The Marshal. Adrienne Giordano

      He slid the beer in front of Jenna. Once more she looked around, took in the polished, worn wood of the bar, the six tables along the wall and the line of empty bar stools.

      “Slow night,” Freddie said.

      Lucky me. She opened her purse, pulled out a fifty and set it on the bar. Next came the photo taken the week prior by a patron in this very bar. He glanced down at the fifty, then at the photo.

      “I’m not a cop,” Jenna said. “I’m an investigator working for a law firm.”

      “Okay.”

      She pointed at the photo of two men with a woman in the background. Jenna needed to find that woman. “Have you seen her in here?”

      He picked up the photo and studied it. “Yeah. Couple of times. When a woman like that walks into a beer joint, there’s generally a reason. Kinda like you.”

      Figuring it was time to put her cleavage to work, Jenna inched forward, gave him a view of the girls beneath that V-neck and smiled. Most women would love the idea that a fifteen-pound weight gain had gone straight to their chest. Jenna supposed it hadn’t hurt her ability to claw information from men—and maybe she used it to her advantage. But she also wanted to be recognized for extracting the information and not for the way she’d done it.

      Did that even make sense? She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew was her need for positive reinforcement had led her to using her looks to achieve her goals. That meant wearing clingy, revealing clothing. Such a cliché. But the thing about clichés was they worked.

      “Any idea what her reason for being here was?”

      Freddie took the boob-bait and leaned in. “No. Both times she met someone. Why?”

      All Jenna could hope was he’d gotten the woman’s name. “My client is being held on a robbery charge. He says he was in here the night of the robbery and he met this woman. Her name is Robin.”

      “Where’d you get the picture?”

      “Friends of my client.”

      He dropped the picture on the bar and tapped it. “Birthday party, right?”

      “Yes. My client and six of his friends. Any idea where I can find her?”

      “Nah.”

      “Did she pay by credit card?”

      If she paid by credit card, there would be a record of the transaction, and Jenna would dig into the Hennings & Solomon coffers and pay Freddie a high, negotiated sum for a look at his credit card receipts. From there, she’d get a name and two calls later would have an address for Robin-the-mystery-woman.

      “Cash.”

      Shoot.

      Freddie may have been lying. Jenna studied him, took in his direct gaze. Not lying. At least she didn’t think so. Again with the wavering? Didn’t she have a good sense about these things? Yes, she did. For that reason she’d go with the theory that Freddie seemed to be a small-business owner who wanted to stay out of trouble while trying to make a living. She dug her card and a pen out of her purse, wrote her cell number on the card and placed it next to the fifty on the bar.

      “How about I leave you my card? If she comes in again and you call me, there’s a hundred bucks in it for you.”

      Freddie glanced at the card. After a moment, he half shrugged. “Sure. If I see her.”

      Jenna took one last sip of her beer, slid off the stool and hitched her purse onto her shoulder. “Thanks.” She nodded toward the fifty. “Keep the change.”

       Chapter Two

      At 9:00 a.m. the following morning, Jenna stepped into the Hennings & Solomon boardroom and found her boss, the man known around Chicago as the Dapper Defense Lawyer—Dapper DL for short—sitting at the end of the table. Not a surprise since he’d called this impromptu meeting by sending her a text at 7:00 a.m.

      Not that she minded the text. When that happened, it meant he needed help, and that little boost—that feeling of being the one that Gerald Hennings, defense lawyer of all defense lawyers, called on—never got old. From the beginning, he’d had faith in her. Even when her application to the FBI had been denied and she’d taken a job at a PI firm as their quasi receptionist-turned-investigator, he’d seen potential and had hired her as one of his two full-time investigators. She’d always be grateful for the opportunity to prove herself.

      She’d also be grateful that he’d never—not once—hit on her. Most men did. Simple fact. As a former Miss Illinois runner-up, part of her success came from men wanting to sleep with her. And, let’s face it, some men were idiots. When those idiots wanted to seduce a woman, they started talking.

      A lot.

      “Sorry for the sudden meeting,” Mr. Hennings said.

      “No problem, sir.”

      Given his choice of the conference room rather than his office, she assumed others would be joining them and took a seat two chairs down.

      Penny Hennings, Gerald’s daughter and a crack defense attorney herself, swung in, her petite body moving fast as usual. “Sorry I’m late.”

      She hustled around the table and took the seat next to her father. The guys around the office secretly joked about the killer combo of Penny’s sweet looks and caustic mouth. A viper wrapped in a doll’s body.

      “You’re not late,” Mr. Hennings said. “Relax.”

      “Hi, Jenna.” Penny high-fived her across the table. “I love these unscheduled meetings. It’s always something juicy.”

      Mr. Hennings smirked. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not a client.”

      Penny made a pouty face. “Boo-hiss, Dad.”

      The boss laughed and shook his head at his daughter. “I ran into Brent Thompson at a function last night.”

      Now that got Jenna’s attention. She’d worked with Brent briefly. He’d been assigned to protect Penny from a psycho who’d tried to blackmail her into throwing a case. Each time Jenna had locked eyes with the studly marshal, her blood had gone more than a little warm. He had a way about him. Tough, in charge and majorly hot.

      “Really?” Penny said as if the idea of her father and Brent running in the same social circles was ridiculous. “You ran into Brent? Was he working?”

      “No. He was a guest at Judge Kline’s birthday party. Apparently he was one of the marshals assigned to her after her family was murdered.”

      “Huh. I had no idea. That man is full of surprises.”

      “We got to talking about his mother.”

      For whatever reason, Penny’s eyebrows hitched. “Really.”

      Jenna cocked her head. “That’s the second time you’ve said ‘really.’ What about his mother?”

      Still focused on her father, Penny ignored the question. “He doesn’t usually talk about her. I don’t know the whole story. He mentioned it to Russ, and Russ told me.”

      Russ—Penny’s FBI agent boyfriend-soon-to-be-fiancé, if Penny had anything to do with it—was a great source of information, and Jenna had learned to use him sparingly, but thoroughly. “What about Brent’s mother?”

      Mr. Hennings turned to Jenna. “She was murdered twenty-three years ago.”

      Frigid stabs shot up Jenna’s neck. If her boss wanted shock factor, he’d succeeded. “Wow.”

      Penny glanced across the table. Momentarily stymied, Jenna gave her the help-me look. “The case is still open,” Penny said.

      Her father