She got out her cell phone and dialed up a number that she’d used too many times in the past.

When the call was answered, she took a deep, long one and felt as though she were jumping off a cliff.

“Hi, Louie, how’s my favorite PI doing?. . . . Aw, that’s sweet of you. . . . Uh-huh. . . . I’m good.”

Liar, liar, liar on that one.

While the two of them played catch-up, she headed back to the money stash and wiped the doorknob of the closet with her square of cloth. “As a matter of fact I do need something. If you have some time, I have somebody I’d like you to check out for me, please?”

After she told Louie all she knew about her client, which wasn’t more than a name and a birth date and this inconsequential address, she hung up.

The question was, of course, what now?

She hadn’t believed Isaac Rothe when he’d told her he had cash.

So she’d posted his bail herself.

It had been her only choice: The court was willing to let her client off, but the bailsmen wouldn’t touch the case. Too much of a flight risk.

Which suggested the judge might have had his head wedged when he’d made his decision.

Oh, wait . . . that would be her in this situation.

Looking around the empty apartment, she realized that her client was about as substantive as a draft. There was no way he was going to stick around for his hearings.

Hell, he probably wasn’t going to be here a minute past when he was released. He clearly had resources, and his things were backpack portable.

She glanced at the door.

Good thing she could afford to lose that twenty-five grand of hers. The plan had been to pledge it on faith so that he trusted her and would let her help him.

But it was probably going to end up being a very expensive lesson in not investing in people you didn’t know and shouldn’t trust.

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

It was six p.m. when Isaac was finally brought out of holding by a guard. In spite of how long it took to come and get him—and he had a feeling the staff had been taking their own sweet time—the process for his release was smooth and quick now that they had decided to let him out: Cuffs to be unlocked—theirs. Signatures to be inked—his. Clothes to change out of—theirs. Clothes to change into—his. Wallet returned.

All he could think about was his attorney. He couldn’t believe she’d gotten him bail.

Or carried money for him.

Man, he owed her. Without Grier Childe, he wouldn’t be on the verge of the freedom that was going to keep him alive.