In Too Deep

for the media to lose interest, but I’m sure that in a few months everyone will forget about what happened at the Zander house,” Isabella said soothingly.
    “Not a chance. That property is never going to be marketable. The only reason I called is to tell you not to bother to send me a bill for your services. I didn’t get what I paid for and I’m not about to write a check to your agency.”
    Outrage splashed through Isabella. “But J&J solved the case.”
    “There was no case,” Norma said. She sounded like she was speaking through set teeth. “I hired you to help me get rid of those silly rumors about the property being haunted. I thought if a psychic detective agency declared the place ghost-free, I could sell it. But instead you killed the deal.”
    “It isn’t J&J’s fault that the property was a dumping ground for a serial killer.”
    “Maybe not, but I’m holding your firm responsible for killing the sale, so do not bother to send me your bill.”
    The connection went dead. Isabella closed the phone.
    “Bad news,” she said. “Norma Spaulding says she won’t pay our bill. She blames J&J for making the Zander house unmarketable.”
    “Told you the case was a waste of time,” Fallon said. “That’s why we don’t like to encourage that kind of work.”
    “It’s not our fault that there were bodies in the house.”
    “Clients always blame the investigator when they don’t get the answer they want,” Fallon said. “Hell, most of the time they blame the investigator even when they do get the answer they say they want or even the one they expect. It’s the nature of the business, Isabella.”
    She slumped in the seat and gazed morosely out the window. “It’s not fair.”
    “Here’s a little tip going forward.”
    “What?”
    “Always get a nonrefundable retainer up front.”
    She drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Good idea. I’ll make sure to do that next time.”
    Fallon turned off the main street and drove behind the J&J office. He parked under the wide overhang. They climbed out of the SUV . Fallon opened the rear of the vehicle.
    “You take the clock,” he said. “I’ll handle the Queen.”
    She hoisted the blanket-wrapped clock under one arm and opened the back door of the office. They carried the curiosities upstairs to the landing. Fallon got out his key and opened the door.
    Isabella walked into the office ahead of him, switched on the lights and set the clock on the floor in the corner.
    “Now what?” she asked.
    He closed the door and put the doll on the floor next to the clock. “Like I told Henry and Vera and Walker, an Arcane lab team will collect all of the curiosities tomorrow and take them back to the Society’s main lab in L.A. I want a complete report from the experts. I’d also like to know who brought the gadgets here three decades ago.”
    Isabella walked into the tiny kitchenette that adjoined the office and picked up the teakettle. “I sense a new conspiracy theory in the making.”
    There was a moment of crystalline silence behind her. She knew she had gone too far.
    “Do you think that’s what I do?” Fallon asked, his tone chillingly neutral. “Invent conspiracies?”
    The cold, emotionless edge on the words caught her off guard. She turned quickly to face him. Fallon was watching her with a look that matched his tone. She had seen that same expression and felt the deep sense of aloneness that went with it many times since meeting him. It was as if he spent most of his life locked in some other dimension. She longed to reach out to him, but it was not as if she lived in a normal dimension, either. She was certain of one thing, though. She must not move too fast with Fallon Jones. He did not fully trust her yet, and until he crossed that boundary she had to feel her way.
    Then, again, she thought, she had not entrusted him with her secrets, either.
That makes us even
, she thought.
    “Of course not,” she said, keeping her voice light with an effort. She turned back to the sink and ran water into the kettle. “It was just a little joke, boss. I’ve got no problems with what you call your conspiracy thinking. After all, most of the time you’re right.” She shut off the faucet and looked at him. “Right?”
    Some of the tension went out of him, but it was replaced by some of the soul-deep weariness that she had sensed in him the first time he walked through the door of the café.
    “Most of the time,” he said. “Not always.