Rough Rider. B.J. Daniels
would have taken the McGraw kidnapping case—let alone that it could have anything to do with getting him killed.
C.J. tried to remember the last time she’d stopped by Hank’s office. The thousands of times all melted together. Had he ever furtively hidden a file when she’d walked in? Had he the last time she saw him alive, just hours before he was struck down and killed?
Her fingers were trembling as she opened the file and saw that there was only one sheet of yellow lined notebook paper—the kind Hank always used. There were also only a few words written on it, several phone numbers and some doodling off to one side. She read the words: “Travers McGraw, Sundown Stallion Station, Whitehorse, Montana. Oakley, Jesse Rose, six months old. Stuffed toy horse. Pink ribbon. Pink grosgrain ribbon.”
* * *
BOONE HAD SEEN her expression when she’d pulled the manila file folder out from what appeared to be a crack between the new desktop and the old warped one. She’d found something that had made her pale.
“May I?” he asked again.
Silently, C.J. handed over the file, crossed her arms and watched as Boone opened it as if she’d known he was going to be disappointed.
“Where’s the rest of it?” he said after looking at the words written on the yellow-lined sheet of paper inside.
“That’s all there is.”
He could see that she was shaken by what she’d found. Not only had Hank started a file, he’d hidden it. That had to mean something given how the color had drained from her face and how shaken she still looked.
She started around the desk, bumped into him as she stumbled into an unstable stack of files. He caught her, his hands going around her slim waist as she clutched at him for a moment before she got her balance and pulled free. She headed toward a small door he hadn’t noticed before. As she opened it, he saw it was a compact bathroom.
Boone turned his attention back to the file as she closed the door. So Hank Knight had started a file. But if he’d found out anything, there was no indication of it. Maybe the man didn’t know anything about Jesse Rose. Maybe he was just curious.
Or maybe not, he realized as he stared at the notes the PI had taken. He’d known about the stuffed toy horse. But he’d also known about the pink ribbon around its neck—something that hadn’t been released to the press.
He studied the doodling on the side of the page. Hank had drawn a little girl with chin-length hair. His depiction of Jesse Rose from his imagination? Or his memory? Beside the girl, Hank had drawn what looked like a little dog.
A few moments later, he heard the toilet flush. C.J. came out drying her hands on a paper towel. He studied her for a moment. She seemed different somehow. She looked stronger, more assured. He realized she’d probably used the bathroom to get over the shock of finding the hidden file. But what about it had shaken her? The realization that he could be right?
“Did you ever have a dog?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He motioned to the file and the doodle on the side.
“You think that means something? Doesn’t every little girl have a dog?”
“Did you?” Boone waited patiently for her to answer.
“No, all right? If you must know, we lived in a building much like this one. The landlord didn’t allow dogs.”
“Hank doodled a dog. A girl with a dog. So there must be more than this,” he said, indicating the file.
She shook her head. “Talk about jumping to wild conclusions.” She picked up the flashlight from where she’d left it lying on the desk, the beam lighting most of the room, and shone it on the single sheet in the file.
“Hank had his own system. He numbered the pages in each file, keeping a running tally. It was his idea of organization. If you look on the back of the file, it shows how many papers are in each file. That way you can tell if anything is missing.”
“Your partner got his office broken into a lot?” Boone quipped.
“It’s the nature of the business,” she said offhandedly.
He turned the folder over. There was a one on the back. One sheet of paper inside. He looked up to see her headed for the door. “Wait a minute, where are you going?”
“Home to bed,” she said, after picking up three file folders from the desk where she’d stacked them earlier.
“That’s all you’re taking? Aren’t you even going to lock the office door?”
“What’s the point?” she said over her shoulder. “If there was anything in here worth stealing, it’s long gone now.”
Taking the McGraw file, he went after her, catching up to her at the stairs. “Look, Ms. West—”
“C.J.” She met his gaze. In the dim light of the naked bulb over the stairs, he noticed her eyes were a rich, warm brown, the same color as his favorite horse. “Yes?”
He realized he’d been staring. At least he had the sense not to voice his thoughts. He doubted she would appreciate her eye color being compared to that of his horse’s hide even if it was his favorite. “You should at least have my phone number, don’t you think?”
He started to reach for his wallet and his business card, but stopped when she smiled, a rather lopsided smile that showed definite amusement. “I already have it.” Reaching into her pocket, she brought out his wallet.
“You picked my pocket?” He couldn’t help the indignation in his tone. “What kind of private investigator are you?” he demanded, checking his wallet. His money and credit cards were still there. Now he knew what she’d been doing in the bathroom. All she’d apparently taken was his business card.
When he looked up, he saw pride glittering like fireworks in the rich brown of her eyes. “I’m the kind of PI who doesn’t take anything at face value. I’m also the kind who doesn’t work with amateurs, so this is where we part company. I’ll call if I find out anything about your sister or the kidnapping.” With that she turned and disappeared down the stairs.
He caught up with her at the street. “I’m not leaving town. If I have to, I’ll dog your every footstep.”
“As entertaining as that sounds—”
“I’m serious. I’ll stay out of your way, but you can’t keep me out of this.”
She smiled as if she could and would and climbed into an older-model yellow-and-white VW van. The engine revved. He thought about following her to see where she lived. But he wasn’t going to sit outside her residence all night to make sure she didn’t give him the slip in the morning. He couldn’t force her to help him anymore than he could make her keep him in the loop.
The woman was impossible, he thought as he climbed into his pickup and watched C.J. West drive away. A car a few vehicles away started up and left, as well. He glanced at it as it passed but didn’t notice the driver. His mind was on C.J. West.
He knew nothing about her. She, he feared, knew everything about him, or would soon. The entire story of his family’s lives for the past twenty-five years was on the internet.
Swearing, he reminded himself what was at stake. He couldn’t go home without good news for his father. Hank Knight had started a file. He thought of the brief file now lying on the seat next to him. “Pink ribbon. Pink grosgrain ribbon.”
It didn’t take much of a mental leap to come up with a pink ribbon since Oakley’s horse had a blue ribbon on it. If that information had gotten out, then... But pink grosgrain? Had their attorney Jim Waters released that information to the PI? Or had Hank already known about the toy stuffed horse and the key bit of information about the pink ribbon?
Now more than ever, Boone believed that Hank Knight had