“Oh.” I offered up my best Sunday smile. “Surely you don’t mean little ole me?”
He executed a perfect heel-to-toe turn. “I do, in fact.”
I tried not to be intimidated. It didn’t work. “Well, okay, this is my office.”
“I was a detective, Davidson.”
“Right, I just meant that this is pretty much all there is. I’m not sure what kind of tabs you wanted to keep, but —”
“How do you do it?” He’d turned back to study the books on my bookshelf. I prayed he didn’t pay too close attention. Sweet Savage Love was probably not the kind of material he wanted his consultants to read.
I sat back behind my desk and took a sip of coffee. Liquid courage. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem to be very adept at solving cases and I was just wondering what your methods were.”
“Oh, well, you know. I’m a detective.” I laughed, sounding slightly more insane than I’d intended. “I detect.”
He strolled over and sat in the chair opposite me, laying his hat in his lap. “And what methods of detection do you use?”
“Just the everyday kind,” I said, having no idea what to say to that. What was he trying to get from me? “I just think to myself, ‘What would Sherlock do?’ ”
“Sherlock?”
“I even have a bracelet with the acronym WWSD on it. It’s my favorite. It’s plastic.” I was losing it. Spurting out inconsequential facts. He was so going to bust me. But for what? Why was I so nervous? I had a difficult time with confrontations. Two in one morning was going to be my undoing.
“And when you were nine? What methods of detection did you use then?”
I coughed. “Nine?”
“And how about when you were five? How did you solve cases for your father when you were five years old?”
“M-my father?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” he said, picking lint off his hat, “conducting a few interviews. It seems you helped your father for years and now you assist your uncle. Have been for some time now.”
Holy cow, was this air-the-dirty-laundry day? I would’ve worn my good underwear instead of the ones that said admission by invitation only. “I’m not really sure what you mean. I just became a PI a little over two years ago.”
“I mean, you’ve been helping your relatives advance their careers for quite some time now. I just want to know how.”
“You know, some people would find that idea ludicrous.”
“But not you.”
“No, sir. Probably not me. But I do have to meet a client, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m fairly certain I do.” He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “I will get to the bottom of this, Davidson.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I chose not to answer. Instead, I let my gaze wander to the left as he stared at me.
“I think there’s something else going on here, something that perhaps can’t be explained by normal means. And I’ll find out what it is.”
When he turned and left, I let out the breath I was holding. Bloody hell. Before I knew it, the entire world was going to know I was the grim reaper. Wait, maybe I could get a reality TV contract. We could call it Grim in the City.
By the time the captain – who was sadly no relation to Captain Jack – left, I was shaking. Literally. Not once, but twice today I’d been accused of underhandedness. This was insane. What was wrong with the world? Didn’t they know that ghosts and supernatural powers where little girls helped their dads and uncles solve cases didn’t exist?
It was books. It was television shows and movies. They had desensitized the world. Damn writers.
I took the interior stairs down to the restaurant and saw my father. He was a tall man with a stick-figure body and sandy hair forever in need of a trim. “You’re back!” I said, caught off guard for the third time that day.
“I am. You seem surprised. Or, maybe, nervous?”
I laughed. Loud. It was awkward. “What? Me? Not at all.”
“I know about the gun, Charley.”
“That was totally not my fault.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, giving me a quick hug.
Dad and I hadn’t been on the best of terms lately. He’d wanted me out of the PI biz, and I’d wanted him out of mine. He went about it the wrong way, trying to force me out by getting me arrested, among other things. Then I found out he’d had cancer and wanted to see me safe before he passed. The fact that he magically healed was a conundrum. One for which he thought I had the answers. I didn’t. I was pretty sure healing was not part of my gig. I was the grim reaper, for goodness’ sake.
“Can we talk soon?” he asked.
Discomfort prickled over my skin. He wanted answers that I didn’t have. Since I was certain that’s what he wanted to talk about, I deflected. “Is that a new shirt?”
“Soon, pumpkin,” he said before heading back to his office. He was so demanding.
I glanced around the bar and was floored at how many women were in there once again. The place had just opened for lunch like twenty seconds earlier. What the hell?
Shaking my head, I sat at my usual corner booth and looked at a menu for some unknown reason. I had the thing memorized, but that quesadilla from last night had to be a new item. There was nothing about it on the menu. Maybe it was a special.