Rough Rider. B.J. Daniels
housed Knight Investigations. According to the family’s former lawyer, Jim Waters, he’d spoken to a private investigator by the name of Hank Knight a few times on the phone. Knight had asked questions that supposedly had Waters suspecting that the PI knew something more than he was saying. But Waters had never met with the man. All he’d had for Boone to go on was a phone number and an address.
The phone had recently been disconnected and the century-old brick building looked completely abandoned with dusty for-lease signs in most of the windows and just dust in others. No lights burned in the building—not that he’d expected anyone to be working this late.
Boone told himself that he might as well get a motel for the night and come back tomorrow. Not that he expected to find anything here. He was convinced this long trip from Whitehorse to Butte had been a wild-goose chase.
His father had been easy prey for twenty-five years. Desperate to find the missing twins who’d been kidnapped, Travers had appealed to every news outlet. Anyone who’d watched the news or picked up a newspaper over the past twenty-five years knew how desperate he was since each year, the amount of the reward for information had grown.
Boone, suspicious by nature, had been skeptical from the get-go. The family attorney had proven he couldn’t be trusted. So why trust information he said he’d gotten? His father hadn’t trusted the lawyer for some time—with good reason. He swore under his breath. All he could think about was how disappointed his father was going to be—and not for the first time.
But he’d promised he would track down the PI and follow up on the information no matter what it took. And damn if he wouldn’t, he thought as he started his pickup. But before he could pull away, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark figure had just come around the block and was now moving quickly down the sidewalk. The figure slowed at the building that housed Knight Investigations. He watched as the person slipped in through the only door at the front.
Across the street, Boone shut off the truck’s engine and waited. He told himself the person he’d seen could be homeless and merely looking for a place to sleep. It was late and the fall night was clear and cold at this high altitude. Butte sat at 5,538 feet above sea level and often had snow on the ground a good portion of the year.
Boone hunkered in the dark, watching the building until he began to lose patience with himself. This was a waste of his time. The cab of the truck was getting cold. What he needed was a warm bed. A warm meal didn’t sound bad, either. He could come back in the morning and—
A light flickered on behind one of the windows on the top floor and began to bob around the room. Someone was up there with a flashlight. He squinted, able to finally make out the lettering on the warbled old glass: Knight Investigations.
He felt his pulse thrum under his skin. It appeared he wasn’t the only one interested in Hank Knight.
Climbing out and locking the rig, Boone headed for the door where he’d seen the figure disappear inside. A sliver of moon hung over the mountains that ringed Butte. Stars twinkled like ice crystals in the midnight blue sky overhead. Boone could see his breath as he crossed the street.
The moment he opened the door, he was hit with the musky scent of the old building. He stopped just inside to listen, but heard nothing. Seeing the out-of-order sign on the ancient elevator, he turned to the door marked Stairs, opened it and saw that a naked bulb dangled from the ceiling giving off dim light. He began to climb, taking three steps at a time.
As he neared the top floor, he slowed and quieted the sound of his boot soles as best he could on the wooden stairs. Pushing open the door marked Fifth Floor, he listened for a moment, then stepped out. A single bulb glowed faintly overhead, another halfway down the long empty hallway.
The building was eerily quiet. No lights shone under any of the doors to his right. To his left, toward the front of the building, he saw that there were four doors.
The last door, where he estimated Knight Investigations should be, was ajar. A faint light glowed from within.
As quietly as possible, he moved down the hall, telling himself maybe Hank had come back for something. Or someone else was looking for something in the detective’s office.
He was almost to the doorway when he stopped to listen. Someone was in there banging around, opening and closing metal file cabinet drawers. Definitely searching for something.
Boone leaned around the edge of the doorjamb to look into the office. In the ambient light of the intruder’s flashlight, he saw nothing but an old large oak desk, a worn leather chair behind it and a couple of equally worn chairs in front of it. Along the wall were a half dozen file cabinets, most of them open. There seemed to be files strewn everywhere.
With Knight Investigations’ phone disconnected, he had assumed Hank had closed down the business. Possibly taken off in a hurry. Now, seeing that the man had even left behind his office furniture as well as file cabinets full of cases, that seemed like a viable explanation. Hank Knight was on the lam.
His pulse jumped at the thought. Was it possible he did know something about Jesse Rose and the kidnapping? Is that why he’d taken off like he apparently had?
Boone couldn’t see the intruder—only the flashlight beam low on the other side of the desk. He could hear movement. It sounded as if the intruder was rustling through papers on the floor behind the desk. Looking for something in particular? Or a homeless person just piling up papers to make a fire in the chilly office?
Stepping closer, Boone slowly pushed the door open a little wider. The door creaked. The intruder didn’t seem to hear it, but he froze for a moment anyway. For all he knew, the person going through papers on the floor behind the desk could be armed and dangerous—if not crazy and drugged up.
Pushing the door all the way open, he carefully stepped in. He took in the crowded office in the ambient light of the intruder’s flashlight beam. The office had clearly been ransacked. Files were all over the floor and desk.
He realized that this intruder hadn’t had enough time to make this much of a mess. Someone had already been here. Which meant this new intruder was probably too late for whatever he was searching for. If that’s what he was doing hidden on the other side of the desk.
The line of old metal file cabinets along the wall all had their drawers hanging open. In the middle of all this mess, the large old oak desk was almost indistinguishable because of piles of papers, dirty coffee cups and stacks of files.
He moved closer, still unable to see the intruder, who appeared to be busy on the floor behind the large worn leather office chair on the other side of the cluttered desk.
The flashlight beam suddenly stilled. Had the intruder heard him?
Boone reached into his pocket, found his cell phone, but stopped short of calling 911. His family had been in the news for years. If the cops came, so would the media. He swore under his breath and withdrew his hand sans the cell phone.
Boone had a bad feeling that anchored itself in the pit of his stomach. He reminded himself that the person behind that desk might be someone more dangerous than he was in the mood to take on tonight.
He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. He had no desire to play hero. He’d always been smart enough to pick and choose his battles. This wasn’t one he wanted to lose for a wild-goose chase. Seeing nothing worthy of being a weapon, he took a step back.
The person on the other side of the desk had stopped making a sound. The beam of the flashlight hadn’t moved for a full minute.
He took another step back. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He swore under his breath as suddenly the flashlight beam swooped across the ceiling. The figure shot up from behind the office chair. All he caught was a flash of wild copper-colored hair—and the dull shine of a handgun—before the light blinded him.
Instinctively,