me easily.
“Yep.”
Candice flipped through the notes in the file she was holding. “We can solve this, Abby,” she whispered, as if someone might overhear her and report it back to the bureau.
I raised one brow skeptically and she continued her argument. “You know me, Abs. I’ve worked a half-dozen missing children’s cases in my career.”
I was well aware that at the big PI firm Candice left before going it alone, she’d handled all their missing and exploited children’s cases—and done most of those pro bono. “Candice,” I said, shaking my head. “I think it’s a bad idea.”
Candice swiveled the photos of the two girls at me. “How can you say no to these beautiful faces, Abby?” she demanded. I was beginning to think the alcohol had gone to her head. “Don’t their families deserve closure?”
“But, honey,” I countered, “these are FBI jurisdiction! We can’t take these cases away from them.”
Candice pointed to the dates on the files. “Yes, you’re right. The FBI should continue its investigation because they’ve done such a sterling job locating these girls so far.”
I sighed heavily. I didn’t think I was going to win this argument, but there was little I could do about it. Brice wanted his files back, and I was already in deep doodoo with the bureau. I couldn’t see that I had a leg to stand on by telling him that I wanted to keep the files—especially since he’d already said no.
So I pressed my lips together and just waited Candice out. Eventually, she pulled her intense stare away from me and sat back in her chair, turning her head to look out at the view. “Fine. Then hand them back to the bureau, but let me make a copy of the folders.”
And something inside me suddenly shifted. I reached out and laid a hand on he
r arm. “Why is it so important to you to work these two cases?”
“Because I feel like I’ve lost a little bit of myself ever since I let my PI practice go. Sure, the move and the new condo and the security of my inheritance are all nice, but I need to do something important again, Abby. I need to get back to what I do best. And investigating cases like these is what I do best.”
I thought about that for a minute, and about the two little girls that had done nothing to provoke the horrible death I knew they’d suffered. “Okay,” I told her, giving in at last. “I’ll make us a copy.”
“Us?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“You’ll work it with me?”
I smiled. “What else am I gonna do for the next few weeks? Sit around and eat bonbons? I don’t think so. Besides, this is what we do. We crack cases. Just like old times.”
Candice lowered her sunglasses to eye me thoughtfully. “Won’t that get you in trouble with your current employer?”
“I’m already in trouble with my current employer.”
“Good point. Okay, we’ll work it together, but whatever you do, don’t let on to Dutch or Brice, okay? Our relationships are in enough trouble without letting them know what we’re up to.”
“That’s a no-brainer. Speaking of troubled relationships, shouldn’t we head back and confront ours?”
My partner frowned. “Sometimes, Sundance, you can be a real killjoy.”
Candice dropped me at my house half an hour later and I walked up the driveway sniffing the air hungrily. There was grilled steak wafting from around back, so instead of going through the front, I followed my nose. “Milo!” I sang when I entered the backyard.
“Hey, Abs,” he said, holding up a juicy-looking cut of meat. “You hungry?”
“Aren’t I always?” Belatedly I saw Dutch sitting on a patio chair enjoying a beer. “Hey,” I said to him.
“Hey.”
“How was work?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was out with Candice.”
“Okay.”
I sighed. “Well, I tried,” I said to him. “Obviously you’re still in a mood or something.”
Dutch didn’t answer me. Instead he got up and walked inside. I stared after him and felt tears sting my eyes. In all our time together he’d never just dismissed me like that, and in front of company too. “Yeah, fork you too, Dutch,” I muttered.
Milo swung an arm around my shoulders. “He’ll get over it,” he said.
“What did I do that was so terrible?” I asked. “I mean, seriously, Milo? What’s he so pissed off at me for?”
Milo gave me a brief hug before letting me go and returning to the steaks. “It’s not you,” he said. “It’s him.”
“Of course it’s him!”
Milo chuckled. “He’s working through something, Abby. Give him a little time and he’ll come around.”
I sat down in a patio chair and stared openmouthed at Milo. “He told you what’s bothering him?”
“He did.”
“Tell me!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my place, and it’s not really any of my business.”
“Is this about the stupid shooting range?”
“No.”
I threw up my hands. “Then what?”
“Ask him.”
I scowled and folded my arms across my chest. “He won’t tell me.”
Milo closed the lid to the grill and reached into a small cooler nearby. Retrieving two beers, he uncapped them and handed both to me. “Take him a beer and give it a shot anyway.”
With a tremendous sigh I stood and took hold of the beers. I found Dutch in the living room watching the news. I knew he’d heard me come in, but he didn’t turn his head or look in my direction, so I set one of the beers down in front of him on the coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned off the television. “Milo told me what’s bothering you,” I said.
Dutch set down his nearly empty bottle and reached for the fresh one. “He did, did he?” There was a fair amount of skepticism in his tone, but I thought I’d better stick with my story if I had any chance of finding out why Dutch was so ticked off.
“Yes. And although I hardly think it’s all my fault, I can see your point. So allow me to just state for the record that I’m sorry.”
Dutch actually laughed. “Nice try. Milo told you bubkes, toots,” he said, reaching for the remote.
I slapped it off the table and sat down in front of him. “What’s up with you?” I demanded. He avoided my eyes, so I leaned in really close and repeated, “Seriously! What?”
Finally, Dutch’s eyes swiveled to mine. “Do you want kids?” he asked.
It took me a full minute to reply, but that could be because I had to pick my jaw up off the floor first. “Do I what?”
“Kids. Are they in your game plan somewhere down the line?”
I leaned back and took a (very) long sip of beer. “Where is this coming from?”
“Answer the question.”
“I can’t,” I said flatly. “Until you tell me why you suddenly need to know, I can’t answer that.”
Dutch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure I do,” he whispered. “I’m not sure I want kids, I mean. Maybe it’s because of all my time in law enforcement, but I’m just not that into the idea of raising kids in this crazy kind of world.”
In the back of my mind, I was relieved. I’d had a terrible childhood with incredibly dysfunctional and often abusive parents. I had never wanted children, mostly because I was terrified I didn’t know how to be a good parent. Still, I shook my head and said, “Okay . . .”
“Does that change the way you feel about me? About us?”
“No!” I replied quickly. “Of course not.”
“But what if someday it did?”
“It’s never going to change the way I feel about you,” I said honestly. “Seriously, cowboy, you’re starting to freak me out here. Are you pregnant?”
I’d meant to interject a little levity, but Dutch wasn’t finding it funny. “Where do you see us in five years, Abby? Do you think we’ll still be together?”
And that’s when my radar took over, probably because asking me a question like that triggers an automatic response from my intuition, and I knew exactly what our future held. Or what it probably held. A vision of the future is never a sure thing. Still, I was going to communicate the vision that had crystallized in my mind as if it were already a certainty. I set my beer down, leaned in again, and grabbed the sides of his head with my hands. “Do you really want to know what I see, Dutch? Where I see you and me five years down the pike? Because I can tell you if you really, really want to know.”
He nodded, his beautiful midnight blues staring straight into mine, and I held both the fear and the love I saw in them even as I closed my eyes to focus on what our future held. “I see our new home,” I whispered. “And it’s beautiful. A two-story Tudor the color of cream with blue shutters, tons of windows, a red clay tile roof, and ivy creeping up the sides. Out back there’s an amazing garden and a gorgeous view of the surrounding hills. Inside, we’ll have a little breakfast nook facing east so that we can watch the sunrise over coffee. And our den will face west, so that we can watch the sunset over ice cream. Eggy will be a little old man by then, and Tuttle will completely rule our house, so that won’t change.”
I opened my eyes again and saw that I still had Dutch’s full attention. “Above the garage we’ll each have a home office. I’ll see a few clients a week, and you’ll work your security business, and we’ll enjoy the heck out of our lives. Together. ’Cause that’s what we do, cowboy. We stick together, no matter what.”
For the first time in my life I saw something reflected in those magnificent blue eyes that stunned me. Real tears. Dutch wasn’t just misty; he actually welled up and teardrops leaked down h
is gorgeous face. I leaned in to kiss him softly and sat back after he’d had a moment to collect himself. He then cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. “Do you remember that mole I had removed on the back of my neck?” Dutch had mentioned that on the advice of the doctor that gave annual exams to all FBI agents, he’d seen a dermatologist here in Austin right before we moved to have a mole removed.
I felt the hairs along my arms tingle. “Oh, sheep,” I mouthed.
“The lab says it’s malignant.” I felt my stomach drop to my toes. “The dermatologist called two days ago to tell me. I have to go back in tomorrow to meet with him.”
I used my radar to scan his energy carefully. I’m not a medical intuitive, but after reading for thousands of clients, my radar has become really adept at picking up major medical conditions like heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, and of course cancer. When I focused on Dutch’s health, I did pick up the tiniest hint of malignancy on the left side of his neck, and it was so subtle that it was no wonder I’d missed it. Quickly, I moved over to sit in Dutch’s lap and wrap my arms tightly around him. “You’re going to be okay,” I reassured him, so relieved that I felt deep in my bones he’d be fine. “Really, honey. I’ve seen you in that house with me five years from now. This is nothing to worry about. You’re going to come bouncing back from this, no problem.”
“I’ll have to go in for additional surgery,” he said. I couldn’t tell from his voice if he believed me when I told him he’d be okay.
“Surgery?” I asked. This was sounding like a bigger deal than what I’d felt intuitively.
“It’s outpatient. They want to make sure they’ve gotten all of the malignant tissue, and there are a few other moles that he wants to remove from my back, just to be safe. Hopefully, I can schedule it in the morning and be back to work right after lunch.”
I eyed him skeptically. “I think you can take a sick day, tough guy.”
“Anyway, they’ll excise the cells, then schedule me for some topical radiation therapy.”
“It’s early,” I insisted, using my sixth sense again to feel my way along Dutch’s diagnosis. “You caught it in time. This is nothing, cowboy. Nothing. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”