I saw the good doctor out, waited a hot second, then turned to Cookie with a roll of my eyes. “That man is as guilty as my accountant.”
Cookie gasped. “He’s guilty? He doesn’t look guilty.”
“Neither does my accountant,” I said, sifting through the papers on her desk.
She reached across and slapped my hand. “What’s your accountant guilty of?”
I sucked on the back of my hand before answering. “Fudging numbers.”
“Your accountant fudges numbers?”
“Why else would I pay someone to do my taxes? Anywho”—I hitched a thumb over my shoulder—“guilty. And we have another missing wife. They must be in season.”
We’d just solved a missing wife case a couple of weeks ago. In the process, I was kidnapped, tortured, shot at, and I came pretty darned close to getting Garrett, Cookie, and our client killed. Not a bad week, if I did say so myself.
“So, he’s guilty. Does that mean his wife is dead?”
I knew the statistics, and there was about a 95 percent chance of a resounding yes, but I refused to work under that assumption. “That part’s a little fuzzy, but this guy is good. He only let his verb tense slip twice, letting me know he believes she’s already dead. And he never once said her name.”
“That’s not good,” Cookie said, her face lined with worry.
“If I hadn’t felt the guilt radiating out of every pore in his body, I would’ve been completely fooled.”
“I was fooled.”
With an appreciative grin, I said, “You’re always fooled. You always think the best of people. That’s why we get along so well. You can’t see past my charm and stunning beauty to the real me.”
“Oh, no, I see the real you. I just feel sorry for the mentally challenged. I think you guys deserve just as much of a chance at a normal life as the next guy.”
“That’s so sweet,” I said like a cheerleader on meth.
She shrugged. “I try to be a positive influence on the less fortunate.”
Then a thought occurred to me. “Crap.”
“What?”
“I just realized something.”
“Did you forget to put on underwear again?”
I glanced at her point-blank. “Since the good doctor is guilty, he’ll probably try to kill me soon. You might want to take precautions.”
“Got it. Where should we start?”
“A Kevlar vest, maybe. Pepper spray at the very least.”
“I meant on the case.” Cookie looked past me into my office. “Oh, hi, Mr. Davidson.”
I turned as Dad walked in. He’d come up from the bar by way of the inside stairs, which was fine, since he owned it and all. His tall, thin frame seemed to sag just a bit. His blond hair looked barely combed, and his bloodshot eyes were lined with a purplish hue. And not a pretty purple either. It was that dark grayish purple that depressed people wear.
Things hadn’t quite been the same between us since he tried to have me murdered a while back. One of his collars from his former life as a detective had been released from prison and decided to get even with Dad by going after his family. So, by deftly placing a target on my back to save my sister and stepmother from the guy’s dastardly plan, he’d almost gotten me killed. That part wasn’t the problem. The problem lay in the fact that, believing they would catch the guy before any harm could be done, he neglected to tell me that he’d sent a killer my way. Thus leaving me vulnerable. He’d put Garrett Swopes on my tail, which would normally have been enough protection for the president making an anti-gun speech at the NRA, but the new guy Garrett had assigned to me decided to go for coffee right when the parolee decided to go on a killing spree. And I had a nasty scar across my chest to prove it. Or I would have had I not healed so fast. A grim reaper thing, apparently.
Those kinds of family indiscretions were hard to get past. Nevertheless, I was willing to let bygones be bygones, but the guilt that wafted off him like bargain-brand cologne acted as a constant reminder and seemed to keep him just out of arm’s reach. He seemed unable to forgive himself. And that guilt was taking its toll, as guilt is wont to do.
So I couldn’t tell if the powerful emotion pouring out of him now was a by-product of that incident or if this was something new and improved with no preservatives, fillers, or artificial colors. He was definitely frowning. Maybe he had heartburn. More likely, he’d heard the pepper spray comment.
“Hey, Dad.” I bounced up and kissed him on his grumpy bear cheek.
“Hon, can I talk to you?”
“Abso-freaking-lutely. I’ll be right back,” I said to Cookie.
Dad nodded to her, then closed the door between our offices, not that it would help. That door made cardstock look indestructible.
“Is this about the coffee?” I asked, suddenly nervous.
“Coffee?”
“Oh”—
“No, you go ahead.”
I made a quick cup of contraband coffee, then sat behind my desk as he folded himself into the chair across from me. “What’s up?” I asked.
His gaze flitted toward me, paused, then veered off again, never quite touching mine. Not a good sign.
With a heavy sigh, he said what was on his mind in all its psychotic glory. “I want you to quit the investigations business.”
Though his statement was only slightly less welcome than chlamydia, I had to give him kudos for using the direct approach. For a former detective who’d retired with honors, he could be the most evasive man in my immediate gene pool, so this was a nice change.
But give up my business? The same business I’d built from the ground up with my own two hands and designer Louis Vuittons? The same business for which I’d sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears? Well, maybe not sweat and tears, but there was blood. Lots of blood.
Give it up? Not likely. Besides, what else would I do? I totally should’ve gone to Hogwarts when I had the chance.
I shifted in my chair as Dad waited for a response. He seemed determined, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possibly Milk Duds.
“Are you psychotic?” I asked, realizing my plan to charm and bribe him if need be flew out the window the minute I opened my mouth.
“Charley—”
“Dad, no. I can’t believe you’re even asking this of me.”
“I’m not asking.” His sharp tone brought me up short, and all the huffing and puffing that had built beneath the surface slammed into me, knocking my breath away. Was he serious? “You can tend bar for me full-time until you find something else.”
Apparently.
“Unless, of course, you want to stay on. I could use someone to do my books, keep inventory, and do the ordering.”
What the hell?
“But I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I can help you get on somewhere else. Or you could go back to school, get your master’s.” He looked hopeful. “I’ll pay for it. Every cent.”
“Dad—”
“Noni Bachicha is looking for a new office manager.”
“Dad, re—”
“He’d hire you in a heartbeat.”
“Dad, stop.” I bolted out of my chair to get his attention. When I had it, I placed both my palms on the desk, leaned forward, and said as nicely as I could, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I threw my hands into the air, flabbergasted. “For one thing, this isn’t just about me. I have
