Once a Rebel. Debbi Rawlins
should be.” She gestured with a lift of her chin. “How’s the shoulder?”
“I want Mad Dog, Leslie.” Out of habit, or because she’d called attention to it, he flexed his injured shoulder. Today it didn’t hurt too much. “I’m dead serious about this.”
She leaned back in her creamy yellow leather chair and stared at him with a sympathy he found hard to stomach. Yet she wasn’t that unlike him. Chewed up and spit out by Hollywood when her use and youth had hit a wall. Still, she’d done okay for herself, invested well while she’d been making some dough, and then bought old man Barker’s detective and bail bonds agency.
Cord hadn’t been so smart. He’d spent the considerable money he’d made as a stuntman on cars and women as fast as he pulled in paychecks, too caught up in the good life to see that inevitably it would come to a crashing end. He pushed up from the too-small chair facing her and stretched out his legs. Nice office, but more chic than practical. Not that he knew anything about practicality. If he did, he’d give up the Porsche.
“Come on, Leslie,” he said smoothly, giving her his best pleading puppy-dog eyes.
Leslie sighed. “No.”
Cord exhaled sharply and looked out the window at the blue California sky, marred only by the persistent gray smog that hung over the Valley. Maybe it was time to move. L.A. was expensive and crowded and toxic. But where would he go? Not back to Arizona. Certainly not back to the reservation. The mere thought sent a shaft of dread down his spine. He’d go back to begging on the streets of L.A. before he’d end up there again.
“I need work, Les, but not this nickel-and-dime stuff.”
“Even the small stuff pays the bills.”
Cord drove a hand through his hair. It was long. Too long. Bad enough being six-three since his size made it hard to blend in when he did surveillance. Looking like the half-Indian he was didn’t help matters. “Don’t worry about my shoulder. I’m back to bench-pressing three times a week. I’m fine.”
“Right.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “That’s why the studios are pounding down your door to offer you work.”
He gritted his teeth, angry, but worse, a heartbeat away from panic. A year had passed since the accident and he still didn’t have full range of motion. One more injury, the doctor had said, and Cord’s arm would be totally useless. “It’s an insurance issue. It doesn’t mean squat.”
“Hell, Cord, make peace with it already,” she said, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “You’re out of the stunt business. For good. Got it? You’re thirty-three, which isn’t so bad, granted, but with your shoulder hanging on by a thread, there will be no more plum jobs. Not the kind that used to pay for your Porsche. For God’s sake, we don’t even know half the guys calling the shots anymore. You understand as well as I do how this town works, you’ve got to know somebody. You’ve already been replaced, my friend. Deal with it.”
She was right. That’s what stunk. It didn’t matter that he still worked out six days a week, that he was strong and fit and had a unique look that had once earned him top dollar when westerns had made a comeback. It meant nothing that he’d never balked at a single stunt they’d asked him to do. The more dangerous, the more willing he’d been to take on the challenge. The truth was, a year out of the business, coupled with an injury that made him a liability, and he was forgotten.
“All the more reason I need better gigs than chasing after scumbag husbands. I need some credibility if I want to make it as a private detective and attract worthwhile clients.”
“You’re absolutely right.” She looked pleased, obviously having bought his line of crap. “That’s why I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Winslow case. The sisters are still missing.”
“Not exactly a news flash.” The daughters of actors Brad and Linea Winslow, a Hollywood powerhouse couple, had bizarrely disappeared within six months of each other. Like vultures feasting on roadkill, the media had been all over the story. Until some upcoming young actor had shoved his male lover off the hill below the Hollywood sign.
“Other than the FBI and Malcolm Baxter, who I hear the Winslows have kept on retainer, I doubt many people are working the case at this point. It’s been too long and costly.”
Malcolm Baxter. The smug, condescending bastard. The guy’s name alone was enough to make Cord’s insides clench. Everything about the older man—from his Armani suits to his trademark tasseled Italian loafers—made Cord want to teach the guy a lesson. It wasn’t the man’s success Cord begrudged, but something in his penetrating soulless eyes that seemed to remind Cord of every humiliation he’d suffered since the day he’d left the reservation.
He forced away thoughts of Baxter. “What’s it been, a year and a half since they went missing?”
“Nineteen months, to be exact.” She reached behind and swung her black designer purse off the gleaming mahogany credenza that matched her desk. She set down the fancy bag and fished out a small key.
Yep, Leslie had grown to like nice things. Just like him. Difference was, she could afford them. “According to news reports, the trail went cold fast,” he said, watching her unlock the strongbox. “I don’t think the police picked up a single lead. Not even when the second sister went missing. Even the FBI turned up nothing.”
“That’s right. The mystery of the century some reporters were calling it.” She took out a wad of cash and looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Imagine the publicity when someone finally finds them. I mean, they couldn’t have both vanished into thin air. They have to be somewhere.” She gave a small shrug. “Even if it’s just their bodies that turn up.”
He waited for her to finish, and then finally got her meaning. “And you think—” He shook his head in disbelief. At the time, the best in the business had taken up the search. Private dicks and bounty hunters from all over the country had crawled out from under rocks and descended on the vacant house the women had inherited in Deadwood, South Dakota, and where each had last been seen, in hopes of claiming the reward. Even tabloid reporters had dived into the frenzy. Everyone had come up empty. “You’re nuts.”
“You wanted credibility. Not even considering the million bucks the Winslows are offering to locate their daughters, find them and you’d be able to write your own ticket. You’d be in so much demand, you wouldn’t even need me.”
“I can’t afford to go on a wild-goose chase. You know that. Not to mention the expense of traveling all the way to Deadwood. I need a paying job.”
“That’s why I’m willing to stake you.”
Cord briefly eyed the cash. Two stacks. Made up of hundreds. Temptation pulled at his gut. “Why?”
“For half the reward money, and publicity for my agency.”
“So why the sudden interest?” he asked, waiting for her to squirm. This was a bunch of crap. They both knew it.
She didn’t even blink. “Because the Deadwood house has been sold. The new owner is tearing part of it down and having some extensive renovation done to the rest of the building in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. This may be the last chance to uncover any clues.”
He still didn’t buy her motive. “The Winslows sold the house when it’s their last link to their daughters? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The corners of Leslie’s mouth quirked. “But I heard that the almighty Malcolm Baxter convinced them that the place was a dead end. Probably got a kickback from the Realtor for convincing them.”
Cord knew she’d never liked Baxter, either. Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t sure. Probably had more to do with professional rivalry since the guy was a shameless publicity whore and managed to snag the best clients. Cord’s