“I’ll find a cab at one of the big hotels and meet you at the first house. Yes, I’ve memorized the address. I’ll leave shortly.”

“You haven’t had lunch?” Zach asked. The more he looked at her, the more he thought he saw strain around her eyes, as if those shadows bedeviled her.

She frowned at him, lifted the cell from her mouth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Once again the odd chill breezed through. Wonky air-conditioning.

And though he frowned, he understood when someone wanted to force food on you and you didn’t want to eat.

“I’ll leave as soon as you hang up, Arlene,” Clare said, and the call ended.

She slipped the cell back into her bag, rubbed at her temples. “I didn’t expect this to happen so fast.”

“But you’re ready for it,” he pointed out. “And those moving trucks will be rolling.”

Her hands lowered and she smiled again. “There is that. But I could find a good storage unit.”

Zach shook his head. “Not nearly as efficient or tidy.”

“That’s right.”

She stood slowly. “I’m sorry our conversation was cut short.”

“Me, too. Do you have a card?” he asked.

Her hand went to her purse, then dropped away. “No. I only have business cards. I’ll have to . . . think of something.”

Woof! barked the dog Zach still couldn’t see.

He shook his head as he reached for his cane, positioned it right, and stood. His leg had stiffened and hurt. He wasn’t about to show that. “Another thing we have in common.”

“Yes?”

“No jobs and money we’re not sure about and needing new digs.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out one of his old cards, ignored the insignia and writing on the front, flipped it over and wrote his cell number on the back, and held it out.

She took it and put it carefully in an inner pocket of her purse, zipped that.

“We’ll meet again, Clare Cermak.”

“I’m sure we will.” She, too, took a card from her purse, pale gray with black lettering, crossed out the engraved wording below her name, and wrote down two numbers. “That’s my cell and my landline.”

Of course she’d have backup communication in a landline. He stuck her card in his inner pocket, then took her hand and squeezed. “Good meeting you.”

“Yes.” She returned the pressure and slipped a ready ten from her purse. He intercepted her hand.

“I’ll get it.”

“Thank you, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

The first time in a long time—maybe ever—that he’d liked hearing his full name. “Call me Zach.”

She dipped her head. “Zach. Later.”

“Later.” He took his time pulling out a twenty and tossing it on the table, watching her nicely rounded hips sway in her slim skirt as she strode outside and to the busy sidewalk. He blinked, since there seemed to be a smudge to his sight now and again when he took in the full sight of her.

Crows cawed.

No! Zach tensed. Saw five birds rise from the iron railing separating the restaurant tables from the walkway. How had he missed them? But his breath released slowly. Five for silver. That could mean a lot of things, but not sorrow or death or secrets.

His phone sounded again, the anonymous buzz of an unknown caller. The readout showed Rickman Security and Investigations.

“Slade,” he said.

“I’ve got a job for you. Interested?”

Silver—money, payment. “Yeah.” He guessed so.

“If you’re still in Denver, come on back to my offices and I’ll brief you and introduce you to our client.”

Zach’s heart gave a bump of anticipation. He turned and walked from the restaurant, looked up at the skyscraper where Tony Rickman had his offices. “I’ll be right there.”

“See you soon.” Rickman clicked off.

A deep breath brought city heat and smells, different than the Montana county he’d served for three years. He swallowed away the sadness at Lauren and Larry, found himself murmuring a little prayer his grandmother had taught him for their souls.

Change wasn’t always good, but always happened.

SEVEN

THE REAL ESTATE agent opened the door of the cab and Clare slid out, nearly shivering with cold. Enzo had accompanied her and the driver had his air-conditioning running hard. She paid the fare and added an eighteen percent tip, and the cab zoomed off.

Arlene, young and Hispanic with a huge smile and incredible energy, chattered about the landscaping of the first house, the curb appeal. At first glance Clare liked the looks of the house, but she admitted to herself that she wanted more charm in a home. Especially since she now lived in a small rectangular structure. She and Enzo followed Arlene through the house. Despite everything, Clare wasn’t about to make a quick decision. She intended to buy only one house in her lifetime—at least until she married and had children. Even then, if she loved the house and it was big enough for a family, she thought she could persuade a husband to live with her.

The image of an extremely sexy Zach Slade rose to her mind and made her whole body warm as she recalled the way he looked at her. Broad shoulders, tall and sleekly muscular, but with a lean look that made her think he’d recently lost weight. An ex–deputy sheriff, and shot. She had enough data to look him up online when she returned home.

In the meantime, she could keep him, and two prospective children, in mind as a “sample” family while she real estate shopped—think of two cars instead of one, or a minivan, and make sure the schools were good . . . not quite what she’d told Arlene already, so she’d do that after this first set of viewings.

Selling Aunt Sandra’s home on the lake in Chicago gave Clare quite a budget. But what should have been fun became wearying. Enzo accompanied her and made comments, lifting his ghostly leg on trees, then walking through them. Did he truly mark his presence somehow? She hadn’t noticed any doggie scent.

Anyway, he was distracting, and she had to watch herself from answering him.

She also felt the chill tingle of presences, knowing that there were ghosts in the house or on the land, but not from her “time period.” She thought she could live with that, though.

How Sandra had lived in a house that had been built in the time period she was sensitive to, Clare didn’t know; the very idea made her shudder.

 • • •

“There are cases cops can’t touch,” Rickman said, eyes serious, as he stood leaning against the front of his desk.

Zach hadn’t sat down this time, but moved to one of the office’s windows, staring over the city at the interesting buildings and blocks interspersed with trees. “Yeah, a case the cops can’t touch? Like what?”

“Like an old woman trying to track down her mother’s heirlooms.”

Zach snorted.

“Those pieces mean something to her, Zach,” the PI said in a gentler voice than Zach would have expected from a military officer.

“She lost her mother when she was young, was sent to her father’s relatives. Mrs. Flinton wants the pieces back. They remind her of her home before her mother died.” There was a long pause. “She needs what the psych people call closure, Zach.”

That socked him in the gut. Closure. Something none of his family had gotten.

There was no closing the cold case of the murder of his brother twenty-three years ago. The case of the drive-by shooting of James Slade remained open.

Yeah, Zach had heard a lot about closure in individual and family grief counseling. Knew how the lack of the who and why ate in the gut.

Destroyed a family.

Rickman said, “There’s an auction tonight where Mrs. Flinton believes some of her mother’s antiques might be, but I don’t like the way she was contacted.”