“That doesn’t sound like magic to me. That sounds like good old-fashioned American greed.”
“A lot of drone and imaging surveys of the area haven’t turned up much, but if it’s concealed by magic, they might not be able to. No evidence of anyone suddenly striking it rich after Ruth’s murder either. So even if they found the map, they didn’t find the mine.”
Shay was about to write off Peyton’s first attempt when the map comment sparked something in the back of her mind. Some of the details seemed familiar somehow, even though she couldn’t remember ever reading about the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.
Shay furrowed her brow. “That’s not a huge amount to go on, and if I do modify my business model, I definitely don’t want to start spending a lot of time and money chasing down old rumors.”
Peyton grinned. “What if you’re not spending your money?”
“Listening…”
“I’ve got a client lined up who is willing to pay for you to find either the mine or the gold, including a deposit or a retainer or whatever the hell you want to call it.”
Shay held up her hand for a high-five from Peyton. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to talk to the guy. You get to live another day. These are the jokes, Tech-Wizard.” She let out a laugh as she saw a shudder pass through Peyton.
The next afternoon, Shay found herself sitting at a table in A.J.’s Kitchen, a local diner that she hit up on occasion. Although they didn’t serve pizza, they did serve grits, an old favorite from childhood.
Most places, especially places on the west coast, couldn’t get them right, but A.J.’s always did. Not too runny, not too thick with the right amount of salt and butter.
Shay eyed a man sitting two tables down digging into his grits with a spoon. She resisted the urge to throw a fork at him and yell, always use a fork, idiot.
Instead, she picked up her fork to scoop up a bite of her grits. After swallowing, she took a sip of her coffee and glanced down at her phone. The client would be arriving any minute.
Shay glanced around the room and resisted a sharp laugh. She was sitting in the corner, her back to a windowless wall. Without even planning it, she’d practiced defensive seating. Instincts are ingrained in me.
The comforting weight of her 9mm resting in her shoulder holster under her jacket and the knife in her boot were less of a surprise. There were just certain accessories a prepared and fashionable woman didn’t leave home without.
A man in a slick gray suit and salt-and-pepper hair entered. He was pushing his mid-fifties and attractive in a rumpled sort of way. More importantly, he matched the description of the client.
Shay eyed him for a moment, glancing toward the window to make sure she didn’t see any other suspicious movement. She waved to him, and he made his way toward her.
The man looked her up and down for a moment, blinking in obvious surprise, as his pupils widened.
“Greg Abbot?” Shay asked.
The man nodded. “And you’re the retrieval specialist?”
“Field archaeologist, tomb raider, whatever you want to call me. For now, just call me Shay.”
Greg stared at her for a moment before taking a seat.
“Problem, Greg?” Shay said.
“I… uh… I guess I didn’t expect such a beautiful woman.”
“Not on the list of requirements to get the job done.”
“No… of course.” His face reddened as he sat down.
Good sign… Shay paused as a waitress came to take Greg’s order. He only asked for some coffee. Shay waited patiently while the waitress came back and poured the man’s drink.
“The coffee is good here,” she said. “Not from a drip maker.”
Greg took a sip and nodded, steadily becoming calmer and more focused. “I don’t really know the protocol for this sort of thing. Honestly, this is the first time I’ve really looked for your specific kind of help on this issue.”
Shay looked him up and down. “First things, first. I guess I want to know a little about you.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yeah. Because if you’re, for example, a piece of shit, that means you’ll have piece of shit enemies, and they may ambush me with mercenaries. It’s good to know ahead of time who I might have to shoot.”
Greg blinked and nervously chuckled. “You’re very blunt, Shay.”
“Delicacy is required on the job, not before. The best way to have this turn out as a success for all of us is to have all the risks on the table.”
“I don’t have any of those sorts of enemies. Mine are very white collar and boring.” Greg took a deep breath. “I’m a distant but direct descendant of the Peraltas, the original family that owned the so-called Dutchman’s Mine.”
“Did you bring proof?”
Greg looked surprised but reached inside his jacket for a folded piece of paper and laid it flat on the table, turning it so Shay could read it. It was a family tree that showed the line weaving down to Greg Abbot. Not exactly direct, Shay noted.
“I suppose treasure seeking runs in my genes. I made a fortune in finance, taking chances just like my ancestors. I just got smarter and did it with other people’s money.”
Shay nodded. “Not as dangerous as smuggling gold.”
“You’d be surprised. The point is, I have through strenuous effort recovered some legal documentation that proves my ownership of the mine and the gold, but I need to find the mine or the gold first, for it to mean anything. My research has turned up a particular miner’s mark pressed into the gold that left the mine. I can use it to prove ownership if it hasn’t been melted down.”
Shay took a bite of her grits and swallowed, giving her time to think before responding. “Sounds like you’ve gathered a lot of good information. Why so much trouble finding the mine?”
“Hard one to explain, exactly. I’ve tried to fund expeditions
