Happy Friday!
I'm currently in that state of doing all the things in all the places all at once. Which means I've started a zillion projects and finished one. 😂😄😵
That one is PUZZLE FOR TWO, originally written for Patreon.
WHAT'S IT ABOUT? YOU ASK.
Two can play at this game.
(No, that's part of the blurb. But yes, two can play at that--this--game. Except you're reading the blurb right now.)
Fledging PI Zachariah Davies’s
wealthy and eccentric client, toymaker Alton Beacher, wants to hire an
investigator who can pose as his boyfriend while figuring out who is behind the
recent attempts on his life. And Zach, struggling to save the business his
father built, is just desperate enough to set aside his misgivings and take the
job.
But it doesn’t take long to realize
all is not as it seems—and given that it all seems pretty weird, that’s saying
something. The only person Zach can turn to for help is equally struggling,
equally desperate, but a whole lot more experienced rival PI Flint Carey.
Former Marine Flint has been waiting
for Zach to throw in the towel and sell whatever’s left of the Davies Detective
Agency to him. But when the inexperienced accountant-turned-shamus turns to him
for help, Flint finds himself unwilling—or maybe unable—to say no.
HOWZ ABOUT AN EXCEPT?(That's rhetorical, but I can hear what you're thinking and yes, there will be audio--James Woodrich has signed on to bring Zach and Flint to life--and yes, there will be print, in our normal laggardly fashion.)
Maybe Flint had read the same How to Succeed in Business
articles as Zach because it turned out he had but one available time slot in
his busy, busy day, and that was four minutes after Brooke phoned. Whether this
was gamesmanship or he really did have more clients than Zach and Brooke
calculated, he arrived in their lobby, damp and slightly disheveled, wearing
blue jeans and a gray hoodie. He smelled of rain and mouthwash, and did not
appear to have shaved for the last three days. He was also slightly out of
breath from his jog across the parking lot, dodging numerous cars driven by
maniacs desperately seeking spaces closer to the shops.
Even so, even damp, disheveled, and disapproving, there was
something about Flint. Something that made it hard to dismiss him however much
Zach tried. Flint had presence; a raw, vaguely disturbing virility that seemed
to charge the air around him.
“Hi, Flint!” Brooke greeted him brightly as he dripped on
their welcome mat. She liked Flint.
“Hey, kiddo.” Flint pushed back his soaked hood. His
sun-streaked brown hair was a mass of wet ringlets, giving him a slightly
crazed look. “Zachariah.”
It took Zach a moment to process that look of hungry
anticipation on Flint’s lean face.
Hell.
As Flint’s bright hazel gaze held his own, Zach realized
Flint was thinking he’d changed his mind about selling the agency. There was no
reason to feel guilty about that misunderstanding, but somehow, he did.
“Did you want to step into my office?” he asked.
Flint shrugged. “Sure.”
“Would you like a coffee, Flint?” Brooke piped up.
“No thanks.”
Zach stepped into his office, closing the door behind Flint.
“I think there might be a slight misunderstanding,”
Zach began.
He was interrupted by Mr. Bigglesworth, who—never a fan of anyone
or anything that might steal Zach’s attention—made a big production of leaping
from the chair in front of the desk across the room and onto the narrow
bookshelf, where he proceeded, secret-agent style, to blend into the tidy row
of houseplants. His giant sea-glass gaze peered through the foliage.
Flint looked taken aback. “What the hell was that?”
“That’s my cat.”
“That’s not a cat.”
“He certainly is.”
“Nope.”
“Yep. In fact, he’s purebred.”
“That? Purebred? No way.”
“He has the papers to prove it.”
Flint snorted. “Then he forged them.”
Against his will, Zach laughed.
This seemed to encourage Flint, who said, “Admit it. You
found him going through garbage cans in a back alley, and he sold you some sob
story about a pair of bulldogs mugging him for his fur coat.”
Who knew Flint had a sense of humor? Zach said gravely, “He’s
not a client. He’s an associate.”
“Of course he is.” Flint sighed and dropped into the chair
vacated by Mr. Bigglesworth. “Okay. What’s the big misunderstanding? Or should
I guess?”
“Sorry, but this isn’t about selling the business.” Zach
squeezed in behind the desk and sat down. “It’s about hiring you.”
Flint’s obvious disappointment gave way to surprise. His
brows shot up. “Hiring me? For what?”
“For surveillance work. The Beacher case is…well, to do it
properly, we need more manpower.”
Flint’s smile was sardonic. His large hands fastened on the
arms of the chair, and he started to rise. “Sorry. I’ve got my own caseload.”
Zach blurted, “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars an hour—and
it’s not that many hours.”
Flint lowered himself to the chair again. He eyed Zach
skeptically. “Go on.”
“You already know it’s a complicated situation.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
Flint had the kind of face that was really hard to read.
Maybe behind that cool, glinting gaze beat a sympathetic heart, but Zach wouldn’t
bet on it. Then again, he hadn’t realized Flint had a goofy sense of humor
either. So maybe a more accurate reading of Flint’s emotional temperature was his
smile: that faint, ever-present crease in his cheek, like Flint was secretly
laughing at everyone and everything. What had Alton called it? Sarcastic.
For sure, it wasn’t an all’s-right-with-the-world smile.
“Well, what did Al—Beacher tell you?” Zach asked.
Flint stared at him for a long moment, then gave a little
shake of his head, like I give up. “I don’t like domestic cases. I make
it a rule not to get in between spouses. Also, Alton Beacher’s reputation
precedes him. So he didn’t get a chance to tell me much of anything.”
“What’s his reputation?”
“Are you telling me you took on a messy divorce case without
knowing anything about your principals?”
“I’m not being paid to investigate my client. Sometimes
people in terrible marriages need help, too.”
Flint considered that, grimaced. “Okay. Fair enough. Your
client has a reputation for involving others in sticky situations.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re out of your league, junior.”
Zach said shortly, “Do you mind? I’m thirty. I’ve been
earning my living since I was twenty-three.” He bit his lip, considered. “Alton’s
been receiving death threats. He thinks his wife is behind them, but of course
he’s not sure, which is why he hired me.”
“I’m sure it’s not the only reason he hired you.” Flint’s
tone was dry. Meeting Zach’s gaze, he added, “Like I said, his reputation
precedes him.”
What exactly did that mean? Zach didn’t know Flint
well enough to judge whether Flint’s opinion of messy divorces and sticky
situations was to be taken seriously. Frankly, Flint was already displaying an
unexpected streak of, well, squeamishness Zach wouldn’t have expected.
At least, he thought it was squeamishness. They were both so
busy fencing, it was difficult to know if they were even talking about the same
thing.
“Okay, well, I can’t discuss the details unless you’re
willing to sign an NDA as an independent contractor for Davies Detective
Agency.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to be looking inward
rather than at Zach. He said finally, “Two hundred bucks an hour?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the gig?”
“I’m supposed to have dinner with Alton tonight. I feel like
I need another pair of eyes on the scene just in case, well, something happens.”
Flint said nothing. Rain ticked against the windows.
As the silence stretched between them, Zach realized
something. He’d been thinking he was just being extra conscientious in making
sure he could provide the level of service Alton had paid for and rightfully
expected. But as he waited for Flint to come to a decision, he recognized he
was genuinely uneasy, and that at least some of that unease was for himself.
He could probably count on one hand the things he knew about
Flint: that he was an ex-Marine, that he was thirty-five, unmarried and had no
children, that he was firearms certified, that he had started his PI business
five years earlier (which, ironically, meant he’d been Zach’s age), and that he
was a fan of OG Magnum PI.
Not a whole hell of a lot. And yet, somehow, Zach knew that
if he did really end up in a jam, Flint would be the guy he could trust to have
his back.
The guy in question drew in a long, weary breath. “I’ve got
to be honest. I’m already stretched too thin. I spent the weekend on stakeout.
I can’t—”
Zach said quickly, “Two, maybe three hours. No more. I
wouldn’t ask, Flint, but there’s something weird going on with this case. I can’t
put my finger on it, but I can feel it in my gut. Something’s wrong...”
Zach trailed off. He knew exactly what Flint was thinking. How
is this my problem?
Fair enough. Flint and Pop had been friendly, but they hadn’t
been friends. Zach and Flint barely qualified as friendly. There was
always some awkwardness, some odd tension underlying their exchanges. Yet here
he was asking Flint for a favor. A well-paid favor, yes, but still a favor.
Flint opened his mouth, and Zach gulped, “Sorry. You’re
right. Not your problem. I’ll figure something out.”
Flint directed a look of exasperation at Zach. He said
tersely, “When and where?”
