Double Play (Nadia Stafford 3.5)

1 - Nadia

"So we're watching this show, about a woman hiring a hitman for her husband, and I tell Hank that's what I'll do the next time he leaves his dirty socks on the floor."

Stella's pickup rolled alongside me as I jogged down the empty dirt road, her window down so she could talk.

"And he says, go ahead, just make sure you ask Nadia Stafford to do it."

A moment of silence, filled only by the rumble of the old engine and the pant of the two German shepherds at my side.

"Why?" I asked finally, trying for a laugh.

"Because Hank says that's what damned fools like me always do. Go looking for a hitman. Hire a cop by mistake."

I did laugh at that. It was true. Finding an actual hitman is nearly impossible for the average citizen, and people almost always end up talking to an undercover cop instead. It's not as if you're going to find a hired killer living down your street. Or jogging alongside your truck.

"Well, I'm not a cop anymore," I said. "Just keep letting Hank eat at the diner. It'll kill him soon enough."

That got a guffaw loud enough to startle Rex. Scout looked at me, rolling her eyes at his puppy nerves.

"How about that new man of yours?" Stella said. "Is he good with a gun?"

"Um, yes . . . but . . ."

She grinned. "Don't worry. I won't try to hire him either. Hank was just wondering if he wants to go hunting sometime. He do that sort of thing?"

"He . . . has."

"Well, ask if he wants to go hunt wild turkeys with the boys next month. Hank said since it seems you're keeping him around, he ought to be more neighborly. Invite him to turkey shoots and poker games."

I made a noncommittal sound and said, "How about we have you and Hank to dinner? John's in the States right now, but he'll be back by next weekend."

"I won't turn down Emma's cooking."

"Good. I'll call you later this week."

Back at the lodge, I could hear guests slowly waking, roused by the smell of coffee and Emma's cinnamon rolls. I popped in to grab a roll and dog treats. This never impresses Scout and Rex, who seem to think if dog treats are so great, I should eat them, too. The handbook says not to give dogs human food, though, and I'm very good at following the rules. Well, in some things.

A quick word to Emma--my lodge housekeeper--and then I zoomed off before any guests could wander down and declare they'd like an early morning canoeing lesson. They'll have my guide services for the rest of the day. This is my time, with Jack's daily check-in call.

Granted, that conversation wasn't exactly deep. Any phone call with Jack is almost entirely one-sided--that side being mine. I got used to that in the years we'd worked together. Did I expect it to change when we moved beyond friendship? Yep. Which proves that I'd misunderstood the purpose of the conversations altogether. Jack wasn't calling to talk. He was calling to listen. Calling to hear me chatter about the lodge, about my day . . . The very average life of Nadia Stafford, ad nauseam. Can't say I see the appeal, but compared to dating a guy who doesn't give a shit, I'm happy to oblige.

I headed to the site where we're building our private chalet. It's right on the edge of our cell service periphery, intentionally so, because as nice as it'd be to live out of contact sometimes, we really can't.

I retrieved the cell phone from its hiding spot. Rex nosed around, as if hoping for more interesting buried treasure. Scout sighed. Scout is my white German shepherd, a year old now. Jack bought her for me. I retaliated--I mean, reciprocated--by getting him Rex, a black-and-tan shepherd, for Christmas. Yes, he named his dog Rex. Not surprising for a guy who, when given the full array of cool hitman noms de guerre, went with Jack. He didn't even need to think it up--it's what his family used to call him as a diminutive for John.

Phone in hand, I climbed to the half-finished balcony and took a seat on the edge, my legs dangling. The view was perfect. It should be, given how damned long Jack spent picking our building site. He'd actually hauled out a ladder to find the best balcony viewpoint. Hitman perfectionism for you. And it was absolutely right--the morning sun over the lake, leaves whispering in the breeze, not a single structure to mar the illusion that you were in the middle of endless forest. I uncapped my thermos, poured my coffee and took a bite of my cinnamon bun while the dogs snuffled through the forest under my dangling feet. A minute later, Scout let out her "someone's coming" growl and Rex echoed it. I followed their gazes to see a figure coming through the trees. I checked my watch. Three minutes until Jack's call at nine.

Shit.

I rose in a crouch, ready to scuttle back inside the chalet. Not very dignified. Or very polite. But I only got these few minutes each day to touch base with Jack and remind myself that no matter how messy my life might be, it was, at this moment, everything I wanted it to be.

I was halfway through the doorway when a man's voice called, "Nadia?"

I left the doorway. "Hey, didn't see you. Let me come--"

I stopped. Even in the forest shadows, I could tell the guy wasn't a guest. Not when he was dressed in a three-piece suit.

"Let me come down," I said.

As I did, I took my time and turned up the volume on my phone. It was nine o'clock on the dot. If I stalled for a few moments, my visitor would hear the ring and I could excuse myself to answer.

I picked my way through the piles of wood and supplies inside the building.

9:01.

I frowned. Yes, that's not exactly late, but Jack is precise. Like let's-sync-our-watches precise.

"Big dogs," the man called up.