“Hey,” he says. “You inherited a mansion.”
“A very old and weird one that I never felt comfortable in,” I say. “Which kind of proves my point: when Ididhave a bigger house, I gave it up.”
“So you’re saying my home is too big for you and your family?”
“Yes and no.” I pause. “Look, you’ve got a whole horde of Liechtenstein monsters living in your basement dungeon. You have so much space, in fact, that we almost never see them.”
“Is having a lot of room a bad thing?”
“No. But I like knowing where my kids are. I like hearing them sleeping in their rooms. At your place, they’d each have their own wing. And apparently their own living rooms.”
“The living room thing waskind ofa joke,” he says. “Though the bathrooms part was true.”
We’re quiet for a minute or two. The fan hums. Finally, he says, “So you’re thinking it’s not a good idea?”
“I’m thinking I don’t want to give up my house.”
“So we’d be married on paper only?”
“Is that so bad?”
“No,” he says slowly. “But I think I’d want more.”
“I might, too.”
He watches me. “Does that mean you’ll think about it?”
“I’d be a fool not to,” I say. Then I tilt my head back and let out a soft, playful howl.
He laughs, deep and rumbling, and pulls me closer. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I say, curling into him, “here you are.”
The fan drones on. One thing is clear: the future doesn’t need answers tonight.
Chapter Four
It’s the next morning.
I’m at my desk, tapping the folder Jill Fenwick left behind, sipping what’s left of my coffee. Tammy’s at her own desk, headphones on, fingers moving quickly over her keyboard as she continues running the dozen or so background checks.
Time to make the call. I dial the number for Buena Park PD; in fact, the direct line to Detective Rachel Carson. The phone rings twice before I hear a clipped, “Carson.”
“Detective, this is Samantha Moon. I’m a private investigator out of Fullerton, calling about the raptor fossil theft at Craig Park. You’ve been assigned the case, if I’m correct?”
A pause. “Oh. Yeah. Right.” There’s a tired rustle of papers on the other end. “I’ve been wondering when someone from their side would reach out.”
Her voice is brisk, but I can hear the exhaustion underneath it. Undoubtedly she’s overworked, stretched thin. Buena Park is a smaller city, with a likely underfunded police force, with cases stacking up. Buena Park might have Knott’s Berry Farm, Medieval Times, and the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum, but beyond a few tourist destinations, it’s a pretty modest and fairly poor town.
“Just wanted to introduce myself,” I say smoothly. “Dr. Fenwick hired me to help recover the stolen items. I was a federal agent once, and like to coordinate when I can, mostly making sure I’m not stepping on any toes.”
That earns me a shift in tone. “Federal agent, eh? What agency?”
“Housing and Urban Development.”
Another pause. “HUD? Well, that’s a first.”
I laugh softly. “You’d be surprised how much crossover there is. Fraud, embezzlement, theft. Patterns are patterns.”
