Rickman took the chair behind his desk. “An honorary aunt, friend of my grandmother’s.”

“A very unique individual.”

Rickman’s eyes had gone a thoughtful deep gray, and something moved in his gaze that Zach couldn’t put his finger on. “She likes you. Thought she would. And she’s right much of the time. You going to tell me you aren’t holed up in some motel in the northern ’burbs?” he shot back.

Zach gave him a flat stare that had no effect on the man. Zach needed to do that background search he hadn’t bothered with before on Rickman. Zach had been so sure he wouldn’t go private.

“And am I expected to pick up the tab for tea?”

Rickman stared. “Got under your skin, didn’t she?”

Zach shrugged.

“Let her pick up the tab,” Rickman said. His smile was crooked. “We’ll be giving her the friends-and-family rate.” A few heartbeats of silence. “Your consulting fee will be the one we discussed before.”

Which meant Rickman himself would take the discount hit.

Zach didn’t contradict him. He’d see whether he could work for the guy. Going private left a bad taste in his mouth.

Rickman grinned, showing his teeth. “Go have tea.”

 • • •

Clare and Arlene managed to finish looking at all four houses before rush hour traffic started at three P.M. and Arlene dropped Clare back off at her house. She and Arlene discussed each place on the way home, and more of what Clare was looking for. Clare ignored Enzo’s comments from the backseat.

She dredged up a smile and a wave for Arlene but had to concentrate to pick up her feet instead of shuffle along the sidewalk. She actually considered a nap, especially since she’d have to attend an auction that evening. Of course she considered skipping it but didn’t think Enzo would let her do it.

She plunked her leather bag that contained the books on Jack Slade next to a comfy old wing chair and sank into it, a little hungry but too weary to eat.

Enzo sat in front of her looking like an old black-and-white photograph. He scratched his ear with his hind leg. All right, an early silent movie.

I did not like any of those houses, Clare. The ghosts were not friendly.

Ignoring that she didn’t believe in ghosts, she pulled the knitted afghan from over the chair and pulled it around her. Weird. The house should be hot.

Clare, are you listening to me?

Sleepy, she muttered, “You’ve been talking all darn day.” Even when she’d been focused on Zach, Enzo’s comments had buzzed in her mind, not that she recalled them much.

I LIKE Zach Slade. He smells right!

Oh, yeah, Enzo had said that, had danced around the table, had checked out the guy—well, she had, too.

Jackson Zachary Slade wasn’t her usual sort, obviously more of a physical guy; just the way he moved showed that, even with the cane. She did like looking at his shoulders—hair a little longer and shaggier than she normally preferred, but it had looked good on him. His hair appeared silky, and black with tints of dark brown. He had strong features with prominent cheekbones and a skin tone that could indicate that trace of Native American blood he said he had. His eyes were a changeable blue-green, and the heat in those eyes as he looked at her had her own blood dancing a Gypsy beat.

A sexy, interesting guy who’d listened to her, and, even better, liked what he saw in her.

There’d been an enticing physical attraction, a hum in the air that promised heat.

Smiling, she wiggled a little and pulled the afghan over her shoulders, eyes nearly closed before she realized a pair of translucent gray trouser legs stood before her chair and she jolted awake, clutching the blanket close.

There he was again: Jack Slade, looking enough like the drawing to be identified by it. Which was rather interesting because the portrait hadn’t been completely verified as the man.

“Jack Slade,” she said.

He made a short bow.

“I met someone with a name like yours today.”

The ghost bridled. What?

“His name is Jackson Slade.” Now that she could compare them, the current Jackson Zachary Slade didn’t look a bit like the vision her imagination painted before her.

My name, said the ghost, is Joseph Albert Slade, but his expression turned softer, sorrowful. My lovely wife never bore a child; I never fathered one. The shadows darkened in his eye sockets. I don’t believe much of the Slade line in Illinois persisted, either. He waved a hand, as if that were unimportant, as if anything other than his own personal problems were unimportant.

“Did you kill Jules Beni?”

Jack’s smile was fierce, showing a white gleam of teeth. He ran his fingers over his pocket-watch chain, then put his hand over one of the areas of his torso that showed the lead that had remained inside him. Jules Beni had been the one to ambush and shoot Jack.

“Did you kill Jules Beni?” Her voice was shriller than she liked, but her throat was colder.

EIGHT

NO. THE APPARITION shrugged. I put a reward, dead or alive, on Beni’s head. The money was considerably more for him alive. My men killed him. He was dead when I got to the Cold Springs stage station.

“Much of your life is nothing but legend,” Clare murmured, flipping mentally through the facts, trying to figure out what next she’d ask him to satisfy her curiosity.

You promise you will get the box tonight? he insisted.

Her mind went to how much money she had. A fortune. She should easily obtain the box. “Yes.”

Good. We will talk later, then. A brief smile from him had her nearly smiling in return. The gunman was not an incredibly handsome man, but not an ugly guy by any means. “There’s no need to bother on my account,” she said.

But he’d vanished and the cold diminished, and she tilted sideways in her chair. Surely she’d dreamed that visitation? Dreamed them all?

Maybe.

She hoped.

 • • •

Zach could have stopped the gentle steamrolling of Barbara Flinton, but the old woman was as soothing as Clare Cermak had been exciting—as soon as he’d firmly stopped any talk about woo-woo stuff from Mrs. Flinton.

As he listened to her stories, her persuasion that she needed the antiques that were being offered that night at the auction house, his own past rose. No, he didn’t think he’d ever find out what happened to his brother, Jim, and that would be a continuing ache.

But he could make sure that no one conned this old lady.

And he convinced her to listen to him that night at the auction, even as she pressed him to “just take a peek” at the apartment she had vacant. “Perfect for a young man like you, with a separate entrance so you can have private visitors.” She winked at him.

He figured that Rickman had probably put a security cam over that entrance, especially if no one was using the apartment now.

When her driver texted that traffic was beginning to pick up and they should end their tea, Zach paid for the meal and helped Mrs. Flinton into the hired Mercedes, then gave in to her entreaties to go home with her. His car was safe in a parking garage, and he sure didn’t want to fight rush hour—rush three hours—to head north out of the city, especially since he’d only have to turn right around and come back for the auction.

The car pulled into a quiet circular drive in Cherry Creek North and parked. Yee came around to help Mrs. Flinton out and hand her the walker, then told her when he’d return to pick her up for the auction.