Chapter 2

“Done.” I took the money and knew instantly that a wild case and ride were ahead of me, mostly because I was now his employee. 2: A Second Case

11:42 A.M.

My office that morning moved and shook for a change. I couldn’t remember when clients sat across from my desk and wanted to hire me for my services. Money was tight, but manageable. My second meeting for the day was just as interesting as the first. Margo Pagino, the famous paperback “fluff” writer, stared at me with a stern and wrinkle-less face. She sucked on the tip of a Waterman pen and clicked it against her rabbit-like teeth.

“You do find people, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Only when they really want to be found.”

“And what if they don’t want to be found?”

She was a spicy woman with long legs, lots of plastic surgery, and only wore the most expensive labels. Her narrow lips were a bright red, her hair blazed white, and pearls were snug around her corded throat. Rumors in Hurricane Bay and along the Gulf’s coast suggested that she was worth four hundred million dollars because of her paperback sales during the last forty years. Truth was, no one knew how much she had earned from her books, except for maybe her hired accounting firm and nosey Uncle Sam.

“If someone doesn’t want to be found, then I can’t help you, Margo.” It sounded curt, but to the point. And the use of her first name probably threw her off a touch, since she only liked to be called Ms. Pagino.

She placed the pen inside her casual clutch, shifted in her seat like a delicate and old bird, and said, “I’m not sure if my son wants to be found.”

“Which son?” I asked, knowing that she had six: Bentley, Brian, Benjamin, Bradley, Brandon, and the baby in the family, Bobby.

“Bobby, of course. The ugly duckling of the family.”

Robin “Bobby” Pagino was hardly ugly in my opinion. Gorgeous with a thick head of red hair, freckles, and a middleweight wrestler’s frame, I thought him rather attractive. Something told me that he never had a bad day in his life because of his good looks, his mother’s money, and his last name.

“Has he run off?” I asked in an effort to learn her situation, a few details of the case, and maybe the reason why Bobby turned up missing.

She sighed, looked at the clutch on her lap, and said in a frazzled tone, “Run off. Abducted. Moved. Something like that. I’m really not sure, Mr. Dupree. You figure it out. All I can tell you is that he has been missing from his studio apartment for the last forty-eight hours. Bobby makes contact with me every day. I’m very concerned with his current state and location.”

“The pay is steep,” I told her. Honestly, it wasn’t, but she was loaded. I wanted to take advantage of her paperback sales. Like I said, money couldn’t be any tighter.

“There isn’t an amount that’s too high regarding my son.”

“Twenty thousand dollars,” I said. “I want half up front. When I find him, if I do find him, you can pay me the other half.”

She agreed, signed a contract with me, and wrote out a check for the ten grand. Before she left, she commanded, “You will find him. No one ever lets me down in Hurricane Bay.”

“Of course.” I fixed a strong and convincing stare at her, thrilled that I had just earned enough dough to live off for four months, and told her goodbye. 3: Casey Kalhoun

St. Paul Street Grille & Bar

1:28 P.M.

Four months ago, I met my current boyfriend, Casey Kalhoun, at the St. Paul Street Grille & Bar during a wet T-shirt party. While the show—a line-up of musclehead dudes in white T-shirts that were hosed down in cheap beer—continued, Casey had accidentally bumped into me, knocked my beer against my chest, supplied me with my own wet T-shirt, and caused fireworks to occur between our bodies that exploded throughout Hurricane Bay. He felt horrible for his clumsiness, of course, and bought me a free beer, plus three more that evening.

Happy to pull the beer-soaked T-shirt off my torso, he told me, “Guy, you look good out of the cotton, anyway. Show that hot shit off.”

I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but sort of leaned that way during our night at St. Paul’s. Not only was Casey eye-catching with his rock solid jawline and twinkling hazel eyes with flecks of amber, but the blond who wouldn’t share his real age with me—even to this day—seemed easy to talk to and a master at flirting. I claimed him Prince Charming; someone I had always wanted to find.