Open-mouth laughing, all tits and teeth. She touched his arm. Leaned in.
“Oh you’re so funny,” murmured Shee, providing the woman a voiceover soundtrack. “I’m so vulnerable. I need to lean on you just to stay upright...”
The woman crossed her arms beneath her chest, a practiced move devised to press together her breasts as she listened to Mason in rapt attention while the dogs played a rousing game of butt-sniff.
Shee knew the move. She’d used it plenty of times.
Back off, Tits McGee...
Her watch buzzed with a call.
Cursing, she answered.
“What?”
“Excuse me,” said Angelina’s voice. “Did I catch you at a bad time? Are you with Superman?”
“No.” It was only a half-lie. “Sorry. What do you need?”
“I thought you’d like an update on your other admirer.”
“He’s still there?”
“No. He left after he lost you, looking pretty defeated, I might add.”
Shee felt bad for the kid.
Poor Logan P.I., there he was thinking he was Philip Marlowe and he turns out to be Inspector Clouseau.
“I think he’s a freshly minted P.I. Did Croix find anything on him?”
“You guessed right. He’s a private investigator, out of Ft. Lauderdale, licensed a year ago. Nothing special.”
“Not military?”
“No.”
Shee considered this. One of the rich guys caught with their braided belts around their ankles at the massage parlor might have hired a private investigator.
But a greenhorn? Not one of the more powerful ones. They’d hire a pro.
“Have Croix get me a list of the men charged with soliciting at that massage parlor. See if any of them are from the Ft. Lauderdale area or have any connection to Baby Gumshoe’s family.”
Angelina grunted. “Oh sure. She lives to serve. She’ll love that.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for Mick.”
“Got it. Don’t you want to know if Mason’s back?”
Shee sighed.
If you’re going to make me lie...
“Is he?”
“No.”
“Okay. Oh, hey, can you find an address on Mick’s friend Viggo? Last name Nilsson. N-I-L-S-S-O-N. And book me the next flight to Minneapolis. I’ll pay you back.”
Angelina paused. “I’m sorry, when did I become your secretary?”
“It’s for—”
“Mick. Right. I remember. What about Captain Hard Buns?”
Shee snickered. “He’s actually Commander Hard Buns. What about him?”
“Do you want to tell me why you’re running away from him?”
“I’m not—”
Shee turned to find Mason standing behind her, staring down, his dog at his side happily panting and covered in sand.
“I gotta go.” She ended the call.
Mason smiled. “Hello. I can’t find you for decades and now you’re everywhere.”
His eye dropped to the binoculars in her hand and she tucked them a little farther behind her leg.
“I was looking for you. I need to fly to Minnesota.”
She winced.
I shouldn’t have been so specific.
If he had anything to do with Mick, he’d know exactly why she was going.
His expression twisted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “Minnesota? Now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s winter.”
Ugh. She hadn’t thought about that. “It’s a work thing—”
“You’re still skip tracing?”
“No. Yes. Sort of.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure.”
His annoyance radiated off the t-shirt he’d slipped back on.
Spoilsport. Maybe he’d tired of being eye-raped by that neon hooker—
“I’ll wait,” he said.
“Hm?”
“I’ll wait for you to get back.”
Shee’s chest tightened again. “It could be a while...”
He shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe when you get back you can spare five minutes.”
Sensing the end of their exchange, the dog stood and Mason turned to leave.
Shee reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“Do you want to come with me?”
She sucked in a little breath. She’d had no idea that sentence was about to shoot out her mouth.
He cocked an eyebrow. “To Minnesota?”
“No. You’re right. It was a stupid idea—”
“No, I’ll go.” His body untensed and he looked down at the dog. “I’ll have to find a babysitter.”
“The hotel can look after him,” she offered, ever-helpful.
What am I doing?
She used the dog as a way to avoid Mason’s eyes and squatted to pet it. The muppet raised his head, searching for chin scratches.
“What’s his name?”
“Archie. A parting gift from my team.”
“Your team? He’s awfully fluffy for a K9.”
He chuckled. “Long story.”
“Hello, Archie.” Shee gave the dog another good scratching and then straightened, wiping the wet sand from her hands. She motioned to the parking lot across the street. “Are you parked over there?”
He looked at her as if she were an icing-covered little kid claiming she hadn’t eaten the birthday cake.
“You know I am,” he said.
She nodded. “Yup.”
He leaned against the steps railing, grinning. “You might be the tracker, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are idiots.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting that.”
“Speaking of which, let me try another Sherlock trick of my own. Minneapolis is about Mick, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She stopped there. “We should go.”
They started back, stopping at the A1A crosswalk as a biker pumped by in his sausage-casing-tight, day-glo racing jersey, looking as if he’d been wrapped in a giant, festive Mardi Gras condom.
“I heard he was shot,” said Mason as they crossed.
“Who told you that?”
“My team. SEAL news travels fast.”
She grunted.
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“In Minneapolis?”
“Yes.”
Change the subject.
“So what have you been up to?” she asked.
He laughed. “Nice segue. Smooth. You ask like it’s been a week since I saw you.”
“We have to start somewhere.”
He sighed. “Fair enough. I’ve been in the Navy. You?”
She rolled her eyes. “Duh. Could you give me a few highlights before we move to me?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Because I don’t think I’m going to get much outta you, and your highlights aren’t even classified.”
“How do you know?”
