Absolutely Captivated by Kristine Grayson Read Free Book Online Page A

easy to find.
    Of course, she wasn’t easy
to find. There wasn’t a Zanthia as a private detective anywhere in
L.A. Nor was there a Zoe as a private detective. Not in the phone
book, not on the Internet, and not at any of the big firms that the
Wyrd Sisters had convinced Travers to call.
    Then, it turned out, this Zanthia/Zoe
woman had been a private detective since the 1930s which, in
Travers’ book, meant she was either dead or retired, although the
Wyrd Sisters didn’t think so. Kyle, bless him, didn’t do the math,
so he didn’t think the history was strange either.
    He just continued his
Internet search, going through old databases that the libraries had
set up until he found her. Zoe Sinclair, Private Detective. With an
address from the 1940s.
    Of course, the Wyrd Sisters were
convinced that was their woman, and they insisted that Kyle do a
broader search. Any private detective anywhere in the nation with
the name Zoe Sinclair.
    Because , one of the Wyrds (Clotho?)
had said to Travers, she would probably
have moved on by now. It’s quite a problem when you don’t age
properly .
    Kyle had nodded, as if that statement
had been logical, and at that moment, Kyle had discovered a Zoe
Sinclair who worked out of Las Vegas.
    This was where the sequence of events
got strange.
    The next group of events
was one long blur consisting of Kyle begging Travers to take care
of the Wyrd Sisters and get them to Vegas, Travers calling Viv to
ask her what she had gotten him into, Viv refusing to answer the
phone (it was her honeymoon, after all), and Kyle throwing a temper
tantrum right around bedtime.
    So the Wyrd Sisters had spent the
night in Travers’ house in the Hollywood Hills, and the next
morning, he awoke to find them sitting at his table, counting
pennies, hoping that $3.56 would be enough for bus fare.
    Event Six was the
clearest, though. Kyle pulling Travers aside and saying, Dad, look. They’re just not like normal people.
You can’t let them get on a bus by themselves. That’s what Uncle
Dex was worried about. You need to hand them off to
someone.
    Like the Olympic
Torch ? Travers asked, too exhausted to
worry about his sarcasm.
    Exactly! Kyle had said, and clapped his hands
together.
    And somehow Event Six had
led to Event Seven, which was Travers pouring everyone into the SUV
all over again, and heading out across the desert to Las
Vegas.
    Eight hours, six traffic
jams, and one mistaken casino lunch stop later, they were pulling
into Sin City proper, with no real idea of where they were going,
and no plan on how to get there. Kyle had downloaded maps for this
Zoe Sinclair’s office, which happened to be somewhere called
Fremont Street, which looked like it was just past the
downtown.
    Drivers zoomed in and out
of the lanes as if they were playing bumper cars. The traffic in
Las Vegas was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as L.A. traffic. At
least in Vegas, the traffic kept moving.
    The problem was the distractions. The
glittery signs advertising Celine Dion at Caesar’s Palace,
Siegfried and Roy at the Mirage, and the Blue Man Group at the
Luxor fairly screamed for attention from the side of the road. More
hotels, some looking like European palaces, rose up to the right,
and to the left, shops and hotels, and houses that shimmered like a
heat mirage in the desert air.
    A neon sign for a bank Travers had
never heard of kindly informed him that it was 105 degrees—not
normally a problem for him (he was a native Angelino, after
all)—but in this condition, with these women in his car, his quiet
son beside him, and in this city where he didn’t know anyone, it
was simply one more irritation.
    And he was sitting in the sun, unable
to turn until I-15 became I-515 in a few more miles.
    Not to mention the fact that his plans
were shot. He had planned to leave early enough to make the
drive—both ways—in one day. That way, Travers wouldn’t miss any
more work, and Kyle would be home in time to register for