Lee frowned. "I didn't ask for a room."
"Mr. McLeary booked the Silver Suite for you, sir, and your guests," the man explained.
"My guests?"
"They arrived a week ago, sir. They're waiting upstairs in your suite. Now, if you'll please sign."
Lee took the pen. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, forcing his weary mind to function, then scrawled a name across two lines of the book in bold, black letters. L. K. Jones. Lee shoved the pen and the register back across the polished surface, grabbed the key in one hand, picked up his bag in the other, and took the stairs two at a time.
He stood in the carpeted hallway outside the door to the Silver Suite for several minutes before he raised his hand to knock. He was getting too old for this. God, he was tired. Tired of traveling, of sleeping in hard chairs in stuffy trains surrounded by equally tired strangers with cranky children and crying babies. He was tired of the long list of aliases he used, the variety of personalities he assumed, the endless blur of towns, the relentless trailing, and the never-ending hunt. It was at times like this, when his brain was numb and his body beyond exhaustion, that he longed for the comforts of home. Lee toyed with the idea of settling down—of finding a nice woman to marry and a maybe a ranch to run. He grimaced at the idea. He had toyed with the idea of running for president, too, upon occasion, but that didn't mean he was the man for the job. Lee shook his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He knocked once on the wooden door. He needed a thick beefsteak, a hot bath, and clean bed. He had to get this business with Tom McLeary out of the way. Leaning against the door frame, Lee raised his hand a second time.
But the door opened before he could knock.
A middle-aged man dressed in a dark suit stood in the entrance to the suite eyeing him warily.
"Are you McLeary?"
"That's right," McLeary answered. "And you must be Mr. Jones."
Lee managed a tired smile. "I see you got the telegram from our friend in Chicago." He offered his hand. "I'm Lee Kincaid."
"Thank God, you're finally here." The wary look on McLeary's face changed instantly into an expression of complete relief. He reached out and took Lee's hand, then stepped back and motioned Lee into the sitting room. "Make yourself at home." McLeary kept his voice low. "I've been trying to reach you for a week." He reached for Lee's leather bag and set it on a walnut desk while Lee removed his hat and duster.
"I was in Washington," Lee answered automatically, as he placed his garments atop the satchel. "Your telegram mentioned you had something for me. What is it? And what the devil is this all about?"
"Old debts."
Lee turned at the sound of the voice.
An elderly man sat on a horsehair sofa. Lee watched as he leaned heavily on a sturdy black cane to raise himself from the depths of his seat. He, too, was dressed in a black suit—an old fashioned black suit, with a loose, thin striped chambray shirt, and a plaid waistcoat. He wore slippers on his feet instead of shoes. Lee studied the old man from the top of his white head to his slippered feet. Something wasn't quite right about his appearance, but Lee was too tired to figure it out. He continued to watch as the old man limped painfully over and held out his hand. His knuckles were gnarled and swollen with age and arthritis, and his skin was dry and parchment thin.
Lee gently shook his hand. "Do I know you?"
"No." The elderly gentleman spoke slowly and carefully. His words sounded rehearsed. "My name is Judah Crane. I'm an attorney. I represent the estate of Tabitha Gray."
Lee reacted as if he'd been punched in the gut. He let go of the lawyer's hand and stepped back as the air seemed to rush from his lungs and his knees began to wobble. Tabitha, dead? Six months ago, his partner Eamon Roarke had been killed, and now Tabitha. Lee tried to take a breath. His friends and former partners were dropping like flies. Swaying on his feet, he groped for the nearest chair. "Tabby Gray?" Lee glanced at McLeary, then at the lawyer, seeking confirmation.
McLeary nodded. "She died eight days ago."
Lee sank onto the chair. "Where? How?"
"At her home in Utopia," McLeary answered. "A little town about fifteen miles north of here."
"I know where it is," Lee snapped, suddenly irritated by Tom McLeary's matter-of-fact tone. "I passed through it on the way here. What happened to Tabby?"
"She caught a chill," Judah Crane blurted out. "She caught a chill and couldn't shake it." Crane's big brown eyes filled with tears as he looked at Lee. "I drafted her last will and testament," he said. "I drafted Tabitha's will and I did exactly as she asked. I was careful. You won't find any mistakes in it. No loopholes. It's ironclad."
"How did you know how to contact me?" Lee asked the lawyer.
"She gave me a letter," Judah answered simply. "And made me promise to remember to mail it." He limped back to the sofa and sat down.
Watching Judah limp back to the sofa, Lee noticed the old man's shirttail hung down beneath the hem of his coat. "I didn't get a letter," he said.
"The letter came to me," McLeary interrupted, "at the Highland Company post office box."
Lee squeezed his eyes shut. Of course he hadn't gotten the letter. Tabby didn't know where he was, but she had known how to contact him. They had worked together once, here in Denver. She'd been his partner. She knew to use the Agency post office box, knew that any mail sent to the Highland Company would eventually reach him. There was no Highland Company. It was simply a rented post office box—a means of collecting information and sending information to the Agency or to other agents.
McLeary continued. "She asked whoever received the letter to contact you through the Agency in the event of her death. And she asked that an Agent be sent to Utopia"— McLeary cleared his throat—"to oversee arrangements. She also left a letter for you." He walked over to the desk, unlocked the top drawer, and removed a letter. McLeary handed the envelope to Lee, then walked over to stand by the sofa. "We can leave the room if you'd like some privacy," he offered.