The woman dropped her cell phone into her purse. “Hello, Bert.” The voice was honey-smooth, confident. “Yes, I’m sure you can help me. I was told I could find Russ Klein here.”
Something inside Russ jumped at the realization that this bird of paradise was looking for him. He turned around, schooling his features. “I’m Russ Klein.”
She smiled a hello, and he forgot any rational greeting he might have summoned. Lord, what a smile. What a face. She made him think of an impish angel in dress-up clothes as she came toward him with her arm extended. Her hand was cool and delicate when he shook it, the long nails painted a pumpkin color. He didn’t squeeze too hard for fear he’d break something.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when he’d recovered enough of his wits to speak. Bert watched from the corner of his eye, pretending renewed interest in the newspaper.
“My name is Sydney Baines,” she answered in an accent just shy of exotic.
Oh, hell. The woman had left several messages over the past few days, identifying herself as a private eye and claiming she had an “urgent matter” she wanted to discuss. Russ had ignored the calls, thinking it was a scam. What legitimate business could a P.I. have with him? He lived an uncomplicated life.
She extracted a black wallet from her green suede purse and snapped it open so that he could examine her credentials.
Russ studied the ID: Sydney Baines, Licensed Private Investigator, New York City. Now her accent and her mode of dress made more sense. And the fancy car.
“You came all the way from New York to find me?”
“I tried calling, but my messages went unreturned,” she said, not a hint of censure in her voice. “It’s very important that I talk to you.”
“Want some coffee?” he asked, putting off whatever business she had with him. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she’d come to say. Was some long-lost acquaintance of his mother’s hoping to get a handout? They’d be mighty disappointed. The quarter-million dollars-his mother’s divorce settlement from twenty years ago-was long gone.