Navy Seal Cop. Cindy Dees
guy on the planet.”
“It would be best if you leave his computer alone for now.” Spotting the stubborn look that entered her eyes, he added, “If you do get into his account, give me a call immediately.”
She nodded, a frankly adorable frown puckering her brow. And, she was back to looking like a nymphette. He would not look at her chest. At a glance it wasn’t anything to write home about, but at a second glance, she was nicely endowed in proportion to her overall smallness. Dammit, he respected women, and he was not going to turn this interview into a leering session.
“Can you think of anything else that might help me find Mr. Hubbard?”
“He’s a big beer drinker. Tends to hang out at microbreweries and in bars that serve artisanal beers.”
That gave him a place to start. He could canvas the local bars. “Do you have a picture of Mr. Hubbard that I could have?”
“Of course.” She moved over to the kitchen sink and lifted out a three-ring binder that she carried back to the sofa.
“You don’t cook much?” he asked.
“What?” She glanced back at the sink and down at the binder. “Oh. No. I destroyed a pan once while trying to hard-boil eggs. And it was stainless steel.”
“Impressive.”
“Did you know eggs actually blow up?” she asked indignantly.
He bit back a snort of humor. “Can’t say I did.”
She sat down next to him, and he was abruptly aware again of how small she was. Her face was fine-boned and slightly heart-shaped, vaguely elfin in appearance and utterly lovely. “They make a god-awful mess when they do. Yolk goes everywhere, and it dries on stuff like paint.”
His lips twitched in humor as she rifled through the binder.
“These are publicity photos he sends to fans. Would this work?” She pulled out an eight-by-eleven glossy head shot of Gary Hubbard.
He studied the professional picture critically. “That’s arguably the best photo I’ve ever seen of a missing person. Hell, it’s practically life-sized.”
She smiled back at him. “Let’s just say Gary is not a modest man and leave it at that.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“He’s been a television personality for nearly thirty years. He hosted a string of failed game shows. Tried a talk show, but he wouldn’t shut up and let his guests talk. That lasted only half a season. Then he landed the ghost-hunting gig. He’s been doing America’s Ghosts for six years.”
“Wife? Kids? Business partners?”
“No to all three. He likes to be in control. He’s got a crew back in New York, and they research locations, set up shoots, and help with post-production work, but on the road, it’s just him and me.”
That sent warning flags up in his mind. He asked, “How would you describe your relationship? Just coworkers? Friends? More?” He watched closely for tells of a lie. She was a lot younger than Hubbard and might not want to admit to an affair if there was one.
She startled him by laughing in genuine amusement at the question. “Me and Gary? Together? That’s hilarious. No, it’s a little sick, actually. We’re definitely not more than friends and coworkers. Sheesh. He’s older than my father.”
Bastien was surprised by the relief that flooded his gut. It was none of his business who she slept with. Still. He was glad she wasn’t involved with her boss.
“How did you come to be associated with the show? Were you assigned to it by the network?”
“No. Gary hired me. He told his bosses he wanted to work with me, and they reviewed my portfolio and agreed to hire me.”
Huh. So she owed her job to him. Did that reduce her viability as a suspect? Or perhaps she resented him because of it. Aloud, he asked, “What all do you do for Mr. Hubbard...as his coworker?”
“I film the show and direct him from behind the camera. Then he and I do the initial post-production editing and cleanup.”
She continued, “We shoot anywhere from three to ten episodes in a single location, and then we usually return to New York. The editor there cuts together the shows and Gary records any voice-overs they require.”
“How long have you two been in New Orleans?”
“About two weeks. We spent a week checking out spots to film, and the plan was to spend about three weeks filming for the show.”
How had this glorious creature been in his city for two weeks without him knowing about her? His radar for beautiful women must be slipping. Usually he was the first to know and the first to make a move. Not that he was sleezy about it. He liked women, and they liked him. He just didn’t like to get too deeply involved with any one woman.
Consciously suppressing his natural tendency to turn on the charm with the lovely Miss Price, Bastien asked, “While you were scouting locations, what did Mr. Hubbard say about this supposed treasure he’s tracking?”
“Not a word. He’s keeping whatever he knows about it completely to himself.”
Too bad. A rich treasure would certainly constitute a motive for kidnapping or worse. “Has Mr. Hubbard suggested on the show that the treasure is valuable?”
“This season hasn’t aired on television yet. But in the episodes we’ve already shot, he has indicated that the treasure is priceless.”
“Who all has seen the footage shot so far?”
“Gary, me and the production crew in New York.”
“I’ll need names of everyone on the crew.”
“Umm, okay. I can get that for you in the morning. I think I know everyone, but I may be missing someone who has access to the footage.”
He nodded and then said, “So you’ll be in town a few more weeks?”
“Assuming Gary shows up soon and we can resume filming on schedule.”
“What if he doesn’t show up?” he responded casually.
Horror filled her eyes, and then tears followed. He saw a lot of tears in his line of work and had become hardened to them long ago. But this woman’s unshed tears brimming in her stricken eyes twisted his gut painfully. He bit back an urge to tell her not to worry. That he would find her boss for her and bring him back to her. But he knew better than to make promises he couldn’t necessarily keep.
She choked out between sobbing gasps of air, “Gary’s like a father to me. He can be a pain in the butt, but he has a good heart, and he looked out for me when I needed it—”
She broke off. An interesting choice of words. Had she been in some kind of trouble that Hubbard rescued her from?
On the weekends, Bastien pulled reserve duty in a Navy SEAL unit, and his teammates often accused him of being a suspicious bastard. He assured them it was merely his cop’s instinct. And right now, that instinct was firing on all cylinders. There was a story behind this young woman. He would bet his police badge and his Budweiser—his SEAL insignia pin—that she had secrets to hide.
He asked, “Have you and Mr. Hubbard had any disagreements recently? Any falling-outs?”
She answered without hesitation, “We fight all the time. Gary always thinks he knows better than me how to stage and film the show. But he has no artist’s eye whatsoever, not to mention no training as a camera operator.”
Hmm. No evasion in her answer, but an admission of friction. He couldn’t take her off the suspect list yet. Too bad. His gut feeling was that she was not part of the kidnapping plot. But he only trusted gut feelings when they involved guns pointed at him or bad guys sneaking up behind him. In