Cavanaugh Vanguard. Marie Ferrarella

he is?” Jackson asked.

      That was a giant leap, but it still could be true, she thought.

      “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it—and brace ourselves for all hell breaking loose just for asking.” She glanced at him as she buckled up. “What are your thoughts on this?”

      Jackson shrugged, buckling up himself. “Don’t have any.”

      “None?” she questioned incredulously. That didn’t seem possible—or logical.

      “Nope,” he said as casually as if he was deciding how many eggs he wanted for breakfast. “That might taint my view of the case and interfere with the way I investigate it.”

      Listening to him, Brianna could only shake her head. “You are a strange bird, Jackson Muldare.”

      He laughed drily. “So I’ve been told.”

      “Why aren’t you starting the car?” she asked.

      “Because you haven’t told me where we’ll find this guy,” Jackson answered. “Where do you want to go?”

      She’d forgotten about that. “We’ll start at Winston Aurora’s home. If he’s attending some board meeting or some other business-related activity, his wife or someone at the house should be able to tell us where he is.” She looked at Jackson expectantly. “You do know where Winston Aurora lives, right?”

      Jackson didn’t answer her. Instead, he started up the white sedan and pulled out of the parking lot.

      The lot was still crowded with vehicles belonging to the officers who had responded to the call, as well as those of the construction workers who had been told to stop work on the demolition immediately. Del Campo was still taking down the latter group’s names, Brianna noted, seeing the detective talking to a group of hard hats.

      “Oh damn,” Brianna said.

      “Is that a general, all-inclusive ‘oh damn,’ or are you referring to something specific?” Jackson asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

      Brianna twisted around in her seat, peering out the rear window. There was a news van pulling up toward the cluster of police cars.

      “That’s a ‘make sure that news van doesn’t suddenly decide to follow you’ oh damn,” she answered. She twisted forward again. “The last thing we need or want is someone from the Fourth Estate thinking we’re going to be talking to Winston Aurora or anyone in his family.”

      “But we are,” Jackson answered matter-of-factly.

      She wondered if he was putting her on or if he just viewed situations in a linear fashion. For the sake of argument, she explained it to him.

      “We want to keep a lid on this and control the story for as long as we can until we know if there is a story involving the Auroras.”

      “We already know there are bodies,” Jackson pointed out.

      “Yes, but what we don’t know is if the Auroras’ connection ends with the fact that the hotel was built by their grandfather and bears their name—or if one of them is more involved than that,” she told Jackson. “If the media gets hold of this before we’re ready, there’ll be so much speculation going on, we won’t be able to do our jobs properly.”

      Jackson said nothing.

      She found it annoying and felt as if she was talking to herself.

      Suddenly, the detective deviated from the road he was on. The next moment he was pulling his vehicle into a drive-through lane threading around a fast-food restaurant called Sloppy Joes.

      “What are you doing?” Brianna demanded.

      Jackson spared her a quick glance before inching the car forward. They were behind a Hummer 3 that was just barely keeping between the lines.

      “Making sure that news van doesn’t think we’re onto something and follow us—haven’t you been paying attention to what you just said?” he asked innocently.

      For a split second, she wanted to punch him, but she refrained, thinking she’d do more damage to her fist than to his really muscular shoulder.

      Instead, Brianna laughed. “I forgot.” As she recalled, Muldare had an unorthodox method of operation. “You take some getting used to.”

      Jackson made no comment on her observation. “Since we’re here, you want to get something?”

      Food was the last thing on her mind. Brianna twisted around in her seat again. There was no sign of the news van. It hadn’t followed them after all.

      Sitting forward again, she told Jackson, “Coffee, black.”

      His expression remained stoic. “That stuff’ll rot out your gut,” he told her.

      Unfazed by the image that created, Brianna said, “Haven’t you heard? Coffee is supposed to help keep dementia at bay.”

      “That’s this week’s theory,” he said, unimpressed. “Next week they’ll rescind that theory and replace it with something else.”

      Brianna shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I like coffee. It keeps me going.”

      “Those are called nerves,” he told her as he placed the order—coffee for her, nothing for him—then pulled to the next window.

      “Anyone ever tell you that you can be a real downer?” Brianna asked as she took out a five-dollar bill to hand him.

      Eyes forward, Jackson waved away her money. “Yeah, you,” he answered. “The last time we worked together, as I recall.”

      “Well, I guess nothing’s changed,” she told him. She waited as Jackson paid the woman at the drive-through window for the coffee and then handed the covered container to her.

      “Not a real fan of change,” Jackson answered matter-of-factly as he drove away from the fast-food restaurant.

      She could believe that, Brianna thought, but she kept that to herself.

      Holding the container in both hands, Brianna looked around in all directions. There was no sign of the news van anywhere. “Looks like you lost them.”

      “That was the intention,” he answered matter-of-factly.

      Brianna took a long sip of her coffee, then put the lid back on. “Still the sparkling conversationalist, I see.”

      Jackson glanced in her direction, then looked forward again. “Sparkling conversation was not a prerequisite for graduating from the academy.”

      Brianna studied his profile for a long moment. “Maybe it should have been,” she said. “By the way, thanks for the coffee.” She raised the container to her lips again.

      “Don’t mention it,” Jackson told her. “I’m serious,” he added before she could respond in any way. “Don’t mention it.”

      Brianna sighed. This was going to be a really long, long investigation.

      * * *

      The road leading to Winston Aurora’s forty-thousand-square-foot mansion—by no stretch of the imagination could the structure be referred to as a mere house—was scenic, long and winding. Exceedingly winding.

      “Doesn’t this road ever end?” Jackson muttered under his breath.

      “Doesn’t feel that way, does it?” Brianna agreed. “Maybe they want you to feel like you got lost so you’ll just finally give up and turn around,” she guessed. “But if that is the thinking on their part, they forgot to take one important thing into account.”

      Silence hung between them until Jackson finally asked, “And that is...?”

      She offered him a self-satisfied smile. “We don’t give up.”

      “We?” he deliberately questioned.