Page 3 of Torch’s Wildfire
As a research and compatibility specialist for one of the country's most exclusive matchmaking agencies, I spend my days helping wealthy people find their perfect partners.
Or, more accurately, I spend my days locating people based on ridiculously vague information.
A first name.
An old photograph.
A chance meeting at a charity gala.
You'd be amazed how many billionaires apparently fall madly in love without bothering to ask for a phone number.
Idiots.
Very rich idiots, but idiots nonetheless.
Fortunately, their terrible social skills pay my bills.
They've also helped me build a network of contacts most private investigators would kill for.
Which is how I found this place.
One of my former clients, whose marriage I practically performed a miracle to arrange, put me in touch with an attorney who specializes in property records.
A few favors later, I had the location of a secluded parcel of land outside Roseburn Falls.
Owned by one Preston Chavez.
It took some persuasion.
And one very expensive bottle of whiskey.
But here I am.
Committing a felony.
For free.
I move toward the bookshelf.
There are more photographs here. Mostly motorcycles and men who look like they'd consider punching someone a perfectly acceptable afternoon activity.
No family pictures.
No woman smiling beside him.
Nothing that suggests anyone shares this house.
Good.
The last thing I need is an angry girlfriend discovering me in her man's living room.
I inspect the books, looking for anything connected to the fire investigation.
Four years ago, a commercial building burned down.
A man died.
The official investigation closed.
