Irving rose. “I’d suggest you pack for a week. If you believe the hit-and-run is the work of a stalker and you need to remain on assignment to direct the investigation, you can always do laundry.”
That wasnotwhat Darius was hoping he’d say. “Yes, sir.”
Chuckling, Hunter got to his feet. “Don’t look so glum. Be sure to stop by the local brewpub, Knockers. The beer is outstanding. The town owns a ski resort—Ski Scarlet. It’s a quirky, fun place to hang out.”
“If you say so.” Then it hit Darius. He picked up the file and stood. “You already knew about the attack, didn’t you? It wasyouridea that they ask Irving for help.”
Hunter didn’t deny it. “One of their deputies called me to ask my opinion. I gave her a little advice, and she was smart enough to take it.”
Darius could appreciate Hunter’s wanting to help a friend. “Okay, man. I’ll head up, look into it, and let them know what I think.”
“Thanks. I owe you a beer.”
“Damn straight—and I won’t let you forget it.”
Hunter looked him over. “You might want to ditch the jacket and tie. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
Chapter2
Darius drovehis unmarked service vehicle—a black Chevy Tahoe—through a roundabout, passing a man who looked like an escaped extra from the set of a Jeremiah Johnson biopic, complete with bushy beard and buckskin.
Where the hell had Irving sent him?
Hunter had said Scarlet Springs owned its own ski resort, so Darius had been expecting a smaller version of Aspen—overpriced restaurants, chic boutiques, million-dollar condos. But this wasn’t Aspen. It was more like Mayberry.
Instead of sidewalks, Main Street had wooden walkways with log railings. There were no elegant storefronts, no tree-lined streets, not even a Starbucks. The town seemed to be a collection of oddball shops, wood cabins, and marijuana dispensaries.
StonedMayberry.
He followed his GPS to the Forest Creek Inn and parked in the designated parking area. The inn was the nicest building he’d seen so far—a three-story, yellow Victorian house with white gingerbread trim. Its grounds were expansive and relatively well-maintained.
He climbed out, the mingled scents of fall leaves and pine taking the edge off his irritation. Scarlet Springs might not be much as towns go, but the scenery surrounding it was stunning—white-capped peaks, dense conifer forests, golden aspen.
That’s when Darius saw him. An older man sat barefoot on the back patio, drinking a beer and wearing a pink velour bathrobe that was too small for him.
At nine in the morning?
The man raised his glass. “Mornin’. I’ll check you in at the front desk.”
Thatwas the owner?
Geezus.
Darius couldn’t wait to see his room. He’d be lucky to get more than a stained mattress on the floor and a pot to piss in. He got his duffel and garment bag out of the trunk, made his way to the front entrance, and walked inside, relieved to find that the interior matched the exterior and not the guy on the patio.
From the other side of a door, he heard voices arguing in whispers.
“Get dressed, Bob! You can’t check in a guest like that.”
“He’s already seen me.”
“Get dressed. I’ll handle it.”
The door opened, and a pretty older woman stepped out. “Welcome to the Forest Creek Inn. I’m Kendra, one of the owners.”
“I’m—”
“Detective Darius Silva. We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Scarlet.” She handed him a key card and a small brochure. “Because you’re here to help us, I put you in the Matchless Suite. That’s our best room. The key card works on the elevator. Our buffet breakfast is available in the dining room upstairs from seven to nine each day. Our WiFi password is in the brochure. If you need anything, just let us know.”
