Page 93 of A Very Daddy Christmas

Those two words seem to get the sheriff’s full and undivided attention for the first time since we set foot in his office. His expression shifts from dull concern to full-blown worry as he looks at me with wide eyes. “I’ll check the hospitals, too. I’ll put out a city-wide alert. I’ll tell the deputies to reach out to neighboring counties, as well.”

“Perhaps it’s time to get her picture on the local news,” I suggest.

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, we’ll do that. Our PR person will handle the comms. We’ll set up a hotline, but mind you, it’ll blow up with all sorts of fools and attention seekers on top of potentially reliable leads. But someone somewhere saw something. Cora didn’t just disappear from the face of the earth.”

“We’ll join the search if you need us to. Just tell us how we can help,” Riggs says.

Foreman takes a deep breath and leans back into his chair. “Actually, I’ve got something better for you three to do.”

“Really?” I sound almost insulted.

“You came to me with some pretty serious accusations regarding Orson St. James and George Hamilton,” Foreman calmly replies. “If you’re right, and if they’re connected to this mobster fella—what’s his name again?”

“Goes by Denaro,” Waylan mutters.

“Right, Denaro… well, here’s the thing. I’ve tried to keep it friendly and civil with every player in this town from the moment I was elected Sheriff,” Foreman says. “But if there’s one thing I won’t allow in my county, it’s Chicago-style mobsters hurting innocent folks. Especially a pregnant woman like CoraLevine. And if Mr. St. James and Mr. Hamilton had anything to do with that at all, even by association, I want to be able to hold them accountable. I also want to bust their hypocritical asses for those other crimes you described in such minute detail, so, how’s about you fellas go out there, make good use of your own resources, and get me some hard evidence against them?”

It takes a minute for his request to sink in.

“Hold on, Sheriff,” I reply. “You want us to do what law enforcement will not?”

“I’d like to focus all of my resources on finding Cora sooner rather than later. And if we start badgering St. James and Hamilton with our badges and authority, they’re going to close ranks and hide behind their lawyers. They’ll never see you coming, though, and we all know you have friends in various departments.”

“Holy shit,” Waylan chuckles dryly.

“I know. I surprise myself with suggesting this as well. And if St. James and Hamilton think the police aren’t coming after them, they’ll be tempted to get comfortable, let their guards down.”

“We’re civilians,” I remind him. “How’s that going to work? Isn’t there an issue with the fruit of the poisonous tree here?”

Foreman shakes his head. “Not if I deputize you.”

It doesn’t take longto pick up a useful trail.

Between our veteran buddies, law enforcement connections, and Foreman’s official blessing, we’re able to quickly get a line onHamilton. It’s been two days since Cora has gone missing, and we find the fucker enjoying himself in the backroom of a Chinese restaurant.

Some of the city’s worst and most slippery come here for the illegal poker games, and I’m not surprised to see Hamilton rubbing elbows with them.

They’re cleaning him out, though.

“How long have we been sitting here?” Riggs asks me in a low voice.

We’re at another table across the room, dressed in our most casual outfits— all of us sporting shades of black and gray and mingling with the high rollers. There’s enough smoke and bad lighting in this place to keep Hamilton from spotting us right away. Besides, he’s too busy watching a Triad-wannabe scoop up the last of his five-thousand-dollar poker chips while the dealer opens a new game.

“An hour,” I say, my eyes never leaving Hamilton’s hand movements. He’s nervous and clearly desperate as he takes off his Rolex and tosses it on the table.

“I said deal me in!” he snaps at the dealer.

“He’s already lost what, fifty grand?” Waylan whispers.

“Along those lines, yeah,” I say.

Meanwhile, we’ve been keeping a low profile, winning some, losing some, just enough of both to keep us at the table and away from any suspicion.

George is about to get his ass whipped.

“Do you know that guy?” one of the men at our table asks as he nods in George’s direction. He’s a rugged-looking man from Texas, wearing a cowboy hat with a bushy mustache and an even bushier brow. “Or do you have a crush on him?”

I chuckle dryly. “I’ve seen him around.”

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