Ghost Mortem (Ghost Detective #1) - Jane Hinchey Page 0,29

I thought perhaps you were family."

"He's trying to distract you and it’s working," Ben whispered in my ear, sending yet another ghostly chill down my spine.

"Not family," I assured him. "Now if we could get back to your case if you don't mind..."

"Actually I'm going to have to cut this short." Phillip stood, and I blinked in surprise. "I've just remembered a prior appointment." He came around the desk and held out a hand. Slowly rising to my feet, I shook it and let him usher me toward the door.

"Look, I'm very sorry to hear about Ben. That is terrible news, but considering the circumstances, I think it best we sever this relationship." His voice had taken on a professional polish I recognized. I'd used it myself dozens of times. My internal bullshit alarm went off.

"Ben had verbally confirmed what I suspected about Logan. I have all I need. But please, do send me the invoice, I will pay in full, of course."

"You don't want me to send over any evidence?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Please don't trouble yourself. That won't be necessary."

"Well...okay. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today, Mr. Drake. Good luck with your daughter." As I walked away, I lifted my phone and put it to my ear. "Hi!" I fake answered.

"That was...strange," Ben said from beside me.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I nodded. "It sure was."

"He's watching you." I really wish Ben hadn't told me that, because now I felt self-conscious, and whenever I felt self-conscious...sure enough, I tripped over a non-existent snag in the carpet, stumbled, and banged into the wall before finally righting myself. Way professional, Audrey. Ben barely noticed—it's not as if he hadn't seen me bumbling and stumbling around a million times before—he was busy watching Drake. "He's on his phone."

"His phone was on his desk," I pointed out.

"Well, he's picked it up to use it." Ben's sarcasm was not lost on me.

I shot him a look. "Okay, Hotshot," I drawled, "you said he's watching me. Is he still?" Ben nodded. "So that means he returned to his desk to retrieve the phone and is now standing in his doorway, I assume, talking on his phone and watching me."

Ben's grin was back. "You are so good at this. You should've joined the force with me, Audrey. I keep telling you, you're a natural."

"Wash your mouth out," I grumbled, affronted that he'd say such a thing.

"When are you going to get over this?" He sighed dramatically.

"When they issue a public apology. In print. Preferably on the front page of the Firefly Bay Times," I shot back.

"That'll never happen."

"Exactly." We eventually reached the end of the longest hallway in the world and turned the corner, out of sight of Phillip Drake. "I wonder who he was calling?"

"And why?" Ben added.

"Do you think he's involved in your death?" We'd both gone over Ben's notes. It seemed like a pretty simple case. Find the dirt on Sophie Drake's boyfriend. It hadn't been difficult, yet Ben hadn't closed the case—and apparently hadn't forwarded the written report to Drake either. The question was, why? Drake had said Ben reported to him verbally the findings on Logan.

"Would you normally do that?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Call in your report?"

"Sure, I'd give regular updates to my clients—they're the ones paying me after all. But at the end, I'd wrap it up with a written summary at the bare minimum."

I waved goodbye to Barbie as we crossed the foyer. "Where to next?" Ben asked.

I rummaged in my bag for the names I'd scribbled on the back of an envelope. "Tonya Armstrong."

"Ah. The cheating spouse case."

"Whose husband, the cheater, is working for one Phillip Drake." My spidey senses were tingling. The two cases had to be connected—they just had to be. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

"Lead the way." Ben materialized himself into the passenger seat of my car while I took the more conventional route of unlocking the door before sliding in.

Tonya Armstrong lived with her husband at two seventy-eight Oakridge Circle. A nice, mid-level part of town. "I wonder if I should have spoken with her husband, Steven, while I was at the hotel," I said, barely paying attention to the traffic on the road.

"Speak with the client first," Ben gritted, hands gripping his seat, knuckles white.

"What? You already said it—you can't die again," I teased him, weaving in and out as I maneuvered my way through the busiest road in town before finally exiting onto