Love Spell by Stan Crowe Page B

plastered with the words “Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse” along the side.
    Thankfully, the driver of the monstrosity had paused at the tollgate long enough for her to get a surprisingly clear look at the license plates. The state name was unfortunately blurry (the text simply too small on the screen), but she was certain about five of the seven digits on the plate, and mostly sure about the sixth. Not perfect, but enough for a savvy sleuth like herself.
    With a little persuading, Uncle Tom ran several possible permutations of the possible plate numbers, and came up with over seven hundred possibilities across the nation. That left the expected slog through names.
    Lindsay was more powerful than a silly little list. By the time midnight rolled around, she was certain she’d found the right person: Alfeyra Belkin of Tennessee. It wasn’t a slam-dunk, of course, but it more or less fit all the parameters. Besides, she could feel that it was right.
    A few hours of sleep and it was back to Uncle Tom’s office. He pulled a few more strings, and with another day spent searching, they discovered that a vehicle with plates matching Ms. Belkin’s had received parking violations not only there in San Francisco (around the date the client had provided), but also in San Jose, Chicago, a podunk town in Oklahoma, and—most recently— Seattle, Washington.
    As in “three days ago” recently.
    This meant a road trip. And road trips meant preparation. She was in the silver Audi Dad had bought her for graduation and halfway home before ten minutes had passed. She grimly noted the nearly-empty tank; she’d handle it tomorrow. Her first case, a success already! She’d leave for Seattle in the morning, and have the case wrapped up in time for dinner. The Client would stand agape at her intellectual prowess (to say nothing of her good looks), and cry himself to sleep at the realization that he’d let something so wonderful slip through his fingers. He’d crawl back to her on Friday, begging for a date and sobbing his apologies, and she’d politely ask him to leave. There was no reason to show how much she hated him in the face of a clear victory. She was better than that.
    Again, it was flawless.
    She chose not to worry about that nagging sense of unease at how ridiculously simple it had been to track down this mystery woman.
     

NINE
     
    Clint had no intention of abducting anyone when he awoke on the morning of his job interview. His day began early, progressing like a checklist.
    3:00—wake up way too early to a swarm of butterflies in his gut. Try getting more sleep, since the interview isn’t until 10:00. Grab some time in the hotel pool and hot tub upon realizing a lost cause. Shower, drop into bed, and fret about whether the portfolio would be good enough.
    6:30—raid the breakfast buffet as soon as it opens. Hope that inhaling pastries, fruit, and yogurt dissuades the morning clerk who had been eying him up since the time he checked in with Molly.
    6:42—lounge in front of the TV to kill time and avoid thinking about the interview.
    8:17—shower; change clothes; grab necessities. Conveniently forget to let Molly know he was leaving. Also conveniently forget any of the safety instructions she’d drilled him on the night before; after all, a shot at breaking free from cleaning feces from toilet bowls for a living was more important than a friend’s paranoia.
    8:30—hop a bus to downtown.
    9:03—hobble to the office building that housed the schizophrenic redhead he’d traded his car to for her help in finding a cure for his curse.
    9:09—knock three separate times without an answer; assume her office is not a place she feels any need to frequent. Phone the cell; get no answer from that, either.
    9:12—back outside, thankfully without causing his new P.I. to faint a second time.
    The morning checklist complete, he sauntered to the nearest bus stop, forcing himself to relax. He’d have just enough time to catch a