Grady just wants to grieve the loss of his ex in peace, but then Quinn's younger sister, Taryn, whirls into his Texas hometown, looking to stir up the past. She brings in a wave of goons with her and a mystery that's well beyond his pay grade. Still...
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"I guess that explains why the number wasn't working." I step away from the window and glance over the rest of the building.
Red brick, four-stories, and showing signs of age. It's about as unimpressive as they come, and the same could be said about the area—the fringe of the Dallas Arts District. The view through the window isn't exactly inspiring, either. There's a tiny, oddly shaped reception area, and an ordinary doorway leading out. It includes a few pieces of dismantled office furniture and carpeting that could use replacing. After the doorway, it's all shadow.
Bradford Ellis, Music Producer appears to be another dead end, but Taryn doesn't seem to think so. She's still peering into the window, her hands cupped over her eyes. "I say we go in. There's a lot more to it than just this."
"I'd say that sounds crazy."
While she strolls into the adjacent alley, I keep watch for her. There's not much going on around here on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, and that concerns me. The parked cars are abandoned. The pedestrian traffic is scant. If we're doing something illegal, something Taryn is obviously not opposed to, the gray of the afternoon is our only coverage.
I look up. The sky is getting darker, and the breeze is picking up as well. We heard the first rumbles of thunder on the drive over here. It's hard to believe it isn't pouring already.
"Taryn," I hiss when she starts fussing with a window. I turn away and grunt when she acts like she didn't hear me.
She leaves me there, watching and waiting.
Before long, the corner of my eye catches a skinny man, not much older than I am, J-walking across the street. He's in "business-casual" clothing, the opposite of what I'd expect right now, and I'm almost disappointed. I can't just growl at him and crack my knuckles. Instead, I'll have to put on a smile and try.
"Hi there," the man says cheerily, sidling right up next to me. "Are you looking for some rental space? This right here is just days away from going on the market."
"Is that so?" I say loudly so that Taryn might hear me, too. "Are you the property owner?"
"Indeed I am." He reaches out a hand. "Justin Odell. It's nice to meet you."
I say the first basic name that comes to mind, and we shake hands. "John Baker."
Taryn peers back at me, and with every fiber of my being—eyes, expression, posture, forceful subliminal messaging—I call her back to the front of the building.
It appears the message is received. She's shuffling closer just as the man leans over to see what I'm seeing. A pretty girl with long legs, in her nicest summer clothing, looking embarrassed and contrite, something she wouldn't have to fake.
She may be trespassing, but judging by the shock, delight, and greed that passes through the guy's unremarkable features, he's slimy enough to let that slide.
