Chapter 41

Cole sat on the edge of the scarred old desk, while Joel Satie leaned back in the ancient wooden barrister’s chair in the tiny, colorless office on a tiny street in Dawson.

The man, young and blonde with a five o’clock shadow darkening the lower half of his face, stared at the pen he was fiddling with. “It won’t be cheap. And you may not get the information you want. Or information you can use.”

“But if he’s left a trail—and hell, I can’t imagine he didn’t, he’s not that smart—we’ll have him.”

The young man, underneath various framed certificates on the wall above him highlighting Investigations and Forensics certificates—along with a couple of totally unrelated ones of topiary artist, and another of cupcake designer—fixed his gaze on Cole. “If Quinn Raary has done the things you suspect, you won’t have to win in court. The whole county will turn against him.”

Cole shrugged. “Popular opinion can turn on a man, but if he’s got money, it won’t stay that way long. If he’s got lots to enrich the community, he’ll keep his standing and nothing will be done to stop him.” He spat into the trash can. “It’s got to go to the law. And it’s got to stick. And another thing. My dad, Jack Dawson, is coming home soon from surgery and rehab. If you can put all your attention on this and have a wrap in two weeks, there’ll be a bonus in it for you.”

“He’s recovering?”

The unexpected question and obvious caring threw Cole off guard. “Seems to be. Already spinning new solutions for the ranch, but none that we’re sure of, as of yet.”

“It’d be bad for him to come back to all this nonsense.”

Cole nodded. He had no extra words on that.

“I’ll do my best.” Joel patted the envelope in front of him. “Retainer means I’m on the case the moment you walk out of here. The only other major thing on my plate right now is one other case, and that’s taking some work. But the fact that my main job is working on my Uncle’s buddy’s farm two counties removed from yours, means I can ask all the questions I want as a farm hand and no one’s the wiser.” He leaned back in his chair. “Smartest thing my Nan ever told me to do was work part-time with an established PI, open up a scrawny satellite office, then cry the blues about no work and heave manure. It’s the perfect cover.”

He got up, envelope in hand, and pulled aside a dull picture on the wall, revealing a small wall safe. “Where’d you get cash like this? I thought you guys were dancing on the edge. At least that’s what I heard.”

Cole got up, grabbed his hat and strode toward the door. “Mr. Satie, you heard wrong. We’re actually dancing on the knife-edged, helluva sharp, microscopic edge of the edge. Another bad blow and we won’t recover. We’re dying by stupid, nonsense, bullshit claims right now. We’ve done the big drama and it’s taken chunks out of us. Now it’s stupid crap and it’s aimed at our hearts.”

His gaze focused on the wad of money he’d parted with. “That’s our emergency fund, the last one, tucked into a spot on the ranch I’ll never reveal. The one we were never to touch. Now it’s yours.”

He looked at the young man with the expression of a man working to will something into existence with pure resolve. “Get us what we need to put an end to this madness. Get us the thing that will nail that lunatic bastard to the damn wall and give us our lives back.” He stared at the man. “And get it to us fast.”

* * *

His next client just missed Dawson. Joel shook his head at another near miss. He deliberately gave clients a twenty minute window between appointments, remembering the time two clients, on opposing sides of the same issue, bumped into each other, in the stairwell. Not so unexpected in a small town, small district. It hadn’t been pretty, and he’d lost both of them as clients.

Now it was simply a matter of form. He gave people that time. At least until that back staircase was properly cleaned up and brought up to code, and the bagel shop downstairs got rid of the jumble of empty white pails and other baking supplies they’d jettisoned into the landing downstairs.

A quiet young man entered his office. He was dressed in jeans with the one requisite, stylistic rip just under his left knee, and a black V-neck tee. The dark leather bands tied around one wrist accented his slight, yet appealing build. Medium brown hair that seemed to be gelled upward in front, he was actually one of those understated heartthrobs, Joel thought immediately.

Hey. More than a heartthrob. The guy could cause a traffic accident out on their little main street, and it wouldn’t just be women stopping to gawk, trying in vain to keep their hearts from speeding up. Men would be too. Probably bumping into gorgeous women in their haste to keep their eyeballs on this dude.

The guy was so damn good-looking, and what was even more attractive? He was one of those that didn’t know it.

However, it was more the look on his face that arrested Joel, like he had stories to tell. Possibly ones that would wrench your heart.

But stories or not, Joel didn’t have time to get into any today, none past the normal consult. “Mr. Gentael?” He stood, extended his hand. “Good to meet you. I’m Joel Satie.”

“Nathan’s good. Good to meet you, Joel.” He barely skimmed the man’s hand, sat in the chair in front of his desk, still quietly off in another world. Somewhere else.

This wasn’t good. Joel had been blessed with the ability to read people from a young age. Having had a string of men attempt to stand in as father figure for him—and also get to into his mother’s pants, as soon as her husband and his father went missing—he’d learned who could be trusted, who couldn’t, and who he just had to stay the hell away from.

And keep his dog away from, too.

This guy? Whatever he was here for, cared deeply about it. So much so that until it was resolved, his life would not be his own.

Not my problem.

Right?

“So how is it I can help you today, Mr., er, Nathan?”

Nathan pulled his glance up from the ancient, wide wooden floorboards in the cut-rate rented space. “I need you to find someone.”

“Is she from these parts? From out west? B.C., British Columbia, Manitoba, or…”

Nathan shook his head. “I’m from the States, and it’s not a she. It’s a he.” He paused a moment, then uttered two words, and two words only, and the heartbreak poked in between them. “Best friend.”

Joel’s brows winged upward. “Ah.” He nodded. There was that story he didn’t have time for. “Fell out of touch?”

Finally, the man’s face had some expression, some life. But it was harsh. Turned into something not quite easy to look at, a bit of self-flagellation on the view screen there. “I was a jackass. Turned my back on one of the best friends I’d ever had, when things were going well for me.” He sighed. “I hear he’s in a bit of trouble now.” He stared at his fingernails, which had stray bits of color around the nail bed that he picked at absentmindedly. Paint of some sort? “Time I helped him out.”

Oh, this guy was carrying a ton of guilt. And Joel saw it wouldn’t be easily extinguished. “How long are you in town for, Nathan?”

“Not sure. But I’ll be looking for a bit of work to tide me over, while I am. If you know of anything…”

Joel eyed his hands. “Painter? I’ll hire you to fix up the back staircase. It’s a mess. Years of neglect, mind of its own…you know the drill.”

Nathan smiled lightly. “Nah. Artist. Multiple mediums. Oil mainly, but I sketch and do illustrations as well. Though by some accounts, I should be slapping latex on a crumbling surface. It would have more style.”

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, about your friend. I’ll do my best for you, Nathan. Let me get some details.” He pulled out the thin wooden drawer in front of him, took out a yellow legal pad. “Name of your friend?”

Nathan Gentael sighed, and sighed deep. “Zachary Lees.”