Chapter 2

MACKENZIE

Are you Mackenzie Cunningham?"

The first thing I noticed about the white guy standing in the doorway of my office was his suit. It was an Italian cut. Blue-gray fresco mouline wool. I knew men's clothing. My dad is a lawyer who never buys off the rack. Although my father was too busy working to spend a lot of quality time with me as a kid, hugs were never in short supply. The soft feel of his pricey suits was practically imprinted on my cheeks. I almost wanted to leap across my desk and brush my face against this guy's lapel.

So far, my day had been a complete crapshoot. I'd gotten burned earlier that morning and my screwup might cost me the first decent client I've had in a while. And by decent, I mean a client whose check wouldn't bounce its way back to my office the moment I deposited it.

I'm a PI, and I'm good at my job. That's why today's mishap stung so much.

A target I'd been surveilling for several hours-a gambler with a very unhappy bookie-rushed up to my Jeep Grand Cherokee and started banging on the window. My trusty old Jeep was more old than trusty and didn't need the battering. He drunkenly demanded to know why I was following him. It took me a few tries to crank up my engine, as usual, and speed off.

And for the record, I've never been made on a stakeout before today. Being a woman in this business, I can't afford to let that happen. It's frustrating that most guys don't take me seriously. At least not at first. My capabilities are repeatedly questioned because of my mellow mocha skin and unstatuesque height-I'm five-four in heels. A few knuckleheads have learned the hard way, though, that my quick wit, lightning speed, and black belt in Krav Maga render me far more dangerous than a man twice my size.

My company is called MC Investigative Services. I run my business out of a shared office space above a Chinese takeout restaurant in a strip mall in Inglewood. My office mates-a workers' comp attorney and a chiropractor-are model candidates for a future FBI raid. In the five years that we'd been cohabitating, I'd only accepted one job from them. I'm bright enough to know a fraud ring when I see one.

When I'm feeling stressed, I like to gaze out onto Manchester Boulevard. Watching traffic soothes me. Go figure. I was engaged in this form of self-therapy when the uninvited visitor showed up at my office.

Normally I'd be annoyed that Joy, the receptionist I shared with my two suite mates, had allowed this guy in without buzzing me first. It was her job to keep out the riffraff, aka angry clients, cheating spouses, and process servers. At least he wasn't setting off any red flags. Yet.

"Yes, I'm Mackenzie Cunningham," I replied to the distinguished-looking older gentleman. I found it odd that he was carrying a leather briefcase. Most people stored all their essentials on an iPhone or iPad. I certainly did. "How can I help you?"

"I have a case I'd like you to handle," he announced, closing the door behind him. Somehow my trespasser looked at me without actually looking at me. He set his briefcase on the floor and took a seat in front of my desk before I could invite him to do so. "And it's quite urgent."

All clients acted as if their cases were fires that needed to be snuffed out yesterday. I grabbed a notepad and pen from the corner of my desk. "Let's start with your name and the nature of your case."

The man held up a masculine but manicured hand. "My name is Raymond Patterson. Before we proceed, I'll need your agreement to a couple of stipulations."

I've never been one to let a client take control of the conversation or define the parameters of my engagement. But as Mr. Well-Dressed White Guy spoke, I found myself rocking back in my leather chair and giving him the floor.

"First, this case will require your immediate and exclusive attention," he said in a commanding voice. "That means you'll be prohibited from handling any other cases for the duration of our engagement."

I raised an eyebrow. Yeah, right. As if I could just drop everything I was working on. Anyway, how would he even know? But instead of arguing the point, I tilted my head and locked my arms across my chest. "And the second stipulation?"

"There's a very urgent deadline that you'll need to meet."

I didn't accept or reject his stipulations. I simply let him keep talking.

"I need you to find someone," he said, placing a five-by-seven photograph on my desk. "Her name is Ashley Cross. She's been estranged from her family for the past four months. Her mother-my client and her only real family-is terminally ill and is desperate to reunite with her only child. I need you to find Ashley before her mother dies."

As I stared at the photograph, I tried to keep my face emotionless as my brain registered the first shocker: the missing girl was black. Perhaps that explained why he had chosen me for the job. Did he think a black female PI would have a better shot at tracking down another black woman?

"How much time does the mother have?" I asked, still mulling over why this guy wanted me for the job.

"A couple of weeks at best. Maybe even days."

"Is there an inheritance involved?"

Patterson nodded. "I'm the executor of her mother's estate. Ashley will soon be a very wealthy young woman. Here's some background information I was able to gather."

He handed me a folder with several pages inside. The first page included many of the PI essentials: Ashley's Social Security number, last three addresses, high school, college, best friend, last known boyfriend, and a few other tidbits.

"And, oh yes, Ashley is Mrs. Cross's adopted daughter. Her adoptive father is deceased."

I found a photograph of the happy threesome inside the folder. Yet another shocker: Ashley's adoptive parents were white.

"Do you have any information about her biological parents?" I asked.

Patterson shook his head. "Those records are sealed. Ashley never knew them and never expressed a desire to know them."

I continued to peruse the folder. "I don't see any information about the Crosses."

He shrugged. "There's no reason you should need any background information on them. As I said, her father is deceased, and her mother is extremely ill. So it's imperative that you refrain from contacting Mrs. Cross for any reason. She's in a very fragile state and I don't want to put any additional stress on her. Whatever you find out about Ashley should only be reported to me."

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Alarm bells started clanging in my head. There was likely more to this story than the scant facts Patterson had just revealed.

I stared into Ashley Cross's wide brown eyes. She was petite, almost doll-like, with a long mass of thick, kinky hair. According to the background sheet, she was just twenty-four years old, a decade my junior.

Her most recent address was Rancho Palos Verdes, about thirty miles south of here. But in economic terms, a galaxy away.

I wasn't in the habit of turning down gift horses, but I couldn't help wondering what Raymond Patterson wasn't telling me and why he'd descended from his tower of power to go slumming in Inglewood. Even if he wanted a black PI, I wasn't in the top echelon of that list. Not yet.

"Does Ms. Cross have some connection to this area?" I asked.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then why hire me for the job?"

"You came highly recommended."

"By whom?" I pressed.

"I'd rather not say. But I've done my homework. You're very good at what you do. You have superior internet tracking skills and extensive expertise in finding missing people."

All true. Perhaps I shouldn't have played the race card so quickly. It was nice to know my rep traveled far beyond my limited sphere. But what was the real deal? Why was Patterson so insistent that I shouldn't contact Ashley's dying mother? Was there a reason other than her health for the stay-away order?

Neither of us spoke for a long beat. I'm good with silence. Most people aren't.

The man crossed his legs in that self-assured, manly way-ankle resting on opposite knee-and made extended eye contact for the first time.

"So, Ms. Cunningham, is this case something you'd like to take on?"

Although he was requesting my consent, his assertive tone conveyed that he assumed he already had it.

I've learned to trust my...