Barbara Dunlop - Next To Nothing!

He’d taken a chance in writing Mrs. Cliff a check last night for her car, but it was either that or admit to the whole world that the IPS Detective Agency was broke—admit to the world that he’d been stupid enough to trust a partner who’d defrauded the company along with several of their clients.

Tyler would just as soon get shot.

Again.

In a place far more painful than his shoulder.

“Why does ‘getting yourself out of this mess’ have to involve eating cheap takeout food and sleeping on a short couch?” Derek crossed the room and picked up the corner of Tyler’s old Boy Scout sleeping bag.

“Because I sold the beach house.” Giving up on the bank balance for now, Tyler pushed back the chair and stood up. He preferred to look Derek in the eye for this conversation.

Derek might be six foot two, but Tyler had caught up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and even managed to beat him by half an inch. Not that it mattered. He was now and always would be the little brother.

And linebacker Derek could still take him out without even breaking a sweat.

“Because you were too stubborn to ask the family for help,” corrected Derek.

“A thirty-year-old man does not go running to his daddy for help just because his business hits a little snag.”

“A little snag?” Derek’s voice was incredulous.

“A little snag,” Tyler echoed.

“Your partner skipped with your clients’ money.”

Tyler gritted his teeth. “I’m handling it.”

“I can accept that you didn’t want to go to Dad. But why didn’t you come to me or Striker?”

Tyler folded his arms across his chest, imitating his brother’s pose. “I needed money, Derek. And I needed it fast.”

It had been forty-eight hours since he discovered Reggie’s duplicity, but saying it out loud still stung. Tyler had to squelch an urge to bash his fist into the nearest wall. It was an urge he’d been battling for two days.

“How much did you sell it for?” asked Derrick.

Tyler named a sum that made Derrick’s eyes widen.

“That’s it? You practically gave the beach house away.”

“They offered cash.”

“I would’ve bought it for that.”

“And I’d still have a place to live?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

Derek’s booming voice rose. “Jeez, Tyler, lightning won’t strike you dead if you borrow a little family money.”

“You know as well as I do that once Dad gets his hooks in me, I’ll be his for life.”

“Like me, you mean.”

“No. Not like you. You genuinely want to stare at balance sheets and stock portfolios all day long. Though how you’ve managed to stay sane this long is beyond me.”

Derek was the golden boy, the heir apparent to Reeves-DuCarter International, the pride and joy of three generations. Meanwhile, Tyler was the black sheep.

Derek shook his head. “You never did understand—”

“I understand perfectly. I’m thirty years old. This private eye thing isn’t just a phase. It’s my vocation, my dream, my calling.”

“Doin’ real well for you so far,” Derek snorted.

Tyler winced. “It’s a small setback.”

“How much did he get?”

“Reggie?”

“No.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Of course Reggie.”

Tyler slumped back down in the chair. “What did Striker tell you?”

Derek pulled up a guest chair and folded his big body into it. “That Reggie split with a client’s car and a cashier’s check.”

Tyler nodded. That about summed it up. Reggie had also made free with several hundred thousand in retainers over the past few months, much of which Tyler would have to pay back since Reggie wasn’t around to do the work.

“How much?” Derek repeated.

“Including Mrs. Cliff’s BMW?”

“Quit stalling.”

Tyler voiced the amount that still made him wince. “But I suspect most of it went up his nose before the big disappearing act.”

The books were a mess.

Tyler’s life was a mess.

Derek let out a long, slow whistle. “What’s plan B?”

Tyler gave a chopped, terse chuckle. Plan A implicitly being to hunt Reggie down and take it out of his hide. “Pay Mrs. Cliff for the car—I told her we wrecked it—back out of Reggie’s contracts and eat the penalties, sleep in the office for a while, find some quick, high-paying jobs…”

Derek glanced around the reception area with a frown.

“I’ve got coffee, a bath, a deli on the first floor,” said Tyler. “What more does a man need?”

“Bunk out at my place,” said Derek.

Tyler shook his head. “I don’t want Dad to know what’s going on.”

Derek stared hard into Tyler’s eyes, but Tyler didn’t flinch.

Derek was a fixer, just like their father. Tyler knew it was nearly killing him to sit back and watch his little brother stumble.

But Tyler was not giving in. He’d learned years ago that if he didn’t fight tooth and nail for every little scrap of independence, he’d end up in a Saville Row suit in a cushy office on the top floor of the Reeves-DuCarter building in downtown Seattle chatting nonsense with overseas investors and monitoring the Dow Jones Industrial Average.

“This isn’t high school, Derek. Let me handle it this time.”

Derek drew back in his chair. “One guy. I punched out one guy for you.”

Tyler shook his head. “Blackburn and his friends harassed me for three years thanks to you.” Finally, in Tyler’s senior year, he’d grown big enough to flatten Blackburn on his own and put a stop to the relentless tormenting.

“What?” Derek rocked forward. His fists balled. “They kept at it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tyler threw up his hands. “So you could punch him out again? Please, Derek. There’s nothing more pathetic than a kid who can’t fight his own battles.”

“Blackburn was twice your size.”

Tyler cracked a half smile. “Not in the end, he wasn’t.”

Derek’s eyes flashed with sudden admiration. “You were the one who broke his nose?”

“I was the one who broke his nose. I solved that problem. And I’ll solve this one, too. It just might take me a while.”

Derek glanced around the office again. “Well, there’s no need to be a martyr about it. Why not take a suite at the Quayside?”

“Because I’m trying to save money.”

“You’re a shareholder. They’ll give you a rate.”

“Rate’s zero if I stay here.”

The phone on the desktop rang.

“Where’s Shirley?” asked Derek.

“Had to cut her back to part-time.”

“What? You can’t even afford one employee?”

The phone rang again.

“Cash flow,” said Tyler. “It’s just temporary. She wanted to spend some time with her kids for the summer anyway.” He picked up the receiver. “IPS Detectives.”

Derek gazed at the ceiling and shook his head, as if invoking divine intervention.

“Reggie Sandhill,” said a man’s curt voice.

“Reggie is out of the country for a few weeks,” said Tyler.

Derek snorted at Tyler’s lie.

Tyler ignored him. “I’m his partner, Tyler Reeves.”

“Reggie came highly recommended,” said the man, in a tone that told Tyler he wasn’t used to disappointment.

“Perhaps I can help you.” said Tyler evenly, annoyed by both the man’s attitude and by Reggie’s habit of taking all the glory for cases that Tyler had solved. Everyone knew Reggie’s name. Nobody knew Tyler’s.

“It’s a surveillance job,” said the man on the phone, a challenge in his voice.

Like, maybe Tyler couldn’t handle surveillance. “No problem. Surveillance is one of our specialties.”

“I see.” The man seemed to be weighing whether or not to trust Tyler. “Her name is Jenna McBride,” he finally said.