The Overnights

DedicationTo Dashiell and Declan,the oxygen in my life, the fire in my belly, the beat in my heart.Never be thwarted in your pursuit of dreams. EpigraphLittle hurts deeper than the raw death of an illusion.—Ian K. Smith ContentsCoverTitle PageDedicationEpigraphPart IChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Part IIChapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Part IIIChapter 43Chapter 44Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48Chapter 49Chapter 50Chapter 51Chapter 52Chapter 53Chapter 54Chapter 55Chapter 56Chapter 57AcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorAlso by Ian K. SmithCopyrightAbout the Publisher Part I 1SEPTEMBER 21She had agreed to meet at my office only if I had a back entrance through which she could discreetly enter and exit. It had been the first time anyone had ever made that request, but I was happy enough to oblige. Our phone conversation had been brief, and she had been in complete control. The office door swung open at precisely one minute before ten o’clock. Morgan Shaw, the prime evening anchor at the city’s top-rated WLTV, sauntered in with dark oversize sunglasses and a mahogany sheared mink coat disguised well enough that only those of a certain ilk would know it was an expensive fur. She was more beautiful in person than she was on TV, if that were even possible. The fitted jeans and silk blouse with the matching Hermes handbag were exactly what I expected of a woman who commanded a seven-figure salary and a legion of fans throughout the city who had all but deified her.“‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,’” I said, standing as she walked in.She didn’t wait for me to offer her a seat. She relieved herself of the mink, flung it over one chair on the other side of my desk, and sat in the other. I felt like it wasn’t inappropriate to stare. She had to be used to that.“Three hours?” she said, looking down at her gold and diamond watch. “We agreed on ten o’clock.”“We did,” I said. “You’re early. Most people are late. That was just Shakespeare’s way of emphasizing the importance of being punctual.”“They told me you quoted a lot of Shakespeare,” she said.“Did they tell you I like Thomas Kyd too?” I said.“And who is that?”“One of Shakespeare’s lesser-known contemporaries. Wrote a play called The Spanish Tragedy. At the time, it was more popular than anything Shakespeare had ever written.”“What was it about?”“Revenge. A Spanish nobleman is killed after having a secret affair with a beautiful woman who is beloved by many. The nobleman’s ghost leaves the underworld with the spirit of revenge, and they go back to the world of the living to witness the murder of the prince who killed him.”“Maybe I should read it,” she said. “I feel like my life is one big tragedy right now.”“You said on the phone this was urgent,” I said.“Very.” She removed her sunglasses dramatically. Her eyes were a radiant topaz against flawless skin the color of warm cocoa butter. “I think someone is going to kill me. I need to hire you to be my bodyguard.”“Wrong man.”“I beg your pardon?”“Not my line of work. I’m a private investigator.”“I know exactly who you are and what you do,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. I need you to investigate who is trying to harm me and why. But I also need someone who’s going to protect me because I think they want to kill me.”“There are plenty of good private security companies around town. I can recommend several. A couple of ex-cops run one of the best in the city. Very professional. Very discreet.”“I don’t want them,” she said. “I want you.”“A common refrain,” I said, offering my most alluring smile. “But alas, I’m not to be had.”“Are you playing hard to get?”“As beautiful as you are, I can’t imagine anyone ever doing that with you.”“And you’re charming.”“Only after a good round of golf.”“So why won’t you protect me or investigate who’s trying to kill me?”“Because I’m leaving town in two weeks for Arizona.”“Arizona? What’s in Arizona? A bunch of octogenarians, scorching temperatures, and dry desert.”“You’re forgetting the more than three hundred golf courses.”“Are you serious?”“Very.”“Do you know who I am?” she said.“Everyone in the city knows who you are from a mile away.”“And you’re gonna turn me down?”“Well, since you put it like that.”“I can pay you a lot of money,” she said, unlatching a complicated-looking gold clasp on a bag that looked like it cost about as much as a sports car, maybe a little more.“I don’t need your money, Ms. Shaw.”“Call me Morgan.”I nodded.“So if something happens to me, you would be all right knowing that you had the chance to prevent it from happening?”“Depends.”“On what?”“I’d have to weigh whatever that something is against my chances of getting my handicap below a ten.”“You’re handicapped?”“All decent golfers are.”“How can you play golf and have a physical impairment?”“Tiger won the ’08 US Open with a broken leg and torn ACL. But that’s not the type of handicap I’m talking about. A handicap is basically a numerical measure of a golfer’s potential ability. The lower the handicap, the better a player you are.”“And what does this have to do with you taking on my case?”“My handicap currently stands at an even ten. Once you crack ten, you can be considered a good golfer. This year, I decided to spend some of the winter in Arizona so I can work on my game long after Lake Michigan freezes over.”“I only need you for two months,” she said. “You can go to Arizona after that and play as much as you want.”“How do you know it will only be two months?”“Because I heard you’re the best and you always get results. Two months should be enough time.”I smiled. “If I were a marketer, I could work that nicely into a slogan.”“Can you ever be serious?”“Sure,