Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)
Thank goodness I’d mentioned that at our impromptu meeting.
    “What time?” I asked.
    “What time works for you?”
    Gee, I don’t know. Let me ask my imaginary nanny.
    “Let me make two quick calls and get back to you,” I said, preparing to call Kenna or my mom. That couldn’t become a habit. Really, it already was a habit; I just didn’t want to ask more of them. Evenings were going to be tough because of the kids. Maybe Dean and I could work in shifts? I thought. And go on lunch dates? Yuck. I’d never thought about it, but there’s a reason dates happen at night. It’s more romantic, and darkness hides wrinkles.
    “Got it,” Dean said. “I understand.”
    Maybe Kenna was right. Working together might be easier than planning dates.
    Dean gave me Frank’s contact info, and I promised to call back about timing. After pausing to check for Lego disasters, I called Mom, who said she’d come over whenever I needed her. Thank God. Then I emailed Frank a contract and called Dean again.
    “We can meet at the hotel whenever it’s convenient,” I said, hardly believing it myself. If only I could say that more often — and with totally different meaning .
    “Great. Frank organized dinner for the guys in a private room, and the hotel has a small conference room for us next door. They’re very accommodating due to the circumstances. It’s not ideal that the guys will be together, but at least we’ll have them all there, and we can talk to them one by one. Does six o’clock work for you?”
    “Sure,” I said. “But would you mind emailing me any other details? Or calling back in half an hour? Things are a little hectic here.”
    Legos were crashing downstairs, followed by screams of glee or anger, which are strangely similar with kids.
    “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll email you, and I can pick you up at five thirty. Is that okay?”
    “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

Seven

      
    Five thirty came too soon, of course. But I’d supplied Mom with a dinner plan, an “In Case of Emergency” reference sheet (several sheets, if I’m being honest, including CPR instructions), and a movie to be used in case of extreme boredom (hers or the kids’). Yep, I’m that parent. The one who’s sorta creeped out by the Boy Scouts but lives by a similar motto: Be over prepared.
    As soon as Dean’s car pulled up, I called out, “He’s here, guys. Love you!” and scooted out the door to avoid reintroductions.
    Dean had left the Aston Martin at home and brought his nondescript, gray SUV instead. It was his surveillance car, chosen for its ability to blend in. He also had a blaring motorcycle I’d found offensive for two seconds until I realized how hot he looked on it. I’d appreciated his tattoos just as quickly, one of which honored his mom.
    Tonight he was all covered up in gray dress pants, a white button-down, and an understated gray and blue tie that set off his bright, blue eyes. As much as I loved his blond hair and brute strength, it was those eyes that mesmerized me. I was pretty sure they could get anyone to confess anything.
    “How do you want to do this tonight?” I asked. “Should we stick together and interview each guy in the conference room—and record everything?”
    “Yeah. That makes the most sense.”
    I’d brought a digital recorder, a notebook, pens, and a list of questions, which I ran by him, adding several he suggested. We decided he’d do most of the talking since his experience, while not extensive, was greater than mine. I’d take notes and jump in whenever it felt right.
    “Got any tips for me?” I asked.
    “When you ask to record the conversation, be casual about it. Say something like, ‘Just so we don’t have to take as many notes…’ And if someone starts giving us self-incriminating or risky info, stop taking notes and just listen. Our goal is to make them as comfortable as possible, no matter what they say.”
    Okay. Hopefully Dean would do the same

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