Close to the Edge

by Kylie Brant

  She snatched it from him, yanked down the zipper, and stepped into it. “From my mother.”

  “That explains it. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

  Struggling to zip up, she said, “I got a tip this afternoon about that missing girl, Cheryl Kenning. Remember her?”

  “Twenty-year-old, reported missin’ by her grandparents. The NOPD found her hookin’, didn’t they?”

  “That’s the one.” She jammed her feet into her high-heeled pumps. “I discovered that she was working for Goldie, and with a little digging I was able to come up with a list of his hangouts.”

  Without asking permission, he spun around to frown at her. “And you thought you’d just ask him to point you in her general direction?”

  “Give me some credit. I heard he carried his business ledger with him.” She rounded the desk to pull open the center drawer. Withdrawing a small black notebook, she waggled it, feeling smug. “This fell on the floor after I arranged to have him distracted. I managed to swipe it on my way out.”

  “You arranged? The guy that provoked him was workin’ with you?”

  One of the nice things about Lucky, she thought, as she dropped the notebook back in the drawer, was that he caught on so quickly. She never had to waste time explaining things.

  Admiration sounded in his voice. “Very nice. Devious, yet simple.”

  “Thank you. I learned from the master.” She went to her bag, withdrew a small purse that would match the dress, and began transferring a few things from the one she’d carried earlier. “Apparently each girl he has working for him frequents the same few locations. I’ll spend some time staking them out, and then when I can be certain of the location Cheryl frequents, I’ll let her grandparents know.”

  “So they can do what? Kidnap her?”

  Snapping her purse closed, she searched the bag for the flat jewelry box that held her grandmother’s pearls. Pushing aside a tiny sliver of uncertainty, she responded, “That will be up to them. My job was just to find her. Help me with these, will you?”

  Lucky moved in back of her and took the two ends of the necklace and fastened the clasp. But when he was done, he didn’t step away. He turned her around, his hands remaining on her arms, his face serious. “She had a chance to leave that life the last time the police picked her up, and her grandparents were alerted. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave, have you ever thought of that? You may not approve of her choice, but she still has the right to make it.”

  It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed over a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and the difference was inevitably reflected in their attitudes. But knowing that, understanding it, didn’t make it any less annoying this time. “My approval doesn’t have anything to do with it. He might have gotten her hooked on drugs. Or she might be too afraid of him to leave. She’ll get her choice, and it won’t be tempered by fear or addiction.”

  Not every case handled by Wheeler and Associates was imbued with moral implications. Most, as a matter of fact, bordered on the mundane. But there were cases, plural, and the knowledge filled Jacey with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She’d started the private investigation business as soon as she could get her hands on her trust-fund monies, over the vehement objections of her mother. She’d acquired the training, found the building and done the advertising. And then, for the better part of a year, she’d twiddled her thumbs.

  It seemed that few in her circle of acquaintances had need for a PI, however upscale and discreet. And most who had stopped in had lost interest quickly when it became apparent that hers was a one-woman operation. That had abruptly changed when Lucky Boucher had walked through her door three years ago.

  Rather than bringing her a case, he’d been looking for work. The idea had been laughable, since she couldn’t even keep herself busy. And he…he had been completely inappropriate, even if she had been considering employees. He was too rough, too unpolished and his background bordered on the unsavory. He’d also been impossible to get rid of.

  He’d snatched the lone case file off her desk and read it over her furious objection. Then he’d left, after vowing to find the bail jumper she’d been hired to trace within twenty-four hours.

  It had taken him six.

  After two weeks and two more solved cases, his constant badgering had worn her down. Besides, as he’d pointed out then, he worked cheap. She’d hired him reluctantly, fully expecting him to tire of the job and move on within weeks. He’d surprised them both by staying. Even more shocking, they had somehow, along the way, become friends.

  At least, she thought that was what they were. She trusted him, in a way she did no other, although at times it was difficult to tell just who was the boss and who was the employee. She seemed to spend most of her time reminding him.

  He dropped his hands, freeing her. But instead of moving away, she frowned, reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face. “Did your pool partner catch up with you after I left?”

  He’d never been one to miss a chance to milk an opportunity. Making a show of wincing, he said, “No, this bouele was delivered by one of your would-be admirers. There were several who thought of followin’ you out of the bar. I convinced them otherwise.”

  Rather than looking grateful, she appeared mildly amused. “So you were protecting me? Lucky, that’s so sweet.”

  Discomfited, he shrugged. There was something about the woman that could make him feel like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “Well, if one had hurt you, I’d have had to do all the work around here. Since I already carry more than my load, I was just thinkin’ of myself.”

  She made a sound that almost qualified as a sniff, one she often used to denote derision and disagreement without having to do something as ill-bred as argue. It never failed to set his teeth on edge.

  “I think I demonstrated my ability to take care of myself in there. Was that biker walking again by the time you left?”

  He hadn’t been, but Lucky didn’t want to swell her head by telling her so. “Next time give him a good kick once he’s down. You want to disable him completely, not just piss him off.”

  “Thank you so much.” From the sweet smile she was gracing him with, he was given the impression that she was considering carrying out his advice on him. “But I don’t have time for your lavish compliments.” She glanced at the clock and made a face, reaching for a ridiculously small purse. “I should have called for a cab, but it’s too late. And my mother is going to be impossible.”

  “That goes without sayin’.” Impossible was a much more favorable description than any he would have come up with. He and Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler regarded each other with thinly veiled contempt.

  “All right.” She gave a deep breath, smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”

  With a critical eye, he surveyed her. “Prim as a librarian. A very dull librarian.”

  “Why would I even ask you?” she muttered, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. Crossing to a mirror on the opposite wall, she applied it carefully. “You’ve made your preferences regarding women’s attire all too clear.”

  He slouched against the wall to watch her. “Low-cut top, short skirt, panties optional. Choices that never go out of fashion.”

  “Any question about your fashion sense is answered by reading the shirts you insist on wearing.”

  Offended, he looked down at his favorite black T-shirt, which proclaimed I love everybody. You’re next. “You’re just bein’ mean because you have to spend the evenin’ with your mother.”

  She blotted her lipstick and dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. “I have to go. Lock up for me, will you? And don’t forget to set the alarm. And check the windows. And make sure the door closes tightly behind you. It kind of sticks, you know, and I’m afraid…”

  He gave her a friendly nudge out the office door. “I know how to lock up. Go. Have as good a time as possible with the Witches of
the South.”

  He thought, he was almost certain, he heard a smile in her voice. “Sisters of the South. Thanks. And you get one of your girlfriends to look at that bruise. I’m sure, given your skills, you can appear pathetic enough to be plied with TLC all night.”

  The thought was cheering. “If not, I’m losin’ my touch.” And there was no reason, none at all, to believe that was true. He stood watching while she dashed through the rain to the car she’d parked right in front of the business. It wasn’t until the taillights winked and she pulled away, that he turned back to the office, already flipping through a mental file. Who should he call? Desiree? Leanne? Monique? Reaching for the phone, he punched in a number. With a pitying look at the now-empty street, Lucky was certain of one thing. Whatever he ended up doing this evening, it would beat what Jacey had waiting for her, hands down.

  Chapter 2

  “I’ve made your apologies to the hostess.”

  The first words Charlotte Wheeler spoke were delivered in her customary genteel voice, carefully modulated. But years of experience had Jacey reading the disapproval layered beneath. Your late arrival is insufferably rude. There is no reason, short of death, that could possibly excuse your tardiness.

  And because no excuse would mollify her mother, least of all the truth, Jacey didn’t offer any. “Thank you. Have you found your table setting yet?”

  Charlotte’s lips tightened just a fraction. “We’re seated together. I waited for you before dining. I didn’t want to disturb the others at our table by both of us holding up their meals.”

  Years of practice had her skirting the verbal land mine. “Let’s sit then, shall we? You’re looking lovely tonight. I always like that color on you.”

  That, at least, could be said honestly. Charlotte’s dress was the same bottle-green color as her eyes. She was sixty, and, thanks to a skilled and discreet plastic surgeon, looked fifteen years younger. Her brown hair was worn short, as Charlotte subscribed to the outdated belief that a woman of a certain age should never wear long hair. It wasn’t the only antiquated notion she clung to, nor the only one they disagreed upon.

  Jacey followed her mother across the crowded room, stopping several times to return greetings and exchange pleasantries. The contrast between the staid dinner and the smoky bar she’d left less than an hour ago couldn’t be more stark. If her mother had her way, Jacey’s entire adult life would be filled with more of the same; an endless parade of boring functions, peopled by equally dull members of what passed for New Orleans’ high society.

  A shudder worked down her spine at the thought. They were shown to their table by a white-jacketed waiter who seated them, then summoned another to bring their plates. Every time Jacey wearied of the constant battles with her mother over her choice of careers, she had only to think of events like this to feel her resolve stiffen. That strength was necessary. Battles with Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler could leave lasting wounds.

  The upside of her tardiness was that she was still eating when the guest speaker was introduced, which gave her something to focus on besides what promised to be an excruciatingly long-winded speech. With an ease born of long practice, Jacey assumed a politely interested expression and tuned the woman out.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the plight of the walruses, which was the current issue of the moment for the Sisters of the South Auxillary. Jacey would be happy to write a check, which was the pitch the speaker was working up to. But it seemed like the venues selected for the fund-raisers—fancy dinners or formal balls—were a bit ironic. Why not spend the money instead on the cause itself, and eliminate one layer of cost?

  Her mind drifted to her business. She needed more help. Not that there had been any truth to Lucky’s breezy assertion that he carried more than his share of the weight, but there was no denying that a third investigator would lighten the load for them both. It was a nice problem to have, especially since there had been a time a few years ago when she’d almost despaired of getting to this point. But her business had been self-supporting for two years now. She no longer had to dip into her trust fund to pay her bills. Joan, her secretary, had her hands full managing the office, but Jacey didn’t think they were yet at the place where they could keep another full-timer busy. She decided to advertise next week for part-time help, and have the new employee handle some of the research.

  Twenty minutes later there was a burst of applause and Jacey joined in, already calculating how much longer she’d have to stay. She’d be required to mingle, of course. Her mother would insist on that. But with any luck she could fulfill her obligations and be home in an hour.

  The thought of her comfortable home in the French Quarter beckoned. Once she got there she’d chase away the chill from the evening rain by wrapping up on her couch in a quilt, with a hot drink and maybe an ice pack for her knee. It still throbbed, just a bit from the blow she’d landed on the biker. She could only hope that he was nursing a far more serious injury.

  She parted from her mother, making the rounds as quickly as she could manage. Jacey had just stopped to speak to Suzanne Shrever, a former classmate of hers, when she felt eyes on her. She turned around, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Honestly, Jacinda,” Suzanne was saying, “I’m so envious of you with your exciting career. Is it very dangerous?”

  That question was difficult to answer, Jacey thought, knowing that Suzanne’s idea of danger was hiring a new caterer.

  “I’m careful,” she said, “and most of my work is routine. Missing persons, serving summonses, theft detection.” She was careful to remain vague. Although most of her cases were just that unexceptional, all she needed was for her mother to get wind of details such as her experience earlier today. She’d learned long ago that skirmishes with Charlotte were safer when she didn’t provide her with ammunition.

  “Well,” Suzanne tossed her artfully styled curls, “I just think you’re the bravest thing. Bitsy didn’t think you’d show up here tonight, but I said that very thing, I said, well of course she will, Jacinda is just so brave.” She nodded vigorously.

  The sensation was back, as if eyes were boring into her. “Well, that’s nice,” Jacey said inanely, scanning the crowd over the other woman’s shoulder. She found the source of the feeling standing across the room at the balcony doors. The man was instantly recognizable, with his mane of silver hair and neat mustache. J. Walter Garvey, a local shipping magnate, gave her a nod when their gazes met and then, with a slight inclination of his head toward the doors, he went outside.

  Suzanne’s voice bubbled around her, but it might as well have been the drone of bees. Jacey looked around, trying and failing to see anyone else that the man might have been gesturing to. Curiosity, the bane of her existence, surged. More than half convinced she was going to make a fool of herself, she excused herself from her friend and made her way toward the half-open balcony door.

  She found the older man leaning against the railing, smoking a thin cigar. The rain had stopped, but the early-fall air was still heavy with moisture. Jacey stepped outside and then hesitated, once again questioning her action. The Garvey family was reputed to be among the wealthiest in the city, due in no small part to the solitary man on the balcony. And although she knew him to speak to, having met him at various functions much like this one, she could think of no reason for him to seek her out.

  “Close the door behind you and come here.” The man’s voice sounded a trifle testy. “There’s no telling how long I can dodge that throng inside. There’s always a few who’ll use an event like this one to try to hit me up about a new business venture.”

  Jacey strolled over to his side, immediately wishing for a coat. She hadn’t thought to bring a wrap when she’d tossed some things into the car to change into after work. “Mr. Garvey.” She joined him at the railing, felt her skin dewed by the thick moisture in the air. “How have you been?”

  “Not worth a damn.”

  She
smiled a little. She’d always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind. Her smile faded when, in the next instant he added, “I’m dying.”

  Her face jerked to his, saw the truth of his words written there. “I’m sorry.” The words were simple, heartfelt.

  He waved them away. “Cancer. Nothing to be done about it, and I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself. Haven’t even told my family. I never could stand people blathering over me.”

  No, pity wouldn’t be something this man would suffer easily. Even knowing as little as she did about him, Jacey recognized that. Rather than giving him any, she matched his matter-of-fact tone with one of her own. “What can I do?”

  “I’m looking for someone to conduct research for me. I’ve considered several local investigative agencies, but think you might be better suited than most to fill this assignment.”

  A quiet hum of pleasure filled her at his words, followed by a leap of interest. This was what she needed, this constant challenge of matching her wits to solve puzzles, work out problems. She liked to think she was good at it, too. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  In the next moment he slipped out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. The old-fashioned courtliness of the gesture was at odds with his reputation for ruthlessness, both in business and with his family. “I’ve built Garvey Enterprises into a heavily diversified global operation. Started at a time when the business was more like bare-knuckled fighting than endless bickering in corporate boardrooms.” From his tone, it was easy to tell he much preferred the former. “I can’t take it with me when I die, and I don’t mind telling you, that fact irritates the hell out of me.”

  She smiled, surveying him in the dim spill of light afforded through the closed balcony doors. “Who will step into your shoes when you’re gone?”

  He gave a short nod of approval, drew on his cigar again. “You’ve cut to the heart of the matter. I’d heard you were quick. The fact is, Miss Wheeler, I don’t know the answer to that question. That’s where you come in.”