Someone's Watching the Angelharts

Chapter One Margo Angelhart

Chapter One

Margo Angelhart

The first thing I noticed when I walked into my house Monday night was the amazing smell coming from the kitchen. Meat. Tomatoes.

Basil. Garlic. My stomach let out an appreciative growl. I rarely ate Italian food even though I loved it. I come from an

Irish Mexican family—we either ate meat and potatoes, or Mexican food. I didn’t think my parents even knew there were other

cuisines.

I walked into the kitchen and breathed deeply. “You can break in and cook for me anytime.”

Cal Rafferty gave me his most charming grin and bowed. “At your service, milady. And, I have a key.” He winked.

Yes, I had given Cal a key a few weeks back when our relationship took a turn from fun and flirty to serious and sexy.

But still fun.

The stove was covered with bubbling pots and simmering sauces.

I could cook, but most nights I didn’t bother.

I had an uncle who owned a couple upscale Mexican restaurants and took over my grandmother’s food truck business when she retired, and cousins who owned a Mexican diner not far from my house.

And my Aunt Rita—who couldn’t seem to adjust to having an empty nest—constantly overcooked, so I was often gifted with her leftovers.

My freezer was packed with meals for one.

Yes, I had a boyfriend. And yes, that boyfriend cooked. Really well. Cal was a keeper.

“Smells amazing,” I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

He caught me by the waist, pressed me against the fridge, and kissed me for real.

“I could get used to this,” I murmured. “Good food. Hot guy.”

“As long as I’m the hot guy,” Cal said, giving my butt a quick pinch.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“Keeping you on your toes.” He kissed me again. “I’ve missed you.”

I melted a little. “Missed you too.”

We’d both been busy—me with a series of cases in my PI business, Cal working a long-running DEA op. Two months into dating

and we still had to fight for time together.

He kissed me again. “I shouldn’t have put the pasta in yet. We could’ve . . . reacquainted.” He ran his hands up and down the sides of my body, then rested on my hips, his fingers splayed across my backside.

“I’m starving.” But I greatly enjoyed where his hands were heading.

“So am I.” He nipped at my neck, sucked gently on my earlobe.

I sighed and wrapped my arms around him. Cal really did everything right.

We’d met when I was investigating the overdose death of a teenager, which had overlapped with one of Cal’s cold cases. Love at first sight? Not quite. He’d been tailing me and I do not like being followed. But by the time we closed the case, the spark was undeniable.

And when we got to know each other, well . . . we were very compatible. In all the important ways.

Cal slipped my gun from the holster at the small of my back and set it on the counter. Then his hands slid down my pants and

pulled me closer. Yeah, he’d missed me.

The timer dinged.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He shot me a seductive look, kissed me hard, then backed off. “Out of my sight before I ruin dinner.”

I grabbed a water bottle and retreated to the dining room. He’d already set the table: wine poured, salads plated, and a small,

wrapped gift at my place. My stomach flipped.

It had been a long time since I felt this way about a man.

Tito, my four-month-old kitten, jumped onto the chair next to me and meowed. I reached over and scratched him between the

ears while watching Cal strain the pasta.

I still couldn’t believe I let a ten-year-old talk me into having a cat. I liked cats, but I didn’t want one. Pets meant responsibility.

And yet, I had a gray bundle of energy with cute white paws.

Cal ladled on the sauce, then joined me at the table, putting the plates down with a flourish. He was wearing an apron he

must have brought with him, because I’d never seen it before. It was all black with a couple of cooking utensils crossed like

swords and the words: Cal. The Man. The Myth. The Grillmaster.

“I like the apron,” I said. “Next time, maybe you should wear the apron and nothing else.”

“Maybe I will,” he teased as he untied it and draped it over the back of his chair.

He took my hand and kissed it.

“Open it,” he said with a nod to the present as he sat down.

“Shouldn’t I wait until after dinner?”

“Nope.” His grin was shy, almost boyish. “I’m not that patient.”

I laughed and unwrapped the box. Tito grabbed the ribbon with his sharp little claws and it fell to the floor. Tito followed.

Inside was a challenge coin. One side bore the DEA logo. The other had a silhouette of a woman in a low-brimmed hat, a gun

holstered at her hip, binoculars in hand. Angelhart Investigations curved around the edge.

Challenge coins were big in the military and law enforcement, but they’d crept out into the civilian world. They meant a lot

of things, but usually symbolized unity or recognition of exceptional performance, or marked a special event or mission.

I was speechless—and that wasn’t easy to do.

“Is it okay?” Cal asked, sounding unsure.

“Are you kidding? It’s amazing.” I leaned over and kissed him. “You had this made?”

He nodded. “A friend of mine designs coins. I sketched the PI—you, of course. I mean, after two months what does one get their

girlfriend?”

Girlfriend. Yeah, we were dating, but to hear it said out loud felt both amazing and a little weird.

After two months, he wanted to show we were a team.

“Two months,” I repeated.

“Today.”

I couldn’t believe he remembered the exact date. I thought back, nodded. “You’re right.”

“I always am.”

I laughed. “Ego much?”

“Two months ago today, I kissed you in this house and knew we’d make it work—no matter our crazy schedules.”

He wasn’t wrong. The more time I spent with Cal, the more I wanted to.

While we ate, Cal filled me in on his latest case: a string of tainted fentanyl deaths. Eight victims. They’d identified the

dealer and raided his house, seizing the deadly batch of drugs, but the dealer wasn’t there. Cal was irritated.

“Our intel was wrong, which pisses me off. He was supposed to be there. Phoenix PD is looking for him, and there’s not many

places he can hide. At least we got the tainted product off the street.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I shoveled in another bite. “This is amazing, by the way.”

“Just wait for breakfast.”

“Bedside service?” I teased, rubbing my foot up his leg.

Before he could answer, my phone rang.

I should’ve ignored it. But I was a PI, always on call. It could be a lead. Or a family crisis.

“Get it,” Cal said without any hint of frustration or anger. Yeah, he got me. And it felt good. “But,” he added, “unless someone’s

bleeding, you’re not leaving tonight.”

“Deal.”

I checked the screen. Local number, but not in my contacts.

“Angelhart,” I answered.

I heard traffic. A car speaker.

“Is this Margo? Dr. Cooper Angelhart’s daughter?”

That hit like a jolt. I stood, crossed to the counter, pulled out a notepad. Cal was watching me.

“This is Margo. Who’s calling?”

“Liz Swanson. I—I probably shouldn’t have called . . .”

The name was familiar. I couldn’t quite place it.

“How do you know my dad?”

“I’m a nurse. I worked with Dr. Cooper for years. He’s a great doctor, and I . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

Liz Swanson. Yeah, I could picture her now. Maybe forty—would be older now—petite, blonde, warm smile.

“Liz. From the VA, I remember. Where are you? Do you want to meet?”

It was after seven. I had planned this long-overdue dinner and sleepover with Cal. But if this was about my father—who was

in prison for a murder I knew he didn’t commit—Cal would understand.

“I just got off my shift. I need to talk to my husband first. But Georgia told me to call you.”

My breath caught. “Georgia Rollins?”

“Yes,” Liz said.

Nine months ago, Dr. Devin Klein’s former assistant Georgia Rollins had sent me on a wild-goose chase looking for Klein’s

ex-wife who didn’t exist, then Georgia disappeared. When I realized that she’d misled me, I didn’t have an unlimited amount

of time to find her. A mortgage and bills required me to actually get paid for most of the cases I worked.

“When did you talk to her?” Maybe she was back in town. I hadn’t been actively looking for Georgia since I joined the family

PI business in May. Guilt clawed at the back of my head that I had put my dad’s investigation on the back burner because I

was busy with work and, more recently, with Cal.

“Um, back in February, I think? I ran into Georgia at a veterans’ shelter where I volunteer. I was surprised to see her, especially

since we’d been friendly when we worked together, then she just up and left after Dr. Klein’s funeral. She explained that

she had taken a job out of town, then she asked if I’d talked to you. I said no, why would I? She said you were asking questions

about Dr. Klein and if I knew anything that might help Dr. Cooper, I should call you.”

I hadn’t known any of that. The first and last time I saw Georgia was nine months ago, nearly three years after her boss had been murdered in his office.

I’d periodically hunted for her, finally locating her working at a hospital in Tucson.

I drove down immediately. She was surprised that I wanted to talk to her, but seemed forthcoming.

She’d said that Dr. Klein’s murder had her “reevaluating” her life choices and she wanted to start over.

She gave me information that didn’t pan out, but when I went back to confront her, I learned she’d quit her job and left no forwarding address.

Which made me think that she had deliberately misled me and bolted.

Why tell this nurse to call me with information when Georgia hadn’t wanted to share the truth with me? Why would she lie to

me, but tell Liz to help?

“What do you know?” I asked, my tone harsh. I tempered it and asked, “I mean, why are you calling now? My dad went to prison

over three and a half years ago.” It would be four years in March.

“I didn’t know anything, not then.”

Liz sounded defensive, and I didn’t know if that was because she really didn’t know something that might have helped my dad,