Private Investigations. Tori Carrington

Besides, the room service guy was pretty hefty. He would jump in to protect a damsel in distress, wouldn’t he? She eyed him more closely. More likely he’d be running down the hall right after her.

      Nothing in the living area.

      Ripley tiptoed into the room, craning her neck to make out the bedroom. Remembering the mirrors, she glanced behind her. From the living room, into the bedroom, into the bathroom, she saw no scary shadows. She stepped into the bedroom and closed the balcony doors. Whew. He was gone.

      THE WOMAN was an ego booster.

      Joe grinned at the conference room full of sales reps and company bigwigs, confident that after a sluggish start, he’d made a successful comeback and had just given one of his strongest finishes ever. Jackpot. This contract was as good as in the bag.

      “Gotta tell you, Joe, you had me worried there for a while,” VP John Gerard said, pumping Joe’s hand after he took down his chart and slid it into its carrying case.

      “Don’t tell anyone, but I had myself worried there, too.”

      John chuckled and moved away. Joe straightened to shake hands with the remainder of his colleagues, easily moving from speaker to greeter. His secretary, Gloria Malden, once told him she loved to watch him work. That no one could work a room the way he could. It was a good thing Gloria was fifty and a grandmother or else he might have thought she was coming on to him. Instead, he’d taken her words as a rare compliment. Lord knew he’d had so few of them growing up. And while he’d like to think he’d grown beyond the shallow desire for praise, he reasoned that it wasn’t hurting anyone to acknowledge it when the occasional bit did come his way.

      “Dinner tonight, right?” Percy said quietly, leaning closer to him in a conspiratorial way.

      Percy had been the biggest tipper at the strip joint last night. Joe was surprised he had money left to slip in any more G-strings.

      Joe thought of the sexily provocative Ripley Logan and wondered if she was still in his room and whether or not she’d still be requiring his…services when he finished here. He grimaced. Even if she was and did, he had too much riding on this deal to chuck it all in exchange for some amateur sleuthing with someone who was so wet behind the ears she squeaked.

      “Mr. Pruitt?”

      Joe told Percy they were on, then glanced toward the door through which most of occupants of the room had already exited. His smile froze on his face when he saw the guy he had shared the elevator with that morning, the one who had chased Ripley from her room and into his bed, standing squarely in the doorway. His body—as wide as it was tall—effectively blocked the exit, and two guys with the exact same build and height stood behind him.

      Damn.

      RIPLEY REACHED across the table and plucked a strawberry from the nearly empty service tray in her room, then turned over the picture she was staring at. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a purple T-shirt, she felt much better now that she had regained possession of her room and there were no armed gunmen hiding in the shadows. Her chewing slowed as she eyed the security lock on her door. Of course, it probably wasn’t a good idea to stick around too long, lest they figure everything out and make a return appearance.

      She brushed her fingers on her jeans then turned the photograph right side up again. The black-and-white shot was of a dark-haired woman of about her age who could have been a double for Angelina Jolie, except that her hairstyle was different. But it wasn’t so much the woman in the picture that caused questions. Rather it was the picture itself.

      Ripley ran her thumb along the length of the photo. It wasn’t on traditional stock paper. Rather it appeared to have been run off a printer. And the grainy quality and downward angle of the shot made it look like something from one of those low-end security cameras. Which really didn’t make any sense considering she’d gotten the picture from Nicole Bennett’s sister, Clarise.

      She glanced over the information again. Nicole Bennett. Twenty-eight years of age. Dark brown hair, gray eyes. No noted employment. She’d been visiting her sister one day when she just up and disappeared with the family silver. The pieces, bearing the recognizable initials ZRD, had popped up at a Memphis pawnshop two days ago.

      “She does it all the time,” Clarise Bennett had said in response to Ripley’s questioning stare. “One Christmas she took antique ornaments from the tree.”

      No, she hadn’t reported the episode to the police. This was a family matter. And all Clarise was really interested in was retrieving her silverware and making sure Nicole was all right.

      As to the initials, Clarise had said she’d inherited the set from her maternal grandmother.

      Ripley propped her chin on her palm and stared at the photo again. What type of person stole from her own sister to finance a trip to Memphis? Allowing, of course, that that’s the reason she’d stolen the items. Was she on drugs? Clarise had assured her she wasn’t, but Ripley wasn’t convinced. Especially when she’d visited Nicole’s apartment in East St. Louis and found that it was little more than a room in a flophouse, a furnished room with a sink in the corner that could technically be listed as an apartment but was little more than a closet with running water. She hadn’t found anything there to give her a clue about the woman she was looking for.

      She reached for another strawberry only to discover they were all gone. As were the eggs Benedict, the two pieces of toast, a side of bacon and an extra large helping of hash browns and fruit. She glanced at the front of her jeans and groaned. If she wasn’t careful, she would need a whole new wardrobe in a larger size by the time this woman hunt was over.

      She reached for the phone to call Clarise and give her a status report. Asking for a better picture of her sister probably wouldn’t hurt, either. She consulted the file then dialed the number. A moment later the sound of a recording telling her the number was no longer in service couldn’t have surprised her more. She pressed disconnect and tried again, only to get the same result.

      Well, that didn’t make any sense. The number had worked just fine yesterday when she’d called to tell Clarise she was on her way to Memphis. She tried one more time then finally dropped the phone into its cradle, drumming her fingers against the cold plastic, before putting in a call to her own answering machine. Nothing. Not even a call from her mother reminding her to come for dinner Sunday night.

      She hated when there were no messages.

      A dull, muffled sound came from the direction of the hall.

      Ripley nearly catapulted from the chair and fell on her face, given the way she was sitting with her leg bent under her. But that was nothing compared to the way her heart thunked in her chest. She tiptoed toward the door, her hand resting against her chest as if to keep the rowdy organ still.

      She knew she shouldn’t have hung around as long as she had. She should have gathered her belongings and hightailed it right out of there the instant she knew the gunmen had left. But no. She’d had to sample the room service tray. And while she was doing that, she thought she might as well review the case file, too. No sense wasting any time.

      Right.

      Another sound.

      Ripley scrambled for the bedroom, hoping she wasn’t in for a replay of the night before.

      WHAT IN HELL was he getting himself into?

      Even as Joe asked himself the question, he knew that whatever it was, it was sure to be a whole hell of a lot more interesting than his life had been of late. He got off the hotel elevator on his floor and strode purposefully toward his room. He’d called there no fewer than four times after Larry, Curly and Moe had left him at Shoes Plus twenty minutes ago. No answer.

      Which was essentially what he’d given the three men who had introduced themselves as FBI agents. No answer.

      Oh, he’d spoken with them, all right. Only he suspected he hadn’t given the responses they had been banking on. Instead, he’d asked them how they’d known where he was. The first guy had said they had gotten his