Killer Diamonds (excerpt only)

Killer Diamonds Excerpt

Charleston, South Carolina

1952

Hell couldn't be this hot. Sam Bentley smacked his fist against the decrepit air conditioner in a vain attempt to force it to blow out more than just a meager breeze. He tugged his tie lower and stormed toward his desk, dropping into the Army reject chair with a few more curses directed at his former partner who'd jumped ship, leaving him to run the agency alone.

Sam couldn't blame him. Bentley and Evanston Private Investigations hadn't been a thriving business lately, and when Joe got a better offer to work as private security on a yacht headed to Bora Bora, well, Sam considered himself lucky to get a so long note.

The bell over the door in the lobby jangled, and since the secretary had decided to follow Joe, Sam pushed himself to his feet to answer the summons. He came down the hallway and paused at the edge, sure the man standing by the entrance must be lost. Wearing drainpipe gray trousers with at least four-inch cuffs and a long, single-breasted jacket with black velvet trim, he didn't fit in with the lower echelon of people who normally appeared on Sam's doorstep.

The old guy looked up as Sam approached, and Sam's internal alarm went off. Something in the guy's eyes just didn't sit right with him. The man cleared his throat. "I'm looking for Samuel Bentley."

Samuel? Sam almost smiled. He hadn't been called that since he'd ticked his mother off as a teenager. He took note of his visitor's sharply creased jacket that didn't come from any discount store he knew and the fedora with the black band that couldn't hide the long, gray sideburns. Gold nugget rings winked from the man's fingers, and his left hand held the jeweled head of a custom cane.

Sam brought his eyes back to the man's sharp gaze. "I'm Sam Bentley. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Jeremiah Masters." One hand disappeared inside the front pocket of the lined suit coat, and Sam tensed, but the man only withdrew a gold-embossed card. "I'm looking for my wife."

Sam's brows knitted. "Your wife?" He took hold of the card and read the inscription. Masters Enterprises. The name wasn't familiar to him, and he guessed the fella didn't belong in these parts.

"Yes, my wife." The voice carried an accent Sam didn't recognize along with a trace of irritation. "She's missing."

"And you want me to find her." Sam tapped the card against his palm. He already knew the answer, but he wanted, no, he needed more information from this guy. He rarely took an instant dislike to someone, but this Masters' fellow had pushed that button.

"That is what you do, isn't it?"

Instinct told him something wasn't right, and Sam made a habit out of listening to his internal radio. It had never failed him before. "I find missing people, yes. How long has your wife been missing?"

Jeremiah Masters straightened and tucked the cane under his arm. "Is that information you necessarily require?" He looked down his narrow nose, the picture of annoyance.

Why would the time frame be a stumbling block? The siren in his head screamed louder. Sam glanced back toward his desk, wondering if he should just ask the man to leave. Instead he responded with a bland, "It could be."

Mr. Masters shot a glance toward the door, and Sam picked up on the nervous tap of his foot against the floorboards. "I'll pay you ten thousand dollars to find her."

Now, the siren had gone from screaming to wailing. Sam didn't allow even a flicker of interest to enter his eyes. But ten thousand was a lot of bread, and right now, he didn't have enough to make a decent sandwich. "Half up front and half when I find her."

Relief poured into the man's eyes. "Done." His hand disappeared again only to return with a stack of one hundred-dollar bills. Methodically, he counted out the retainer and handed over the wad of cash. "Feel free to count it. You'll find it all there." Masters tipped his hat and backed toward the door. "My number's on the card. Call me when you've located her."

Sam accepted the cash and squeezed it in his palms just to reassure himself he was actually holding five thousand big ones. Then he noticed his new client was backing away. "There is the small matter of my contract."

Masters sniffed with disdain. "A contract won't be necessary...if you do your job right."

Sam tamped down his own irritation and resisted the urge to pop the man in the kisser. But he couldn't push the point. As much as he hated to admit it, the money was extremely important right now. He cleared his throat. "Well, there is one more thing."

The cane tapped against the doorframe, and Masters' brows lowered. "Yes?"

"You still haven't answered my question. How long has your wife been missing?"

Masters looked away. "Two years."

Sam's blood ran cold. "And you're just now starting to look for her?"

"I have reason to believe she's now in the Charleston area. Now, do you want the money or not?"

"Any particular reason you have a problem with giving me more information than the meager amount you've shared with me?"

Pushing the glass door open, Masters glared at him. "Yes, there is. It's none of your business."

Which only told Sam he needed to do a little checking up on his new client. He strolled to the door, his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, a little taken aback to find the man had simply disappeared.

He hadn't heard a car engine nor the sound of rubber on asphalt. Frowning, he leaned out the door a bit further. A neighborhood cat hissed at him, and he glared in return.

Whoever this guy was, he had getting lost down. That only made Sam more suspicious. He slammed the door shut, and the air conditioner wheezed in protest. The unit was breathing its last, which made Sam feel better about the dough in his pocket.

Masters might make him a bit uneasy, but Sam wasn't stupid enough to turn down so much bread, especially not when he'd barely had enough change to buy a sandwich at Grayson's Deli.

He'd definitely keep the money. Didn't mean he wouldn't also keep an eye on this new client of his, though.