Free Private Dancer by Suzanne Forster

buy the U.S. Mint,” he explained. “But she’s a space case, ripe pickings for con men. She married some middle-aged Romeo a few months ago, and now he’s skipped out with a chunk of her dough. She wants our agency to find him.” He harrumphed disgustedly. “If she’d used our services before she married the hustler, we could have saved her the time and trouble.”
    Bev had been pondering the situation even as Harve talked. With him laid up and their two senior investigators gone, there was no one with enough experience to handle a complicated “locates” case. There would undoubtedly be travel involved—
    “You’re going to have to take this one, B.J.”
    Bev’s head snapped up. He was going to trust her with something this important? “You think I can handle it? Alone ?”
    He stroked an eyebrow, deep in thought. “I think maybe Sam Nichols showed up at exactly the right time.”
    “What do you mean?” Bev rose from the chair, her heart beginning to pound. “Dad?”
    “We need a senior investigator, don’t we? Let’s hire him.”
    “ No !”
    Harve squinted at her, surprised. “What’s the problem?”
    Bev began to pace. How could she get out of this? She doubted Sam Nichols would accept the offer even if she made it, which she had no intention of doing. But how to convince Harve that it was a disastrous choice?
    “He’s impossible, Harve,” she said, talking as she walked. “He’d never fit in at Brewster’s. He’s arrogant and aggressive and competitive. He’s not a team player. Dad.” And that’s not all , she thought. He’s a sex maniac .
    Harve chuckled. “Good ol’ Sam. I’m glad to hear he hasn’t changed. Oh, you’ll get used to all that macho stuff, B.J. It’s Sam’s way. He was raised on the streets, and he’s got some rough edges, but he’s a damn fine detective. Trust me on this one, daughter, he’s the best.”
    Bev stopped short, threw her hands up in the air, and groaned aloud. “Dad, read my lips,” she said, turning to him. “I said it won’t work. It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s the agency. He’d be a disruptive force. He’d have us all at each other’s throats. So, forget it, okay? I can handle the Covington case on my own!”
    Harve shrugged. “Cool your jets, girl. It was just a suggestion. We’ll figure something out.”
    Bev was so busy fuming, she didn’t hear her father’s concession. Nor did she notice the glint of interest in his eye as he observed her flushed agitation. A thoughtful smile furrowed Harve Brewster’s face, but Bev didn’t see that either. If she had, she would have known she was in deep, deep trouble.

Five
    B EV SAT IN HER OFFICE listening to Lydia Covington’s muffled sobs. Her client, a lovely, soft-spoken woman in her mid-forties, had just described how her husband of six months had bilked her out of half a million dollars in an investment scam, and yet now she was weeping openly because he was such a wonderful man. Bev didn’t understand.
    “But Mrs. Covington,” she said gently, “he ran off with your money, a great deal of your money.”
    “Yes, I know,” Lydia whispered brokenly. “I know what Arthur’s done, but if you knew him, you’d understand.” A shudder moved through her delicate shoulders. “My husband was a saint, Ms. Brewster, I swear it. Sweet-natured and sensitive, not an unkind bone in his body. And so good with the dogs. They loved him, my golden retrievers did.”
    She looked up, damp-eyed and forlorn. “Animals are a better judge of character than humans, don’t you think? I keep wondering if there’s been some mistake. Maybe Arthur’s been taken hostage?”
    Bev sighed. Lydia Covington wasn’t being dramatic. She really loved Arthur Blankenship, the chiseler. What was worse, Bev had already done some checking, and it looked as though Lydia’s husband was a bonafide con man. She couldn’t tell her client that, however. Mrs. Covington was too fragile. She would fall