Dead Right. Brenda Novak

to deal with. “Is this ‘young associate’ any good?”

      “He worked at my office for a short while doing database searches and just got his own license. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, but he’s hungry and he’s learning.”

      Learning? “No! I need someone who really knows what he’s doing.”

      “I don’t know what to say, Mrs.—”

      “Barker. But I’ve never been married. Call me Madeline.”

      “Ms. Barker. If I haven’t made myself clear, I’m not interested. Judging by your accent, you live several states from me, anyway.”

      “I’m in Stillwater, Mississippi. Where’re you?”

      “L.A.”

      “It’s crowded in Los Angeles,” she said, hoping to point out one of the city’s less appealing aspects.

      “That’s true, but if you’ve ever been here, you’d know why.”

      “I’ll pay you. Well.” She frowned at the check register lying open at her elbow. That was hardly the card she’d wanted to play. She was barely keeping herself and the paper afloat. How would she manage?

      “I suggest you contact someone in your own area,” he said.

      Panic caused Madeline to tighten her grip on the phone. “But I haven’t even told you what I want.”

      “Let me guess. You want me to slay the dragon that’s keeping you up at night.”

      She glared, bleary-eyed, at the clock on the wall to her right. She was tired, and too frayed around the edges to hide it. Evidently, that wasn’t working in her favor. “Isn’t that the case with most of your clients?”

      “These days, I typically work with people who want me to find out whether their estranged mates are hiding assets or having affairs so they can get a better divorce settlement. Or they’re trying to collect on a debt. Their dragon is usually greed.” There was a slight pause. “Do you fit into either of these categories, Ms. Barker?”

      “No, but…” She struggled to reel in her temper at his all-too-easy dismissal. “So you’ve gotten lazy? You only take on the easy stuff?”

      “I take on the convenient stuff, the close stuff. Besides, I doubt you could afford me.”

      She finally bent down to scratch her persistent cat. “What makes you think that?”

      “Maybe it’s the accent.”

      Her jaw dropped before she could rally her response. “That’s…discriminatory,” she sputtered.

      “You called me. Feel free to hang up anytime.”

      Nudging Sophie away, she stood and nearly told him to go to hell. But she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find anyone else. According to what she’d been told, she’d certainly find no one better. “I need you,” she said, resorting to simple honesty. “I need your help.”

      He cursed but didn’t hang up, so she took a bolstering breath. “You’re still with me?”

      “What is it you’re looking for?” he asked with enough resignation to give her hope.

      “A person.”

      “Who?”

      “My father.” She didn’t add that he’d been missing since she was sixteen. Better to reveal the potential difficulty of the task in stages.

      “Where do you think he went?”

      Despite all the years that had passed, she’d clung to the dream of a reunion—until they’d found the Cadillac. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

      “Because…”

      She caught her breath, letting it out a little with each word. “He hasn’t been seen in…a long, long time.”

      “How long?”

      “Nineteen years.”

      “Almost two decades? Aren’t you a bit late in following up, Ms. Barker?”

      The accusation in his tone made her throat clog with emotion. “I’ve done what I could,” she managed to say. She’d even crossed the line a few times—breaking into Jed Fowler’s auto shop, hiring Officer Hendricks to scare Allie into believing someone out there was still dangerous.

      “And you’ve learned what?”

      Very little. The mystery was beyond her own sleuthing ability, as well as that of the entire Stillwater Police Department. Mr. Solozano was right, she should’ve looked for an outside investigator long ago. “Not enough.”

      “Who stood to gain the most from his death?”

      “It’s not that straightforward. My stepmother inherited the farm, but she’d never hurt a soul.”

      “Who else is there?”

      “Jed Fowler, an older man who was working on our tractor in the barn the night my father went missing. He can seem…strange. And a younger guy, Mike Metzger, who’s in prison on drug-related charges. But I don’t know if either one of them is responsible. That’s what I want you to find out.”

      “Sounds like a murder investigation to me. You should contact the police.”

      She bristled at his lack of compassion. He had to know, in twenty years, she would already have tried the police. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to get involved. Maybe Hunter Solozano was a good investigator but he was the most insensitive jerk she’d ever met.

      “Forget it. I’m sorry I bothered you. Just—” her voice cracked “—just go back to fighting with your ex-wife. I hope she wins, by the way,” she said and slammed down the phone.

      

      Antoinette had already won. Hunter tossed his cell phone onto the side table. He deserved Madeline Barker’s anger. Hell, he’d asked for it. He’d provoked her at every turn. After speaking with his ex-wife, and then his daughter—God, what she’d said to him—he’d been angling for a fight he could win.

      But he didn’t feel any better. If anything, he felt worse.

      The flicker of his muted television served as the only light in the room. The darkness generally soothed him, but not tonight. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stood up, then sat down again.

       Forget Maria. She didn’t know what she was saying. Her mother put her up to it, as usual.

      But he couldn’t forget. The pain was too physical. It felt like he had an open wound in his chest, as if his daughter had reached into that wound, wrapped her little hand around his heart and squeezed with complete abandon.

      Considering the Barker woman’s terrible timing, it was a wonder the desperation in her voice had penetrated at all.

      “Ms. Barker is not my problem,” he said aloud. His daughter was his problem. Or, more specifically, the fact that his ex-wife had turned his daughter against him. Although he paid exorbitant amounts of child support—he’d sent Antoinette an extra two thousand dollars just this month—it was never enough to make his ex happy. He doubted his daughter was even receiving the benefits of the money he sent. The last time he’d seen Antoinette, she’d had a new nose and breast enhancements that were so large she looked like a damn porn queen. The way she was spending money and hitting the L.A. party scene, trying to keep up with the rich and famous, was humiliating even though he wasn’t married to her anymore. Her behavior had to be doubly embarrassing for their daughter. How many PTA moms had tits the size of watermelons?

      But Antoinette hadn’t become quite so obsessive about plastic surgery, designer clothes and who was who in L.A. until after the divorce.

      The guilt that fueled his self-loathing