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The food court in the center of town sported a huge back patio, and Nash was in the far corner, soaking in the winter sun and gazing at the spectacularly colored bands of Wilson Mountain.
Nodding in greeting, he pushed out the chair next to his and slid over his platter of nachos. Which was actually pretty thoughtful. Go figure.
I took a chip, dipped it in guacamole, and crunched away.
Nash leaned in with his side of our daily report. “A friend at the agency checked the records for Harlon but hasn’t found anything.”
I frowned. “Nothing? Not even a mention?”
Nash shook his head. “Not even a mention.”
Not the news I’d been hoping for. “How comprehensive are the agency’s records?”
“Not very. There are supernaturals everywhere, and they like to keep a low profile. Hell, one of the most powerful wolf packs in the West is only a few miles away from here, and they’re barely listed.” When I tilted my head, Nash waved his hand curtly. “Twin Moon Pack.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s the way they like it.”
“Like Harlon,” I muttered, stabbing another chip into the sour cream. “Is your friend sure? Harlon’s not even on their radar?”
“Not even a blip, or…” He trailed off, thinking.
“Or?” I prompted.
Nash dropped his voice. “Or he’s had himself erased from the records.”
I mulled over the implications in silence before Nash leaned back with a sigh. “Either way, that’s a dead end. What did you find?”
“Not much. But Pippa’s hairdresser’s dog groomer knows the cleaner at the—”
Nash cut in. “Pippa’swhat?”
“Pippa’s hairdresser’s dog groomer. She knows the woman who cleans the architect’s office — the architect who madethat mock-up we saw in Harlon’s office.” I shrugged at his expression. “Never underestimate the power of a cleaner. See?” I pulled out my phone and swiped through the images the Pippa had forwarded, pausing at each for Nash to see. “The model we saw corresponds to these plans. It looks like Harlon is planning a big spread, but not a commercial one. Space enough for all the luxuries for himself and about ten guests.”
The plans were so detailed, Nash had to lean in close to see them. Our shoulders touched, and I didn’t catch myself inhaling his leather-and-lavender aftershave until it was too late.
My girl parts sighed longingly.
I ordered myself to hand the phone over and give Nash his own space. But somehow, I failed to achieve that, and Nash stayed nice and close.
“I don’t see a tennis court.” Nash pretended not to be impressed. When I swiped to the next picture, he snorted. “Oh. There it is.”
“And there’s my balloon shed…” I quipped, swiping again.
Nash chuckled, making my body go all warm. “What would Henry say about that?”
I sighed. Henry was still in Denver, and his brother was recovering, thank goodness. But I still hadn’t had a chance to pilot one of the balloons.
“Henry would tell me to follow the money,” I said, then put away my phone. “Not that I would, especially not in this case.”
Nash nudged the nacho platter, and I helped myself to another chip. I’d hoped our investigation would reveal more, but even if it had, what would I do with the information? Confront Harlon? Call in the agency? Find an indigenous shaman who could tell me something about the vortex?
Nash grabbed his empty soda bottle and stood. “I’m getting another drink. Would you like one?”
I nodded.
“Ginger ale?” he asked.
