Bloodlines: An Irene Kelly Novel (Irene Kelly Mysteries) by Jan Burke

Author:Jan Burke
Format: mobi
Tags: Detective, Mystery, Police Procedural, Mystery fiction, Reporters and reporting - California, Mystery & Detective, Irene (Fictitious character), Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, General, California, Suspense, Women Sleuths, Kelly, Women journalists, Fiction, Women detectives - California
ISBN: 9780743444552
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2006-08-29T05:00:00+00:00

"Yes."

I thought over our progress so far. "Maybe if we run the photo you have of Betty, we'll hear from someone who has seen her since 1958."

"Maybe," he agreed. "If she's alive, I don't think she's anywhere near here, though."

"And maybe we should start trying to find out more about Griffin Baer's friends and associates."

"I'd bet anything Lefebvre is already at work on that, but sure."

"Lydia mentioned the heirs fighting over a property on the beach and the farm, but I don't recall anything about a mountain property, do you?"

"No. But it could have been sold to someone else since 1958." He noticed that it was about eleven-thirty. "We'd better work through the rest of this another time. You'll be late for your date."

"Not a date," I said.

He began packing up the box. He even let me help him.

"I think you should ask Wrigley to move Lydia over to news side," I said. "We could use her help."

"Lefebvre was right," he said sourly. "You're a menace."

"Nuisance."

"Both," he said, but there was no heat in it.

**CHAPTER 33

I STOPPED BY MY DESK AND PICKED UP MY SHOULDER BAG, WHICH WEIGHED a ton, because it had the big hardcover library book in it. My intercom buzzed. Geoff, the security guard, told me that a gentleman by the name of Max Ducane was waiting for me.

That made something clear. Admonishing myself to call him Max and not Kyle, I made my way downstairs.

Max Ducane didn't look as happy as I would have expected a new multimillionaire to be. If anything, he seemed troubled. We made small talk as we walked out of the building. His car was around the corner--a new BMW. "Your first purchase?" I asked.

He nodded. "I had my reasons--or thought I did--but are you embarrassed to ride in it? Is it too ostentatious?"

"For someone with your bucks?"

"Maybe I'll sell it," he said, glum again.

Once we were settled inside it, he said, "I made reservations at the Cliffside. Is that all right? If you'd prefer, we can just go to a restaurant near here."

The suggestion gave me pause, but I thought about the fact that I was now living rent-free, had paid off my bills from the Bakersfield move, and had just put a paycheck in the bank.

"I've never eaten at the Cliffside," I said, not adding that I had never thought of myself as someone who could afford to eat there, "but I've always heard that it's a great place. And it's a smarter choice for us than anywhere nearby, I think, unless you want half the staff of the Express trying to eavesdrop on us."

"The Cliffside it is, then."

We were seated in a private room at the restaurant, which is part of a luxury hotel with stunning ocean views. Our waiter had a manner that suggested he was on loan from a palace somewhere. He seated me, placed a fine linen napkin on my lap with a flourish, and handed me an open menu with a smile. Before I even

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