The man used a handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Uh, John Tupper.” He nervously eyed the passing scenery while Easy raced down Fountain Boulevard.
Trish twisted on the seat. “John, this is my brother. Easy, John works with me at the insurance company. He’s an adjuster. I told him you can help him.”
The majority of Easy’s business dealt with insurance fraud. In the past six years he’d become an expert at ferreting out cheats who faked injuries or lied about stolen property. He kept his eyes on the road, alert for any lurking cops who might object to his speeding. “What you got?” He stomped on the gas to beat a yellow light. “Fake back injury? Phony burglary?”
Trish yelped and clutched the dashboard. “Slow down!”
He turned onto Powers and checked the time again. The dirtbag’s plane departed in thirty-nine minutes. Easy hoped to catch him playing preboarding kissy face with his honey. He goosed the speed up to sixty-five.
“Uh, actually, it’s personal, Mr. Martel,” John said. He held on to the back of Trish’s seat with both hands.
“Call me Easy, John. We’re all family here.”
Trish enjoyed tagging along when he needed an extra pair of hands, and she was as good, and sometimes better than him when it came to research. Some aspects of his job repelled her, though. A hopeless romantic when it came to family matters, she’d never recommend him for a child custody case or a cheating spouse.
“How personal are we talking?”
“His sister was murdered,” Trish said. “The police say it’s an accident, but it’s not.”
Easy changed lanes to pass a semi. To his left he noted an airliner banking for final approach toward the Colorado Springs airport. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, I don’t stick my nose in capital cases. Only TV private eyes get involved in murders.”
She huffed her exasperation. “You have to hear what’s going on. You can help him, Easy, I know you can. You have to.”
He reached the airport entrance in record time. Concentrating on driving, praying for a parking spot in the usually overcrowded lot, he waved his sister into silence. He’d been after this slimeball for two weeks. His client knew her husband was cheating. Wives always knew. She wanted proof, something to shove in his face, but the dirtbag knew his wife knew and was being very careful. The spur-of-the-moment “business” trip proved it.
So as not to get hung up at the security checkpoint, he began emptying his pockets. He tossed coins, pens, a penlight, a Swiss Army knife, a pair of handcuffs, a ring of master keys and his cell phone on the floor at Trish’s feet. She grimaced at the clattering collection.
“If you don’t chase killers, why bother carrying handcuffs?”
“My girlfriends like them.”
Dumb luck stayed with him; he found a parking spot in the first row. He grabbed his equipment bag. “We can talk inside. Hurry!” He took off at a run for the terminal with John and Trish right on his heels. Inside, he tore up the escalator. He paused at a monitor displaying departure times to find the gate he needed.
“What are you going to do?” Trish demanded breathlessly.
“Put you in the movies.” He clapped a hand on John’s bony shoulder and shoved him closer to Trish. He approved of the man’s gray suit and her soft blue dress. Nice, but not too dressy. “You two make a great-looking couple.”
Cringing away from Trish, John tugged at his jacket. “Uh, I’m married.”
“It’s only acting.”
They met up with a crowd at the security checkpoint, but fortunately airport security hadn’t limited entry to ticket holders only. Easy anxiously checked his watch while Trish peeled off her oversize earrings, necklace and an armful of bracelets before she stopped setting off the metal detector alarms.
“You wear too much junk,” Easy grumbled.
“I didn’t ask for a trip to the airport.” She trotted to keep up while she worked the earrings back into her ear-lobes.
He strode down the terminal, unzipping the bag as he went. He pulled out the video camera and turned it on. He double-checked the battery and blew minuscule pieces of lint off the lens. Everything operated perfectly.
At the gate his luck continued. Seated side by side in the waiting area, Dirtbag and his honey held hands. Even better, they faced the broad bank of windows; sun glare wouldn’t interfere with the taping. Easy huddled with Trish and John.
“Make like honeymooners.” He handed John the equipment bag. “It’s the guy over there in the checked suit sitting with the brunette. Move behind them so I can get them in the picture.”
John slung the equipment bag over his shoulder. “We don’t have to go to court or anything, do we?”
“Nope. You’re just innocent passersby.”
Trish groaned. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Hey, when you get married and your old man cheats on you, you’ll thank me when I catch him.”
Trish stiffened, arching her brows. “Any man I marry will never cheat”
“That’s right, because then I’ll have to kill him. Go on. Ham it up. Make me believe you’re in love.”
The taping went as smooth as creamy peanut butter. He even captured the dirtbag grinning at Trish’s and John’s antics. The brunette leaned over to give Dirtbag a big smooch on the lips.
He kept videotaping while the adulterous pair boarded the plane. Chuckling, he turned off the camera. “Thanks, Trish, John. I love it when a plan comes together.” He patted the camera, knowing he’d earned yet another month’s payment on his motorcycle. “I owe you lunch.”
“You owe me a lot more than that.” Trish grabbed his arm and steered him into a small cafeteria. “You have to listen to John. It’s really important.”
Forcing a sober expression he turned to his sister’s friend. “I don’t have access to the forensic tools the cops have. Besides, interfering with police investigations is a good way to end up in prison. I’m sorry, man, but I’m the wrong guy for the job.”
Trish urged the men to sit at a small table. “Shut up and listen, Easy. It’s a lot more personal than you think. Remember Catherine St. Clair? She’s back in town.” She swished away to fetch coffee.
Easy gawked at his sister’s back. Catherine…his Catherine? Never Cat or Cathy or Cee-cee or Cate—Easy had nicknamed her Tinker Bell. Even after twelve years the sound of her name turned his insides hot and cold while an odd sensation ruffled below his diaphragm.
He knew she’d moved to Arizona. Years ago, he’d traced her address and phone number—he kept them locked away in a file cabinet. Sometimes the urge to call her or appear on her doorstep grew so strong it drove him a little bit crazy. Only the still-tender shreds of his broken heart kept him from following through.
Annoyed at the way old emotions sneaked up on him, Easy cleared his throat. “How do you know Catherine?”
“I don’t,” John said. “I know the man she’s dating. His name is Jeffrey Livman. He was my sister’s husband, the man she loved. He murdered her.” He smoothed a hand over the side of his fine hair and dragged in a long, shaky breath. His voice firmed up, seething with well-nourished rage. “Jeffrey didn’t wait a full month after Roberta died before he began dating Miss St. Clair.”
Trish returned with a red plastic tray holding three cups of coffee. “I freaked when John showed me the pictures he took of Catherine with Jeffrey. I haven’t