LITMIR.BIZ

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looked like a man who wanted to be thought of as polished, but knew he didn’t quite make the grade. Perhaps inventing “Handler” had been his way of adding a touch of mystique to the agency so that clients were bound to remember. But no matter what the explanation, the bottom line was that Handler continued to be a mystery.

      Yet, despite all the open questions, being associated with the best private investigation agency in the southwest had certainly appealed to Daniel. He’d worked hard to get the job though it hadn’t been easy. At first Handler had been skeptical about hiring him. Daniel was told that all the operatives were required to carry a firearm, something Daniel refused to do. He’d obeyed that policy during his eight years as a cop, but he’d sworn the day he left that he would never pack a gun again.

      Yet, after seeing the full extent of Daniel’s skills as a master of several martial arts disciplines, Handler had changed his mind and offered the tough Navajo loner the job. As Lightning had proven, even something as innocent as a straw, in the right hands, could become a deadly weapon.

      Now, even after three years with the agency, Daniel only knew two other members of the Gray Wolf Pack—as Handler called them—his cousin, Ben Wanderer, who had recruited him, and Riley Stewart, a former Denver cop they’d both known for many years.

      “Lightning, I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Silentman now. As always, he’ll be your contact,” Handler said.

      A tall Navajo man with black hair and brown eyes strode into the room. He was a big, self-confident man who could appear threatening simply by changing his posture and standing ramrod straight. Daniel always got a feeling that Silentman was a street kid who’d spent most of his life trying to forget his roots, and the taint that had left on his soul. Although Daniel knew his first name was Burke, Silentman had made it clear that he preferred to be addressed by his last name.

      Daniel wondered if Silentman was a code name or his real name. He’d probably never know. The name wasn’t unusual for a Navajo, but he’d never met a family by that name. Then again, the Rez was a very big place.

      At the moment, in his Western-cut suit, he looked like a cross between a cowboy and an oilman. Yet something about his eyes and the tension in his rigid shoulders told Daniel that he was a man who’d seen violence up close and personal and was capable of dishing out as good as he got.

      Silentman handed Daniel a large, brown envelope. “Examine the contents, please,” he said, then sat on the leather chair across from Daniel.

      Daniel opened the envelope, and a photo of an attractive dark-haired Anglo woman fell into his lap.

      “Meet Miss Hannah Jones. She’s the twenty-eight-year-old niece of Robert Jones, a real estate broker and deacon at the Riverside Mission Church in Farmington.”

      Daniel studied the portrait. Hannah Jones was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way. A man would remember Hannah for life once he’d gazed into those hazel eyes. Her black hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves like a dark veil against her alabaster skin. She didn’t use much makeup, and that fact only served to heighten the natural innocence mirrored on her face. She was the type of woman who would make a man willingly give up a playoff game to take her grocery shopping.

      Hearing a knock, Silentman stood up and opened the door leading to the waiting room reserved for clients.

      A tall, balding man wearing a herringbone jacket, conservative brown tie and coordinating slacks came in and greeted Silentman.

      He walked stiffly to one of the leather chairs, and as he passed by, Daniel noticed the large bandage that covered an apparent injury on the back of his skull.

      “This is Robert Jones. He represents our Riverside Mission clients,” Silentman explained, taking the paper sack Jones handed him. “He’ll brief you on the rest.”

      The man never offered to shake hands with Daniel, making him wonder if it was out of respect for the investigator’s Navajo ways, or for another reason entirely. Prejudice reared its ugly head everywhere, even here, a stone’s throw from the Navajo Nation. Or maybe Deacon Jones just didn’t mingle with the hired help.

      “I’m very worried about my niece, Mr.…Lightning, is it?”

      Daniel nodded once.

      “She’s been…fragile most of her life.”

      “You’ll have to be more specific,” Daniel said.

      Robert Jones pressed his lips together and stared at the floor for a long time before answering. “My niece has had severe psychological problems in the past. She’s not usually violent….”

      “You don’t have to mince words with me,” Daniel said, addressing the man’s obvious reluctance to speak freely. “I’m on your side. But I need to know exactly what I’m up against, and what’s expected of me.”

      “Fair enough.” Deacon Jones leaned forward to speak, grimacing from the effort. “Hannah spent time in a psychiatric institution many years ago, and perhaps should be there now. Truthfully, my niece hasn’t been right since she came to live with me after her father committed suicide fifteen years ago. But this time, I think she’s really gone over the edge.”

      Daniel thought about the bandage on Jones’s head, wondering if someone had coldcocked him. It was clear Jones was in pain.

      “There’s a bandage at the base of your skull. Did she do that?”

      “I was clobbered from behind, so I can’t honestly tell you if she’s responsible,” he said in a heavy voice. “All I can say for sure is that I saw Hannah’s purse on a desk when I came into the church office. I heard movement behind the door, then suddenly felt this incredible pain. I went numb and passed out. When I came to, I had the biggest headache in the world, and my hair was wet with blood. Hannah’s purse was gone, along with the church’s operating funds—about two thousand dollars, give or take. That was yesterday after lunch. Now, nobody can find Hannah. Her car is gone as well.”

      “What about your niece’s mother? Have you spoken to her, and has she heard from Hannah?” Daniel asked.

      “Hannah’s mother died of cancer sixteen years ago. My niece has had a hard life and, in the past, she’s suffered from depression and fugue states. She could turn up just about anywhere without the slightest idea of how she got there, or how to get back. The one thing that surprises me is that she’s never been violent before.”

      “So why is she going sour now? Any ideas?”

      “I think it’s pressure. She’s been trying to run her own business from her home, a small bookkeeping firm, though I advised her against it. In my opinion, she simply took on more than she could handle. A month ago, I learned that she’d been having problems meeting deadlines and that she was losing clients left and right. My guess is that things got too tough for her to handle, just like I feared they might.”

      “What you’ve presented to us sounds like a police matter. Why not just go to them and save yourself a private investigator’s fee?”

      “I don’t want to have my niece thrown in jail, or leave her at the mercy of the police, who might end up shooting her if she resists arrest or becomes violent. When I spoke to Mr. Silentman, he assured me you don’t carry a weapon. That was one of the reasons I asked the board at the church to let me hire you.”

      “What about the money she stole. Is that low priority?” Daniel asked.

      “It’s secondary to getting her back safely, and avoiding unnecessary publicity.”

      “You didn’t mention a husband, so I assume there isn’t one. But what about a boyfriend or fiancé? Have you talked to him?” Daniel asked.

      “There is no boyfriend at the moment. We haven’t asked her clients or anyone else if they know her whereabouts because we’re trying not to reveal the fact that she’s disappeared. We don’t want the police involved and discretion seems the best way to insure that. We’re trusting you to be equally discreet,” Jones answered.

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