Chapter One ~ setting the bait
My father never took me fishing as a child. Neither did he teach me to throw a ball or ride a bike. He occasionally showed me his backhand, though. So any resentment I have about missing those rites of adolescence remained trapped on the tip of my bloodied tongue.
Fishing expertise would have come in handy that morning. A guy I dubbed “Matchstick” strolled into the offices of Wells and Collins Investigations just as I was indulging in my third smoke break in thirty minutes. I’d had nothing to look forward to that day besides filing, and filing made me cranky.
“Can I help you?” I asked, eyeing the snappy slogan on his T-shirt— It’s not the size of the rod or how deep you fish, it’s all in the way you wiggle the worm.
“Uh, yeah.” He frowned at the mess distinguishing my office from the reception area; folders heaped on the desk, fashion magazines strewn on the floor, the anodized ashtray overflowing with crimson tipped cigarette butts. “I’m looking for Kevin Wells.”
“Sorry. Kevin is on assignment today. But I’d be happy to help you.”
The man’s questioning glance zoomed past my insubstantial breasts, traveled over the pinkish scars marring my throat and lingered on my mouth. Most men are spellbound by full lips like mine—they look as if they’d lost a round with a killer bee.
He blinked away whatever oral fantasy he’d fallen into and managed, “You his secretary then?”
“He wishes. I’m his partner, Julie Collins. And you are?”
“Rich Barber.” He thrust a freckled, skeletal hand across my desk, which I took without pause, my manners intact. “Jimmer sent me. Said Kevin might be able to help me out. But if he’s not available…”
“And Jimmer forgot to mention little ol’ me?” I tsk-tsked. “Gender bias. That boy is in so much trouble next time I see him.”
“Whoa.” He backed up. “The last thing I need is a pissed off Jimmer Cheadle hot on my tail.”
“Relax. I was kidding.” My estimation of Mr. Barber jumped a notch if he was leery of my six-foot-six, ex-commando pal, Jimmer. “Have a seat.” I pointed to the chair opposite my desk. “Tell me how you think I can help you.”
Rich was wound so tight he bounced when his bony butt connected with the buffalo skin cushion. Without preamble he said, “My friend, JC, is missing and I think his wife killed him.”
I let that sink in for a minute. I slowly ground out my cigarette. “Don’t know what Jimmer told you, or what detective novels you read, but we don’t investigate homicides. Contact Detective Mitch Jones at the Rapid City PD. In fact, I’ll call him right now.” I reached for the phone.
But Rich’s cool, strong hand covered mine. “They know he’s missing. His wife is the one who filed the report.” His single red unibrow wrinkled above his flat nose. “Don’t you read the paper? They did an article on his disappearance a couple of weeks ago.”
I prefer to get my news from TV. Actually, I haven’t read a newspaper since Ann Landers kicked the bucket and they’d discontinued her column. I’ve always taken perverse pleasure in knowing there are people out there with lives more screwed up than mine. “I must have missed that. If the police know he’s MIA, why aren’t you talking to them?”
His face turned the mottled reddish orange of a prairie sunset. “I tried. They umm...laughed.”
That struck me as odd. Cops never discount any theory on a case, no matter how outrageous. “They laughed? Why?”
He squirmed. “Because I told them that JC’s psycho wife, Cindy Jo Cracken, probably wrapped an anchor around his neck and took him fishing.”
I could imagine my friend Jimmer right now, standing in the hallway, holding his stomach in silent mirth, waiting to see how his latest practical joke had panned out. Last week he sent me an eighty-year old woman who demanded I find her lost libido. The thought of powdered wrinkles
My father never took me fishing as a child. Neither did he teach me to throw a ball or ride a bike. He occasionally showed me his backhand, though. So any resentment I have about missing those rites of adolescence remained trapped on the tip of my bloodied tongue.
Fishing expertise would have come in handy that morning. A guy I dubbed “Matchstick” strolled into the offices of Wells and Collins Investigations just as I was indulging in my third smoke break in thirty minutes. I’d had nothing to look forward to that day besides filing, and filing made me cranky.
“Can I help you?” I asked, eyeing the snappy slogan on his T-shirt— It’s not the size of the rod or how deep you fish, it’s all in the way you wiggle the worm.
“Uh, yeah.” He frowned at the mess distinguishing my office from the reception area; folders heaped on the desk, fashion magazines strewn on the floor, the anodized ashtray overflowing with crimson tipped cigarette butts. “I’m looking for Kevin Wells.”
“Sorry. Kevin is on assignment today. But I’d be happy to help you.”
The man’s questioning glance zoomed past my insubstantial breasts, traveled over the pinkish scars marring my throat and lingered on my mouth. Most men are spellbound by full lips like mine—they look as if they’d lost a round with a killer bee.
He blinked away whatever oral fantasy he’d fallen into and managed, “You his secretary then?”
“He wishes. I’m his partner, Julie Collins. And you are?”
“Rich Barber.” He thrust a freckled, skeletal hand across my desk, which I took without pause, my manners intact. “Jimmer sent me. Said Kevin might be able to help me out. But if he’s not available…”
“And Jimmer forgot to mention little ol’ me?” I tsk-tsked. “Gender bias. That boy is in so much trouble next time I see him.”
“Whoa.” He backed up. “The last thing I need is a pissed off Jimmer Cheadle hot on my tail.”
“Relax. I was kidding.” My estimation of Mr. Barber jumped a notch if he was leery of my six-foot-six, ex-commando pal, Jimmer. “Have a seat.” I pointed to the chair opposite my desk. “Tell me how you think I can help you.”
Rich was wound so tight he bounced when his bony butt connected with the buffalo skin cushion. Without preamble he said, “My friend, JC, is missing and I think his wife killed him.”
I let that sink in for a minute. I slowly ground out my cigarette. “Don’t know what Jimmer told you, or what detective novels you read, but we don’t investigate homicides. Contact Detective Mitch Jones at the Rapid City PD. In fact, I’ll call him right now.” I reached for the phone.
But Rich’s cool, strong hand covered mine. “They know he’s missing. His wife is the one who filed the report.” His single red unibrow wrinkled above his flat nose. “Don’t you read the paper? They did an article on his disappearance a couple of weeks ago.”
I prefer to get my news from TV. Actually, I haven’t read a newspaper since Ann Landers kicked the bucket and they’d discontinued her column. I’ve always taken perverse pleasure in knowing there are people out there with lives more screwed up than mine. “I must have missed that. If the police know he’s MIA, why aren’t you talking to them?”
His face turned the mottled reddish orange of a prairie sunset. “I tried. They umm...laughed.”
That struck me as odd. Cops never discount any theory on a case, no matter how outrageous. “They laughed? Why?”
He squirmed. “Because I told them that JC’s psycho wife, Cindy Jo Cracken, probably wrapped an anchor around his neck and took him fishing.”
I could imagine my friend Jimmer right now, standing in the hallway, holding his stomach in silent mirth, waiting to see how his latest practical joke had panned out. Last week he sent me an eighty-year old woman who demanded I find her lost libido. The thought of powdered wrinkles
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