“Scam,” Zach said.

“Yes. So far I haven’t had any luck in finding out deep background on the seller. The auction house says he’ll be there tonight. You’re an observant man, Zach. A hard man, but someone I think Mrs. Flinton might trust just because you come off so straight.”

Zach grunted.

“As I said earlier, I think you could be an asset to my firm.”

Zach had done nothing to make the guy like him. Hardly cared if people liked him. Would rather have respect.

“And I respect you,” Rickman said, like he’d figured out that aspect of Zach’s character, too.

Zach knew he was being influenced by the compliment, but also believed the head of the private investigative firm was sincere.

“Tell me the details.” Zach walked, cane sinking into thick gray carpet, from the window to hitch a hip on the arm of one of the client chairs, the cane helped him balance.

“We’re talking about several pieces of expensive furniture and an antique silver plate service for six, complete with punch bowl and other fancy items. The thing is, when pressed, Mrs. Flinton doesn’t have a strong recollection of the exact pieces.”

“They could be new and made to look like antiques. If they were engraved—” Zach began.

“Yes, that could be forged. The con could be anything from just scamming her for the money she’d spend at the auction, to setting her up for more sales, to getting a foot inside her door to rob her. We did the security on her home, but she only has one full-time person in her place, a housekeeper nearly as elderly as she.”

“Sounds like the seller who contacted her is a real confidence man,” Zach said.

“That’s right. All you have to do is attend the auction with her, keep your eyes open.”

“I can look at the stuff, but I’m not an antiques expert by any means.”

“Look at the seller and any accomplice he might have. The auction house is clean, but they allow consignment sellers. You’re a people person, you can spot cons.”

“Why me?” Zach asked. “You must have other . . . operatives.”

“Actually I don’t have one right for this job. Some of my guys like a lot of danger in their lives, a lot of action. A simple case like this wouldn’t interest them—and most are ex-military more than ex-cop. Different mind-set. That matters.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready to meet Mrs. Flinton?”

“You’re offering me the job?”

“That’s right. And it looks like you’re interested. Beats sitting around, doesn’t it?”

“And you want to see how I work. Work with clients and with you. Handle myself.”

Rickman just did a one-shoulder shrug at Zach’s stating the obvious. “Now let’s have you meet the client.” He reached over and pushed a button on his desk.

The door opened. Too late now to give voice to second, third, hundredth thoughts about taking the job.

But if he didn’t like the client—a client, not a victim . . . or was she?—he’d walk away.

Rickman straightened and Zach slid to his feet. She came in leaning on a walker. The tall woman, dressed in a quality but dated pantsuit, wore her thin silver hair in a wavy style. Her carefully made-up face showed a far-too-innocent expression for a woman of her years.

Her gaze went straight to Rickman as she took one careful step, then another. “Are you sure this is a scam?”

Tony inclined his head, gesturing to Zach. “May I introduce my associate, Zach Slade? He’s an ex–deputy sheriff and policeman. Zach, what’s your professional opinion of the setup?”

Angling toward her, Zach said, “I believe someone is playing on your sentiments to line his pockets.”

Her lips quivered. She really should be less wide-eyed at this time in her life.

“With your permission,” Rickman said, “I’d like Zach to accompany you to the auction tonight.”

Now her blue eyes narrowed as her gaze fixed on Zach. She clumped toward him, chin stubborn, and held out a white hand with blue veins showing beneath. He took her fingers, felt a warm, strong clasp.

“Oh!” She grinned, and while her hand clamped around his, her glance went to Rickman. “I should have known you wouldn’t have given me to one of your regular guys, Tony.” She met Zach’s eyes. “You have a touch of the sight, don’t you?”

What the hell did that mean? The back of Zach’s neck itched. He shot Rickman a narrow-eyed look and got a bland expression. Just what kind of place was the PI running, and just what had he and the sheriff discussed about Zach? “No, I don’t have any sight,” Zach said.

Mrs. Flinton removed her other hand from her walker and wrapped it around Zach’s. “You’re in denial, are you? You’ll be fine with me. I promise.” Her silver brows twisted a bit. “Hmm.” Again she smiled at Rickman. “You said Zach just got in from Montana?”

“That’s right,” Rickman said.

She smelled of a light floral fragrance that Zach hadn’t associated with old ladies until now. Clare Cermak had had a more exotic, spicy scent that had teased his nostrils.

“You can stay with me. I have a huge old house in Cherry Creek.”

“Mrs. Flinton—” Rickman began.

“I don’t think—” Zach started at the same time.

Her set chin lifted. “I insist. I have a housekeeper’s suite that’s been converted into a street-level walk-in apartment that would be fine for you. My own living area is in the main wing on the second floor. We can talk about a reasonable rent later, when you take me to tea.”

Zach’s stomach rumbled.

She appeared triumphant. “There! You’re hungry, too.”

Rickman pushed away from his desk, plucked Mrs. Flinton right out of the cage of her walker, and she let Zach’s hand go. He let out a grateful breath.

“Come on, Aunt Barbara, let’s take this a little slower, eh? Give the guy some room.”

“I want to give him a whole apartment!” she said.

Zach retreated to the window overlooking the plains. His day was turning downright weird.

Rickman hauled giggling “Aunt Barbara” out of his inner office. A young Asian guy who moved like a martial artist, dressed professionally, came and picked up the walker, then nodded to Zach.

“I’ll meet you at the Brown Palace in a half hour, Zach!” Mrs. Flinton called back, her fingers waving above Rickman’s shoulder. “Mr. Yee, I have a new tenant for the ground floor.”

“Sounds good. I will call the Brown Palace and make an appointment for tea,” said Yee.

“Aunt Barbara, Yee—” Rickman began.

Zach had made a mistake in not closing the door. Mrs. Flinton, now solidly back on her walker, stared at him. “Zach Slade, you can’t tell me that you aren’t staying in a motel. Not even a hotel here in Denver, but”—her eyes became distant—“in the northern suburbs.”

He wasn’t going to admit she was right; good guessing on her part, though.

“Yee will escort you to the Brown Palace, Aunt Barbara. I’ll see if Zach can make it.”

“See that he does. He’ll be good for you, Tony, and your business, and me. And we’ll certainly be good for him.” She jerked her head in a nod toward Zach, then at Rickman, glanced at the young blond woman manning the reception. “I’ll see you later, Samantha; have a good day.”

“You, too, Mrs. Flinton,” Samantha piped.

“Maybe Samantha might like tea—”

A jolt went through Zach; was Mrs. Flinton setting him up with a girl, too? A girl, not a woman. Clare Cermak was a woman.

“No,” Rickman said. “The last time you took Samantha to ‘tea’ she got drunk on champagne and missed the rest of the day.”

“Really, Tony, you are such a poor sport.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yee opened the outer door. “Come on, Mrs. Flinton. The Brown Palace is waiting for you.” He smiled a charming smile that worked on the old lady. She turned and moved away with more grace and less sound than she’d shown before.

The outer office door closed, and Rickman came in and closed his inner door.

“Aunt Barbara?” Zach questioned.