Page 53 of High Velocity

“See if you can get hold of her. Go into the salon and say you’re a friend looking for her. You were there before, weren’t you? I have a feeling the owner knows more than she’s letting on. If she recognizes you, she might be more inclined to tell you what she knows.”

There are other ways for him to track down Tracy Elliston through the salon—a phone tap for instance—but it would require a warrant and would take time. He’s right about that. We have a lot of resources available to us in our line of work, but there are rules and steps we have to follow. It’s not the instant access they like to portray in movies.

I won’t put myself out there, but Ben is right, it might be easier for me to get information on where Tracy is.

This whole thing is puzzling; she was already gone by the time Vallard went looking for her. How would she have already known the FBI had arrived in town? Is it possible something else happened to send her into hiding? Did I somehow inadvertently trigger her? Maybe I didn’t quite pull off my cover as well as I thought. I guess it would all depend on when exactly she went missing.

“Do we know when she took off?” I ask Ben. “Did her boss at the salon mention what day she left?”

He opens his mouth to answer, when Ash suddenly starts barking enthusiastically as he rushes to the front door. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, and I already know who is here before I answer the sharp knock.

Part of me is pissed he’s been avoiding me, but I do understand it. I’d probably be doing the same in his shoes, I suspect we’re alike in preferring to hide out and lick our wounds in private when we’re hurt. My suspicion is confirmed when I open the door.

Jackson doesn’t look well. His eyes are dark and sunken, his color is much too pale, and I detect a small tremble in his hand as he reaches for his dog first. I’m not sure what he’s looking for when he straightens up and searches my face, but I can feel the intensity of his scrutiny. Then I realize he would’ve seen Ben’s vehicle parked outside.

Before he has a chance to misinterpret what is going on, I step into him, bracket his face with my hands, and press a kiss to his lips. When I step back, he grabs on to my hip with a hand and pulls me in for another brief kiss. As he lifts his head, I can see the emotions swirling in his eyes, before he straightens up and aims a glare over my shoulder.

“Vallard, right?”

I turn to catch Ben’s scowl at Jackson’s intrusion.

“That’s right. I’m sorry, who are you again?” he returns with an edge.

Petty play, since I’m positive Ben not only remembers Jackson’s name, he probably looked into his background as well. This is just a transparent attempt to undermine Jackson’s presence here.

“Don’t be an idiot,” I accuse him sternly. “I believe you and I about finished up our work business anyway. I’ll see what I can find out on Tracy Elliston and be in touch.”

I reach for Jackson’s hand to pull him inside and away from the open front door. Then I raise an eyebrow at Ben, conveying a clear message.

His face is hard when he passes me and stalks out the door.

“He rope you into helping him again?”

I push the door shut and turn to face Jackson.

“Tracy disappeared. She’s the woman I was looking into for him earlier. Something spooked her and she took off. Vallard thinks I may be able to help find her.”

His jaw is tight when he responds with, “I see.”

Wonderful. He shows up on my doorstep after avoiding me for days, and he’s the one pissed off. I curb the urge to blast him and wait for it to pass. I remind myself he’s hurting, probably not quite himself, and to boot finds Ben Vallard sniffing around again.

I take a deep breath and opt to stay calm instead.

“I’m only going to ask a few questions as Tracy’s friend. Nothing dangerous, simply gathering information and passing it on.”

The tension drains from his face as he takes a seat on the couch and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask, moving into the kitchen to grab the kettle. “I’m making some tea.”

“Sure,” is his lackluster response.

“Bad day?” I ask while I get a couple of mugs from the cupboard and deposit a tea bag in each.

“Bad week.” I turn to look at him and find his eyes on me, guilt written on his face. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at sharing.”

I shoot him a grin.

“I noticed. Guess that’s something we both have to work on.”

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