The Dying Room by Debra Webb

DeeAnn was one damned fine woman. Buddy liked her, but lately he’d been too hung up on another woman who was so far out of his league he had no chance in hell of catching up. Sure, he could light her fire easy enough, but making a woman happy between the sheets was way different than pleasing her on an intellectual level. Or, in this case, even on a social level. What the hell was he doing falling for a rich chick—a senator’s daughter at that. Jesus Christ. A damned medical examiner. Buddy groaned inwardly. He was so screwed.
    Oblivious to his dilemma, DeeAnn blushed. “My pleasure, Buddy. Just let me know if you need anything else.”
    He heaved a big old sigh. Why hadn’t he played it smart and set his sights on this sweet, prim little blonde?
Cause you’re an idiot, Corlew
. “Sure thing, doll.”
    DeeAnn giggled as Buddy walked away. He waited until he was out of the store and in his Charger before he thumbed through the book. The note, addressed to #10—his secret ID number—was tucked neatly in the center of the paperback copy of
Little Women
.
    Let’s have a beer. I got what you need
.
    “That didn’t take you long,” Buddy muttered. He’d asked a good friend to look into the adoption of Sylvia’s daughter. Since the legal proceedings had taken place more than two decades ago and in another state, he’d needed an assist. His friend had the right kind of connections.
    No private investigator knew it all or could handle it all, but the best PIs found and maintained the right contacts. Contacts were key in this business. Buddy had cultivated a number of contacts during his days in the BPD. The more important ones he’d discovered in this gig. A good PI couldn’t always be a good guy. Sometimes his work required crossing certain lines, like the one he’d had a contact bulldoze right over to find Sylvia’s daughter.
    “That’s why you get the big bucks,” he grumbled as he slowly backed out of the parking spot and drove just around the corner to his favorite watering hole.
    The Garage Café was a vintage joint with a rustic vibe. Buddy was a regular so he knew the people behind the counter. Trust was another essential element in his business. He trusted the folks who operated The Garage. So did several of his contacts.
    Buddy spotted the one he was meeting today. He slid onto the stool next to him. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
    “I ordered you a cheeseburger.” Rob Johns jerked his head toward the kitchen. “It’s lunch time, you know. You don’t eat, you can’t do your best work.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” Buddy hitched his head toward the bartender, and then turned to Rob. “Tell it to your kids.”
    Rob grinned. “Everyday, man. Everyday. I got three in school, you know.”
    Buddy grunted. He didn’t see how the guy kept his sanity with three kids. The bartender, Casey, left a Corona in front of Buddy. He took a swig before asking, “So, what’s the lowdown out in Cali?”
    Rob shrugged and reached for his beer. “I got the 411 on your college girl, only she ain’t no college girl anymore. She graduated early. Evidently she’s some sort of brainiac.”
    Buddy didn’t see a file or a briefcase or any damned thing else he might be carrying a report in. What he had spotted was an attitude he recognized all too well. “What’s your bump in price? I don’t have all day. I have stuff to do.”
    “I figure a rich client’s kid is worth double the usual run of the mill offspring. You got an issue with a price adjustment, or maybe a nice tip?”
    Buddy laughed. “Nah. I would’ve done the same thing. In fact...” He took a long draw from the bottle and made a satisfied sound. “I was thinking though, about those photos your ex hired me to take of you when you were cheating on her.”
    Rob’s eyes narrowed. “You trying to blackmail me, Corlew?”
    Buddy shook his head. “No way, man. I’m just showing you how things can have a different value under the right