Zach strode through the market’s sliding glass doors and headed straight for the short queue at the bank desk.
If there was any problem with depositing those money orders, he needed to know ASAP. But also, having that amount of (essentially) cash lying around the office made him very nervous.
It was a relief when he stepped up to the counter and handed the stack of money orders to pert, pretty Mary Anne Spenser.
Mary Anne took the bills, flicked through them, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I guess you finally sold the business?”
“Ha-ha.”
Mary Anne giggled. She had gone to high school with Brooke, and once upon a time had quite the crush on Zach. “How did you want this? Unmarked dollar bills in a paper sack?”
“Remind me when you’re playing the comedy club again?”
Another giggle. “I’m just teasing you, Zee. Business must be looking up. That’s great.”
“Yeah. Well.” The news of their windfall would be all over the valley before the end of the day, but as gossip went, it wasn’t the worst that could be spread about them. It might even do some good. With Pop gone, even longtime clients were leery about placing their confidential business in the hands of the firm’s accountant and his kid sister.
Mr. Martinez, the bank manager, wandered up to say hello, and Mary Anne was instantly all business. Zach and Mr. Martinez chatted briefly. Mary Anne asked Zach if he wanted any cash, Zach asked for one hundred dollars in twenties and, tucking the crisp bills in his wallet, left the queue.
He was hugely relieved to have safely disposed of—er, deposited those funds. Granted, now Davies Detective Agency had to earn that generous fee. He was a little vague on some of the details there. Not least because he was pretty sure he did not have all the details or even half the details.
Still. Eleven thousand nine hundred dollars in their business checking account went a long way toward soothing his doubts.
He’d been heading for the market exit, but since he was right there, why not grab a sandwich from the deli counter? Zach wheeled around—and walked straight into a briskly moving grocery cart.
“OOF.”
He staggered back a step or two, and the glass doors shot open and then noisily closed. He was more embarrassed than hurt. The collision seemed unreasonably noisy—the cart rattling like a train coming off the rails, the bottles and cans in the cart clinking and clanking alarmingly, and the conductor, well, driver of the cart, saying in a loud, exasperated voice, “What the hell do you call that maneuver?”
Zach’s wince had nothing to do with the bumper of the cart’s lower tray hitting his lower shins.
Flint Carey. Carey Confidential himself.
In the flesh.
Well, no. Thank God not in the flesh. In Levi’s, a black-and-white floral Hawaiian shirt, and white PUMA Easy Riders. Because he’d apparently learned how to dress for success by watching reruns of the original Magnum PI.
Rubbing his shins, Zach muttered, “Second thoughts.”
Flint leaned on the handlebar of the cart, seeming to enjoy the moment. “You’re supposed to signal when you change lanes.”
“I know. Sorry. I was…”
“Fleeing?”
Zach straightened and glared. It was true that over the past week he’d been trying to avoid running into Flint, but he’d figured his efforts were more subtle than that.
“Of course not. I didn’t even know you were in here”—he glanced at the beer bottles in the cart— “buying your lunch.”
Flint’s thin mouth curled into what Alton Beacher had called his “sarcastic smile.”
“I thought you accountant types lived for your three-martini lunches.”
Well, there was another OOF. Only that one struck home. Flint knew Zach had worked his ass off to get his PI license. And Flint knew how much Pop had been against that very thing.
Zach summoned an equally sarcastic smile. “See? You’re not as good a detective as you imagine.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. He drawled, “L-O-L,” actually spelling it out in a dry, derisive tone. “At least I can recognize a lost cause when I see one.”
Was that supposed to be funny? Or were they really going to do this here and now?
Judging by Flint’s unrelenting expression, it seemed they were.
Zach retorted, “Good, because we’re not selling.”
“It’s my last offer.” Flint was no longer making a pretense at joking, and neither was Zach.
Zach repeated, “Good, because we’re not selling.” He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all, let alone in the middle of what amounted to the town center, but leave it to Flint, who had all the tact and finesse of a blunt instrument.
But as he answered, Zach realized he was not being held at gunpoint. He could simply escape this awkward situation by walking away. Sure, it was rude, but rude was Flint’s native language. Accordingly, Zach nodded curtly on what he figured was a pretty good exit line, turned, and went out through the sliding glass doors.
Unfortunately, Flint was also not being held at gunpoint. He abandoned his cart and followed Zach onto the sidewalk outside the market.
“I don’t understand you. I’m making you a good offer.”
“It’s a decent offer.” Zach wasn’t going to deny it.
“It’s more than decent. More than I can afford, frankly.”
Zach couldn’t help a snide, “I believe it.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed again, like he was lining up a sniper’s scope. “It’s also more than that business is worth.”
Maybe Zach deserved that one. “It’s not about the money.”
Flint sputtered, “It-it’s not about the money? This is business. What the hell else would it be about?”
“It’s our family business. It’s…” Hard to explain. Hard to explain to someone like Flint, who didn’t look like he had a sentimental bone in his body.
His lean, muscular body that always made Zach feel like he needed to work out more. A lot more. Like his clothes were too big for him or too small for him or something. Flint was actually a hair shorter, yet Zach always felt like Flint towered over him with his irritatingly broad shoulders and pronounced biceps.
“I don’t follow you,” Flint said. “You know as well as I do that Fred didn’t want you to be a field op. He spent a fortune sending you to college so you could be an accountant.”
“I don’t want to be an accountant!”
Okay. That was embarrassing. That was a—loud—call back to when he’d been Brooke’s age. Of course, the circumstances were different. Zach cast a quick, sheepish look around, but the people rolling their carts in and out of the market paid them no attention. The drivers in the cars flashing past in their never-ending circles of the parking lot had eyes for nothing but potential empty spaces.
“But that’s what you are.” Flint was inexorable. “That’s what you trained for. You can’t just…just pick up and become a PI on a whim.”
“It’s not a whim! I’ve wanted this for years.” He stopped himself right there because A—it was none of Flint’s business, and B—this was painful territory.
“It’s not what Fred wanted. Fred planned on selling me the business when he retired.”