“No, no, anything for you,” he said with a wink.

  It wasn’t exactly oily or smarmy; it was simply awkward. Despite being an attorney in his father’s well-respected firm in Greece, Zachary Hardy didn’t ever look entirely comfortable with what he was doing. Even here, across from her, he looked confused.

  “Ah . . . you already got coffee.”

  “I did,” she said. “But you go on and get something, if you’d like.”

  “No, no,” he said, waving the thought away. “I came here to see you. Besides, if I have coffee I’ll have to use the loo on the way home.”

  She winced. Somehow, in some way, every conversation she ever had with him was so hopelessly awkward. He was like a pre-teen and she couldn’t say she was much better. He’d asked her to dinner, and she knew that was a romantic overture. She’d intended to say yes, especially since she didn’t have much going on in the romance department at all. But every time she was with Zachary Hardy, romance was the last thing on her mind.

  If there was a connection, she couldn’t see it.

  “Okay,” she said. “So how are you?”

  “Ah, pretty good. It’s been busy. You know.” He leaned in, never taking his eyes off her. “What about you? You working on any exciting cases?”

  “Oh, not really. Mostly just wives, concerned their husbands are cheating. That’s about all I’ve gotten the past few weeks.”

  “I saw your ad in the papers. Looked good. Professional.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t renew. Wasn’t worth the return on investment,” she said with a small smile. And I don’t have any money to pay for next month.

  “Ah. You know, you can get plenty of free advertising online. And you should consider moving out of this neighborhood.”

  He motioned out the window at what was probably a drug deal going on, right outside—two men hunched together, casting surreptitious looks all around. It was a regular scene here in East Plainfield. Real customers were probably unwilling to make the trip into the city, on the chance that they’d get mugged—or worse.

  The problem was, where would she go that had cheaper rent than here?

  “Yes, that’s a possibility, but I really can’t. My father’s in a nursing home, not far from here. So I have to stay local,” she lied.

  His eyes lit up. “Your father? Edward Fortune? I’d wondered what happened to him.”

  It sent a flash a pride through her that her father’s renown had spread far and wide. “You know him?”

  “Who doesn’t know of the great Edward Fortune? I used to follow his cases when I was a young attorney. I think he handled a big one in the UK when I was at university there.”

  She nodded. It sounded like him. In his heyday, Edward Fortune had jetted all over the world, solving and consulting on cases. She and Charlie would often be left with a kind, elderly neighbor, and yet, whenever he came back, he’d always have some kind of souvenir for them—a keychain or stuffed animal or t-shirt. He’d been incredibly busy, but his mind had always been on his children.

  She found herself gritting her teeth and realized that Zachary had asked her another question. “I’m sorry?”

  His eyes flooded with sympathy. “He’s not doing well, then?”

  “No. Unfortunately. He’s in a home because the doctors don’t know exactly what’s wrong with him, but he has bouts of weakness and forgetfulness.”

  “That’s a shame. He’s a great mind.”

  “He is,” she said, pulling her coffee to her lips. “I wish he could help me. That was his dream, the two of us working the business together. I’m sure if he was there, his name alone would bring clients in. If I had a dime for every time a potential client hangs up on me when they find out that Edward Fortune’s retired . . .”

  “Really?” His brow knitted. “He did retire, once before? About a decade ago, from what I remember?”

  She nodded. “Longer than that. That was because of my brother. Charlie.”

  “Right. What happened there? It was some kind of international incident, right?”

  Her father never liked to talk about it, in his lucid moments. It brought too much pain. But there was so much about it that had been swirling in Daisy’s head. The files on the subject filled an entire file cabinet in the office—several years’ worth of digging down rabbit holes that had gotten him nowhere.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, surprised at how easily the words came now. “He’d just graduated from high school. The schools in East Plainfield weren’t the best so my dad sent us to a private school. Charlie was on a yacht with some friends in the Caribbean, and he went missing.”

  “Missing? How?”

  She shrugged. “My father got the call, dropped everything, and went down there. Apparently, they docked, and at one point, they noticed he wasn’t there.”

  “Bloody hell. How did that happen?”

  She wished she knew. It was the question that had plagued her family for most of her life. “I think it had to do with a bunch of underage boys drinking too much and thinking they were invincible.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. From the look he gave, she had an inkling he understood that feeling.

  “Anyway, my father decided to retire so that he could devote his time to finding out what had happened. But he never did. He turned over every stone imaginable. I think it was his first time coming up with a case he was powerless to solve.” Daisy forced back thoughts of the many times she’d seen Edward Fortune, slumped over, face in his hands, sobbing like a baby. It had been a dark, dark time. “And about two years later, he found he missed the agency too much, so he opened it back up again.”

  “Wow . . . and so you never found out what happened to your brother?”

  She shook her head, remembering the last time she’d seen him, with his bag slung over his shoulder and his sunglasses on. He was a tall drink of water, lean and lanky, with an infectious smile and hair that always stood up near the part. “See you later, sis,” he’d said, blowing her a kiss. He’d just graduated, and been so full of hope for the future. He’d fallen in with a crowd of rich folks, hoping that those connections would be his ticket to an upper echelon. He was whip-smart, destined for great things, wanted to be an attorney himself.

  Though he’d been quite a bit older than she was—nine years, to be exact— he’d always made time for her. On the day he left, Daisy remembered thinking that he was drifting away, choosing his friends over her.

  Little did she know how far her big brother would drift. Once he walked out that door, she never saw him again.

  “He’s been missing almost twenty years,” she said.

  Zachary’s eyes went wide. Then he tapped on the table twice and shuffled to get out of the booth.

  “You know, I do think I’ll go get that coffee.”

  Just as she thought. Whenever the subject of her brother came up, people always wanted to know more. But the problem was, there was no more. Her father was the best in the business. He’d devoted almost ten years of his life to finding Charlie Fortune. He knew all the ins and outs of locating missing persons. He’d used every advanced technique at his disposal. And all he had to show for it was a file cabinet full of meticulously researched dead-ends.

  She watched the attorney go up to the counter and pay for the coffee, wondering if he was going to be disappointed when she explained that to him. People always wanted to help, to come up with an avenue that might not have been explored. But where Charlie was concerned, she knew it for a fact—there was nothing more to be done.

  If Edward fortune had failed, so, too, would everyone else.

  Zachary returned a few moments later with a couple of Danishes, on a plate. He offered one to her. She took the lemon one as he said, “So what do you think happened to him?”

  She shrugged. “Honestly? I think he must be dead. He wouldn’t go off and start a new life, without us. We were very close. He and my dad were the best of friends. No arguments at all. So as much as I hate to say it . . .”

  Zachary nodded. “That had to be hard for your family.”

  “It was. It is, even now. It never goes away, you just figure out how to live with it. But I know my father did everything in his power.”

  “I’m sure he did,” he said.

  She sipped her coffee, glad he wasn’t one of those who was going to try to solve her problem for her. Too many men did that. But that wasn’t the problem at the top of her mind right now. “Have you spoken to the Vandiveers?” she asked, changing the subject. “How are they doing?”

  He shrugged. “I have. They’re doing well. Moving on. Haven’t you been in touch with them? You mentioned that they were grateful and might throw you some more work. Plenty of cheating spouses among that set. I thought for sure you’d be jetting out to Europe again, even before me.”

  “Unfortunately, nothing yet. But I’m sure if he knows someone who needs me, they’ll be in touch,” she said.

  “I’m sure. They told me again and again how grateful they were that you solved the case of their son’s murder.”

  Just then, her phone rang. She reached for it, about to put it on silent. Despite his awkwardness, and the lack of an initial romantic spark on her end, she found she actually enjoyed talking to Zachary. He was disarming and kind and easy to pour her heart out to.

  But as she stared at the display, she realized it was an unfamiliar number, forwarded from the office.

  Strange, she thought. Her phone in the office never rang, unless . . .

  Unless it was a potential client.

  And if it was a promising lead, that was more important than a good conversation.

  She held up a finger. “Sorry. I think I should take this. It could be new business.” She pressed the phone to her ear. “Fortune Investigations.”

  The unfamiliar voice was so brash, it nearly blew out her ear. “Is this Fortune? The PI firm?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. This is Goldie Tate. My husband has been murdered, and I need you to help me nail the little gold-digger who did it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  That afternoon, Daisy Fortune sat at her desk in a rundown section of East Plainfield, New Jersey, eyeing the picture of her father on the wall as she waited for Goldie Tate to arrive.

  In the photograph, her father, the esteemed Edward Fortune, was shaking hands with the President of the United States. Handsome and bulldog-strong, he posed on the steps of the state courthouse in Trenton, fresh after breaking up a massive drug ring. National media had been there, and he’d received personal congratulations from the highest office in the land.

  Bells over the doorway jingled, a rare sound, signaling someone was coming in.

  She swiveled around to face the army of empty desks in the room. In its heyday, Fortune Investigations employed over a dozen private eyes. But that had been a long time ago. Now, thirty years after he’d gotten that commendation from the president, all but one of the desks were empty. Some of them still had typewriters on them, beneath layers of dust. The place looked dirty, old. It was old, the HVAC always leaving the place ice-cold and never fully circulating the stagnant air. It smelled now of a burned popcorn mistake she’d made with the breakroom microwave a week ago. The neighborhood around the place had deteriorated, too, and now the only businesses on the street were pawn shops and an addiction treatment center. Her father had put bars on the windows a decade ago, and yet that hadn’t stopped someone from spraying a graffiti SUCK IT on the storefront window a month ago.

  The woman who came in, Goldie Tate, was clearly well taken-care-of, which was why she looked around the dilapidated area as if it was an alien world. She was wearing a bright pink jumpsuit that showed off her ample curves and comically large breasts, and though most women her age would probably never wear an outfit that outlandish, she carried it with all the confidence of someone half her age. She had a short haircut, shaved on the sides, and matching pink earrings that dusted her shoulders. Though her skin was without a single wrinkle, her face looked tight, as if she was in pain, and her eyes slanted up slightly on the corners, suggesting one too many facelifts.

  She fixed her eyes on Daisy as she removed her dark sunglasses and tutted. “Girl, why are you in a place like this? I parked my Mercedes across the street and I swear, they’re eyeing it up, right now.” She bent her head slightly to look out the window.

  Daisy was sure the whole, It’s all I can afford argument would go right over this woman’s head. She lived in Short Hills, which, though it was in the same state, was a world away as far as financial status. So she ignored the question. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, no. I should keep this quick,” she said, glancing out the window again as she took her seat.

  “Yes, of course—”

  “You’re probably wondering how I found you,” she steamrolled over Daisy’s words. “Especially out here in the wilds of . . .” She frowned. “Where are we, again?”

  “East Plainfield.”

  “Ah yes. Never heard of it.” She shrugged off her coat and cracked her knuckles, as if ready to tell a long, winding tale. So much for making it quick. “Anyway. I spoke to a friend who said you’d done marvelous work on a murder in Rhodes. And that you were American. And I thought, that’s just what I need. I don’t need some foreign detective that I don’t understand, trying to tell me my business. I can tell you’re a woman of the world, and that you know just what I need—"

  “I don’t,” Daisy finally succeeded in interrupting. “I don’t know exactly why you’re here. Can we start with the crime? You said your husband was murdered? When was this?”

  “My ex, actually. They found his body yesterday.” She paused and tilted her head. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Jealous ex from hell. But I promise you, I’m not that. Yes, we may have gotten divorced years ago, but that was because we realized mutually that we were not compatible as husband and wife. He went looking at younger models, and I realized I like being alone.”

  Daisy had been thinking about the last murder she’d solved, where the fiancé who had retained her services had actually wound up being the killer. And it had been due to jealousy. “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Twenty years.”

  Daisy frowned. “Okay, I’m sorry, but how are you involved, then?”

  “Because you have to understand my relationship with Franklin. We actually became better friends when we got divorced. We were the best of friends. He told me everything. Everything. And that’s why I suspect foul play.”

  “The police don’t?”

  “No. They say it was a heart attack. Too much partying. Rubbish.” She waved her hands as if it would drive the point home. “Yes, he liked all the vices—smoking, drinking, partying, gambling—I like them a fair bit, too, you know. But he was active. Had a perfect ticker!”

  She pounded with great force on her heart.

  “Okay.” Daisy picked up a pen and scrap paper to take notes. “Your husband’s name?”

  “Franklin Tate. You may have heard of him. He’s a successful entrepreneur.”

  Daisy stared at the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “That’s probably because he hasn’t done much since his divorce from me. He’s a behind-the-scenes man in his business. Prefers to spend his time leading from afar. He likes to travel. He spends a lot of time in his villa outside Venice.”

  “Oh, is that where it happened?”

  “Happened in the sky. When he was on his private jet, traveling back from a boy’s gambling trip to Monaco and France. He likes to go on whirlwind trips often. He called me before the last one. I was going to jet out there and meet him for lunch when he returned. But . . . now I have to go out for a funeral. Well, not funeral. Memorial. He wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered about the sea.”

  She wiped her face, and Daisy was surprised to see a tear in the brash, confident woman’s eye.

  “Frankie was foolish. He liked to live for today, never thought much about the future. He did some reckless things. But he didn’t deserve this. It’s that girl. That Kiki.”

  “His wife?”

  She let out a bitter groan. “His fourth wife. Never should’ve married her. She’s obviously a gold-digging, money grubbing little suck-up. I could tell that from the first moment I met her. I don’t know why poor Franklin even bothered. He was such an innocent. It was clear she was out for what she could get. But he never could say no to a nice pair of bazookas.”

  “When did they get married?”

  “Three months ago. Lavish wedding in the islands, eight-hundred guests, everything to the nines,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I was invited, of course. Frankie told me he wanted something small but his bride wanted to go all out. And what Kiki wants, Kiki gets.”

  Daisy had been absently moving the pen around as the woman spoke. Now, she stared at what she’d written on the paper. She had the word KIKI written in big letters, underlined thickly. She could almost hear her father’s voice, nudging her in that direction. The wife. If she was going to start investigating, that would be the place.

  The only thing was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  All of her cases involved cheating spouses. The last murder she’d solved? Committed by the fiancé. It seemed like going down a familiar rabbit hole.

  “And so what are you hoping I’ll do, Ms. . . .”

  “Tate. It’s Tate. I kept his last name. It’s better than my maiden, which no one could spell,” she explained, leaning back in her chair. “Well, isn’t it obvious? I hope you’ll beat that little floozy at her own game. She comes off as a ditzy little blonde, but she’s a sharp little minx, you mark my words. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

  “She was on the plane with him, then, when he died?”

  “Well . . . no. He was with a number of friends and work associates. But Frankie’s a sweetheart of a man. A little silly, a little bit of a playboy, but he has a good heart. He doesn’t have enemies. People like him. It has to be her. She wants his money.”