Page 14 of Buried Too Deep

And then six weeks ago, twenty-three years later, a body had suddenly shown up. He hadn’t known it was the body he’d left behind until two weeks ago when the authorities had ID’d the man and plastered the victim’s face all over the TV news. That was when the Winslow woman had started asking questions.

Alan was tired of waiting for a visit from the police—or the blackmail letter that he thought more likely—so he’d sent Sage to follow the Winslow woman. Just in case she knew more than she was telling. Sage had searched her home several times and found nothing useful. But then she’d contacted a PI. Alan had thought that was bad.

Now his nightmare had suddenly become so much worse.

“Of all the people to kill, you picked the receptionist for a PI with a reputation for cracking difficult cases,” Alan said mildly.

Sage flinched. “I didn’t mean to.” It was very nearly a whine, which made Sage sound like he was five years old again, not the twenty-five-year-old man that he was.

“That’s not going to help you if you get caught,” Alan snapped.

Sage’s eyes narrowed. “If I get caught, I’m taking you down with me. I guarantee.”

“You’re not going to get caught.” And if you do, you are not taking me down with you. I guarantee. “Leave the laptops with me. I’ll have my network guy look at them.”

Sage might be able to break into the machines, but the boy knew too much already.

He could crucify me, if he so chose.

Up until now it had been in Sage’s best interest to keep Alan’s secrets. But if that was no longer the case? God help me, I do not know.

He didn’t know Sage anymore. Maybe he never had.

Sage huffed in irritation. “Fine. Have your toady tech guy check them out. But know one thing: I’ve cleaned up enough messes for you that I know this one is different. If you want my help again, you will tell me why the Winslow woman is so important to you.”

No, I most surely will not tell you why. Because this was different. Normally Sage’s off-the-books responsibilities included gathering intel on competitors. Most were upstarts, trying to steal Alan’s audience. Some sought to blackmail him over nonexistent sexual scandals. So far, all had been easily dismissed by threatening them with their secrets.

Sage was good at finding dirt online, and what he couldn’t get from a computer, he managed to learn by asking the right questions of the right people. His charm and good looks didn’t hurt. Sage would make a good PI in his own right.

But never had Sage needed to physically touch someone, much less kill them.

A mocking smirk curved Sage’s lips. “I’m right. The Winslow woman is fucking important.”

“Sage,” he barked, not so much offended by the word as he was by Sage’s disdain for the rules. “Enough.”

Sage took a step back, still smirking. “I’m so sorry, Grandfather. I’ll leave you to your…” He waved his hand at the bag containing the laptops. “…whatever those are. If you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it out on my own. Digging up secrets is my forte, you know.” His laugh was both bitter and full of scorn as he threw his arms wide. “May God bless you and keep you. May his countenance shine bright upon you and bring you peace.”

With a sarcastic little wave, Sage took his leave, closing the office door carefully behind him.

The room was suddenly oppressively quiet, Alan’s swallow audible. Sage had been digging up secrets for ten years and was the best assistant he’d ever had. He’d certainly been the most trustworthy. Until today.

There was now a body in a Terrebonne Parish morgue that had been missing for twenty-three years. Alan needed to find out what Cora Winslow knew.

And if Sage really started digging on his own?

Alan didn’t know what he’d do.

Willing his hand not to tremble, he lifted the phone’s handset to his ear. “Lana, please call Medford Hughes. I’ve forgotten the password to my computer again. Have him come to my office as soon as possible.”

“Right away, sir. You have a meeting with Roy Grover in thirty minutes.”

There was no way he’d be able to focus on a meeting with that barrel of hot air. The chairman of the board of deacons never shut up. “Can you reschedule?”

His secretary’s quiet exhale spoke volumes. Roy Grover would be very unhappy. “Of course, sir.”

“Give him my apologies. Tell him I’ll stop by his house some night this week.” Or it might be never. He hated the man. There was always a problem he wanted to point out. More than half of Alan’s job was soothing church politics. “You can take off early today, if you like.”

Lana had worked for him far too long not to see that he was upset. He didn’t want anyone to know he was upset.

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