Uncle Sarge. Bonnie Gardner

I could think of. Even found a listing for the Parkers, our foster family. They haven’t heard from her in years.” He blew out a long, tired breath. “I came up with zip. That’s why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still in the area.”

      He slumped back into the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair, and it creaked with the added weight.

      Jennifer smiled. “It sounds like you’ve made a good start, but there are still some avenues I can try.”

      He sat up straighter. “Like what?”

      “Mostly computer stuff. You’d be surprised what you can find online if you know where to look. If you can give me some basic information about your sister, I should be able to track her down.”

      She asked several questions, jotted down the answers, took his address and phone number, then put down her pen. “I’ll start working on this right away, Mr. Larsen.”

      “Tech Sergeant,” he corrected, then smiled. “Rich.” He started to offer his hand again, then remembered the jolt he’d gotten the last time. He stuck it in his pocket, instead. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

      He got up and headed for the door. Turning and looking back over his shoulder, he smiled. She didn’t look like much of a detective, but maybe she could do the computer search thing. Besides, she did have an ex-combat controller for a partner. “Thanks. I hope you’ll have something for me soon.”

      JENNIFER couldn’t believe her first case had been as easy as this. She’d spent an afternoon on the computer, searching through data bases, and had come up with the information Rich—Tech Sergeant Larsen, she reminded herself—wanted. She wavered between waiting a little longer to make it look as though she’d worked harder, or calling him right away.

      She called.

      She wouldn’t have charged him for the extra time anyway, but she knew how much he’d wanted to find his sister. He hadn’t said so, but she’d seen the wistful look in his blue eyes when he’d spoken about her.

      Of course, she’d gotten his machine.

      So, now she was whiling away her time working on her plants. If only another customer would walk in off the street. Just not one as potent as TSgt. Larsen. And, maybe with a slightly more challenging request.

      She puttered in her indoor garden, losing herself in Zen-like meditation. Working with the plants soothed her. When life with her ex had been at its rockiest, her plants had been her salvation. She smiled as she loosened the soil around a split-leafed Philodendron she’d nursed back from near death.

      The phone rang.

      Jennifer jerked out of her trance-like state and dropped the cultivator on her foot. That brought her back to her senses, and she limped to the phone. “Yes? I mean, Checkmate Detective Agency,” she said sharply as she sat down and massaged the red mark.

      It was Rich Larsen returning her call.

      “I’ve found an address for your sister,” she said, ready to provide the details.

      To her surprise, Rich uttered a too-familiar exclamation. “Hoo-ah!” Then he hung up.

      Stunned by what that single two-syllable word, the all-purpose cry of exclamation that combat controllers used, meant, Jennifer stood, holding the receiver until the phone company off-the-hook signal chimed in.

      Her ex-husband was a combat controller. Was Rich Larsen one of them?

      RICH MADE the ten-minute drive from his apartment just outside Hurlburt AFB in five. Good thing the afternoon rush wasn’t yet in full swing. He hadn’t bothered to change from his camouflage battle dress uniform; he’d just rushed out. He wasn’t supposed to be wearing BDUs on the street, but he didn’t give a damn about the regulations. This was too important.

      He was pulling into a parking spot across from the agency when he realized that Ms. Bishop could have told him over the phone. He shrugged. He was here now.

      He grabbed his scarlet beret, jammed it on his head, then locked the truck. He had to know what Ms. Bishop had uncovered. God, he hadn’t even thought to ask whether it was good news or bad.

      Preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best, he shouldered open the door.

      Ms. Bishop was waiting at the desk. Today she had her hair pulled back from the sides and anchored at the nape of her neck with a large barrette. She had on another flowered dress, and until she stood, she again looked like a member of the church choir.

      The dress did nothing to disguise the sinful curves below that angelic face, however, and when she rose to greet him, he drew in a short breath. He said nothing, just waited for the blood to rush back to his brain.

      “I’ve typed everything up for you,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “She’s married now….” Ms. Bishop glanced down at her notes. “To Michael Connolly. They live in Pensacola. Here’s the phone number,” she said, tapping the spot on the sheet.

      Rich took the paper from her and held it gingerly as if it were a live grenade. He looked down at the information, neatly typed, and wondered at the ordinariness of it. A name, a social security number, an address and phone number. Name, rank and serial number. Everything you needed to prove you were real.

      Was it real? Had Ms. Bishop really located his sister so quickly? He looked up from the paper, and he swallowed. “Did you call?” Why was his voice so thick and husky?

      She smiled. “I thought you’d like to do that yourself.” She gestured toward the phone. “Be my guest.”

      Rich wondered if he ought to do this here. Would he be better off calling from the privacy of his own phone? But Ms. Bishop had been a part of it this far, she might as well be there for the grand finale. He reached for the phone, his hands remarkably unsteady, and dialed.

      His breath caught as the number connected. Ms. Bishop smiled and gave him a thumbs-up sign. One ring. What if she wasn’t home? Two rings. He held his breath. Then the unmistakable sound of a phone company recording dashed his hopes of speaking to Sherry today. Out of service.

      He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. “The phone’s disconnected. Now what?” he said as he returned the receiver to its cradle.

      Jennifer’s smile faltered. Why hadn’t she thought to try the number first? “Are you sure it’s disconnected?” She reached for the phone Sergeant Larsen had just put down, pushed the Redial button and waited. She pasted a smile back on her face as she listened. “It said, ‘out of service,’ not disconnected. It could be out of order or they were late paying their bill for this month. They’re probably still there.” She met his eyes. “You could go. Knock on the door.” As soon as she said it, Jennifer knew it was a big mistake.

      He grabbed her arm, and the touch of his large, strong hand set her heart fluttering like a butterfly in a glass jar. “Go with me. I’ve changed a lot since I last saw my sister. She might not recognize me.”

      He paused and dragged in a ragged breath. “I’m a big guy. It might frighten her to have somebody like me show up on her doorstep. If Sherry sees someone like you with me, she might be more willing to let me in. Besides, I’m not familiar with Pensacola, I might never find the place.”

      As Jennifer considered the foolhardiness of going off on this expedition, he threw in the final piece of bait. “I’ll spring for burgers on the way and you can navigate.”

      Burgers from a fast-food place sounded a lot better than the tuna casserole she had planned. Jennifer glanced at the clock. Almost quitting time. “I—I guess so,” she heard herself saying. “Just let me lock up.”

      “Hoo-ah. It’s a date,” he said, his face regaining the animation he’d lost when he’d heard that tone.

      “No,” she corrected. “Not a date. This is business.” Then she glanced at the way the fabric of his drab olive T-shirt stretched across that broad chest. She knew all about the