D.b. Hayes, Detective. Dani Sinclair

arrangement sat waiting on the counter.

      The shop is always slow at this time of day, so I changed the radio station until I found one that suited me better and started singing along. I was doing a little dance around the table in time to a classic rock song when a young voice penetrated both the radio and my off-key singing.

      “Hey! Lady, do you work here?”

      I stopped moving and looked up from the fern I was tucking into place. Only I had to look down to find the originator of the question. A kid of about seven or eight stood there. He was a skinny little boy in a bright red T-shirt, navy shorts and dirty tennis shoes. His sandy brown hair needed combing and there were beads of sweat on his shiny red face. He had the most gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I would have killed for the thick black lashes that framed them. This kid was going to be a real heartbreaker in a few years.

      At the moment those expressive eyes were regarding me with an extremely adult expression.

      “Sorry,” I apologized, snapping off the music. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

      “I’m not surprised.”

      That made me blink. “You’re kind of young for sarcasm, aren’t you?”

      “I’m ten.”

      I’d guessed younger, but then I haven’t had a lot of dealings with kids other than my infant niece since I’d stopped babysitting and started dating around age fifteen. The boy was watching me closely, so I tried for a sage nod.

      “Ten’s a good age. Can I help you with something?”

      His expression said he doubted it, but his head bobbed.

      “I’m looking for D.B. Hayes.”

      Not what I’d expected. My mouth fell open, so I filled it with a question. “Why?”

      “I want to hire him,” the kid explained as if I were a moron. “There’s a little sign out front that says he works here. The phone book listed this address, but this place is filled with flowers. Did he move?”

      Now, the sign out front next to the door is on the small side, but do you know how much a sign costs? Besides, this is my aunt’s shop and that means she gets the big billing. But geesh. Who needs to be patronized by a ten-year-old?

      “D.B. Hayes is a private investigator,” I explained to him.

      “I know. That’s why I want to hire him.”

      “You want to hire a private investigator?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

      He shuffled his feet and looked down at his scuffed tennis shoes. His body was so tense, it made my muscles ache to look at him.

      “I have to find Mr. Sam,” the boy said. “See, he’s old and I was supposed to keep an eye on him so he didn’t get out and wander away, like he does sometimes, but I was playing a game and I forgot to check the screen door after my mom left.”

      He got it all out in one long breath, and I wondered what sort of people would make a little kid like this responsible for some old man with Alzheimer’s. The boy was far too young for that sort of responsibility.

      “If he gets hit by a car or attacked by dogs, it’ll be all my fault.”

      I put down the fern and tried frantically to think of something comforting to offer. “I don’t think you have to worry about him getting attacked by dogs.”

      He looked up at me, then gave a nod as if that wasn’t a perfectly stupid thing to say.

      “I guess so. He chases old man Roble’s Doberman all the time. But if I don’t find Mr. Sam before my mom gets home, she’s going to be awful upset.”

      “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we call the police and…”

      “No!” Panic filled his expression. “I want to hire D.B. Hayes! I can pay him.”

      He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of grungy dollar bills.

      “I’ve got forty-two dollars saved to buy the Glimmer Man game. It’s coming out next month, but this is more important. Do you think it’s enough to find Mr. Sam?”

      The kid was so pathetically earnest, I wanted to hug him and promise everything would be all right. “Look, I’ll tell you what we…”

      “I mean, he’s just a cat. Anything could happen to him.”

      My mouth dropped open again. “A cat?”

      The kid nodded solemnly. “D.B. Hayes has to help me find him. My uncle says that’s one of the things detectives do. They find things for people.”

      Faced with that adorable, earnest expression, I swallowed several inappropriate responses while he waited in silence for me to say something.

      “Let me get this straight,” I stalled. “You want to hire me to find your cat?”

      “Not you,” he scoffed. “D.B. Hayes. And it isn’t my cat, he’s my uncle’s cat. I was just watching him.”

      Why me?

      “Look, I hate to tell you this kid, but I’m D.B. Hayes.”

      “No, you aren’t. You work in the flower shop.”

      The tone and his assumption stung my pride. I tugged my identification folder from my hip pocket and flipped it open, holding it out for his inspection.

      “See,” I told him. “D.B. Hayes. Diana Barbara Hayes.”

      The little squirt actually took the folder and examined it, comparing me to my picture. While it wasn’t a particularly flattering picture and my hair was shorter back then, my features were clear enough to satisfy him.

      “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

      “I get that a lot.” Unfortunately it was true. “That’s what makes me good at my job,” I added, giving him my stock response. “Look, kid…what’s your name anyhow?”

      “Mickey.”

      “Okay, Mickey,” I said, replacing the folder. “I’d really like to help you out, but I don’t know anything about cats. Your best bet…”

      But the kid had come prepared for a brush-off. He whipped out a bent photograph of himself holding an indistinguishable blob of gray fur. He thrust it in my hand before I could finish my suggestion.

      “Here’s his picture,” Mickey said in a rush. “His name is Mr. Sam and he’s seventeen. That’s old for a cat. The screen door doesn’t latch so good, so he musta got out between nine and ten this morning. I searched the whole neighborhood, but I can’t find him. We live right near the park, so I bet he went there to chase birds or something, but I can’t search the whole park by myself. And I have to get home before my mom finds out I’m not at the pool with Ray and his mom. See, my mom’s kinda nervous on account of my dad getting killed. Mom’s been under a lot of stress.”

      That put the brakes on my objections and captured my full and complete attention. “Your dad was killed?”

      He nodded gravely. “That’s why you have to find Mr. Sam. I don’t want my mom to cry anymore. She’ll be real upset when she finds out he’s gone. I was supposed to watch him.”

      I had so many questions jamming my brain, I couldn’t decide what to ask first. Unfortunately the kid moved a lot faster than my thought processes. He plopped the wad of crumpled bills on the work counter and sprinted for the front of the shop before I could blink.

      “Hey! Wait!”

      “You can keep the picture,” Mickey tossed over his shoulder.

      “Wait! Mickey! Wait! What’s your last name?”

      I chased him out the front door, but he was already astride a fancy red bike.