He put the same deal to Kennedy that he had to me. Kennedy was welcome to investigate, provided he kept Bruyn abreast of his findings. Kennedy was fine with that.

“You don’t call your mom nearly as often as you should,” I finally said.

Kennedy jumped.

“Savannah Levine,” I said, extending a hand. “The private investigator whose partner your mother hired to investigate your sister’s death.”

“If you’re referring to Annette Kennedy, that’s Claire’s mother, not mine. And, no, I don’t speak to her any more than necessary. If she hired you, I’m sorry. Claim your time and move on. I’m here now.”

“Does that one work for you a lot?”

“I’m a professional.”

“Then I guess vou win.” I waved my license. “I got this out of a gum-ball machine. You may be a cop, but this isn’t Dallas. I’m the professional here.”

The look he gave me made me want to slap him with an energy bolt.

“Well now, this is a situation, isn’t it?” Bruyn said. Then he smiled, and I knew what was coming next. “I’m sure, Detective, that you have resources and contacts that I don’t. So does Miss Levine—different resources, different contacts, and a different set of playing rules. Between the two of you—”

“I don’t work with private detectives,” Kennedy said.

“I’m not suggesting you pool resources,” Bruyn said. “But your sister deserves the best investigation possible, which means as many investigators as possible. You can both have a go.”

I could tell Kennedy didn’t like that. If he made Bruyn choose, I knew who’d lose.

“How’s your car doing?” I said.

“What?” Kennedy said.

“Your car. Is it fixed?”

“No, but even if it doesn’t get repaired, I can rent one, so if you’re suggesting I’m lacking transportation—”

“Let me take another shot at it. If I can’t fix your car in one hour, I’ll leave.”

He eyed me. He hated reducing this to a wager, but I hadn’t made much headway the last time. Finally he tossed me the keys.

* * *

“SHE NEEDS THE oil topped off,” I said an hour later as the car purred beside me. “And the driver’s side rear tire is a little low. Otherwise, you’re good to go. And, apparently, I’m good to stay—on the case.”

“Hold on.”

He took the car for a spin around the lot. And I do mean a spin, driving like he was on a race circuit. I was impressed. I could say I was surprised, too, but I’d seen the modifications he’d had done. Michael Kennedy might act like a guy who’d never take a hairpin curve at sixty miles an hour, but his car said otherwise.

He stopped beside me and rolled down the window. “Funny, seems you had a lot more trouble with it earlier.”

“Yes. I was faking you out. I’m psychic. I knew you were Claire’s cop brother and I knew I’d need to make this bet to stay on the case. Impressing a hot guy is great, but keeping a case I really want is much better motivation.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, frowning, as he replayed what I just said. He busied himself adjusting the mirror, then cleared his throat.

“I don’t like this, Ms. Levine. Solving my sister’s murder is not—”

“—a game to you. I know. And it’s not to me either. It’s a job. Yes, I’m young. No, I don’t have your experience. But solving this will go a long way toward cementing my reputation, so I’m not going to screw it up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have leads to pursue, as I’m sure you do. Let’s just try not to trip over each other chasing them.”

I MADE IT to the sidewalk when my phone chirped, telling me I had a text.

It was from Adam. He’d sent it while I’d been busy with Kennedy’s car.

No call. No txt. U alive?

I sent a text. Sry. Working.

The reply came back before I could even close my phone.

Can I help? Rsrch? Bkgrd chk?

I could use him for background checks on Bruyn, Kennedy, and Cody Radu, but I reminded myself that I had an official partner on this—Jesse. If I needed help, I should go to him. Better yet, I should do it myself when I got to the motel.

So I sent another text. I’m good. Will call l8r.

One word: ok. I closed the phone and headed back to the diner. I had no idea what kind of reception I’d get there. Probably be kicked out on my ass. But I needed information, and this was the best place to get it.

Turned out Bruyn had already called Lorraine to spread the word that he’d appreciate any help folks could give me and Kennedy, citing my line about the girls deserving the best investigation possible.

That was all the encouragement the diner patrons needed. This was the kind of town where detectives and private investigators are mythical beings found only on a TV screen. I haven’t been cooler since my senior year, when I showed up at school on my motorcycle.

I regaled my new friends with tales of the dangerous and adventurous life of a PI. Yep, I lied. I’ve learned that no one’s particularly impressed with my stories of long, treacherous days spent navigating the deadly waters of the Internet, conducting background searches.

Once I figured I’d done my duty, I demonstrated a real-life application of those cool PI skills by questioning the patrons about the murders. I asked about the victims, but their answers boiled down to this: They didn’t know Claire, and the other two had been addicted to everything, good for nothing.

“Now, just a second,” Lorraine said after her customers had fallen silent. “Ginny could be decent enough if you got her alone. She was just weak, doing whatever Brandi wanted. It was like that from the time they were kids.”

“Maybe so,” Jacob said. “But let’s face it—those girls ended up right where everyone expected them to, as much as we might have wished otherwise. If Chief Bruyn wasn’t exactly twisting himself in knots to solve the murders, that’s why.”

“Oh, that’s not why,” Lorraine muttered.

“Is it something to do with Paula Thompson?” I said. “I got the feeling there was bad blood between her and Bruyn.”

Lorraine shook her head, unwilling to answer. Jacob didn’t share her qualms. “Paula worked for him,” he said. “Until she got tired of running and quit.”