by Debra Webb
I looked at the names on the bylines of the pertinent articles. Hoyt Lehane. Perfect. There was one route I wouldn’t be going. Lehane hated me. I didn’t know why...well, maybe it had something to do with my digging up the truth and proving he’d manufactured a whole series of stories related to a local urban legend. His treachery had cost him his marriage and his career at The Chronicle. The idea that I had only been doing the job I was hired to do gave him no comfort.
I had only one other option.
Only one avenue to explore.
Hank Mercer. He had been the lead investigator after all.
“Shit.” He was on a frigging cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. But I could still reach him. I had the number. He’d given it to me before he left.
My frustration gave way to the softer emotions that had gotten me into trouble more than once. This vacation was his first real vacation in too many years to remember. I couldn’t go dragging his attention back to Houston. It just wouldn’t be fair. His decision to take a cruise was about relaxing and meeting hot chicks...even a sixty-five year old man needed a social life. I blinked away the vision of broads on social security sporting bikinis.
I wondered vaguely why it was that my uncle had never married. He’d dedicated his entire youth to HPD, then the past ten years to me.
No way in hell could I interrupt his first all-out escape from reality. I had to work around his absence.
His partner. Fred Morgan. Yeah. That was the ticket. He, from what I’d discerned hadn’t been involved with the case, but he should remember at least some of the details. Surely he and Hank had talked about it. He’d retired from HPD several years ago but, unlike Hank, he spent his time at home building handmade furniture for a local arts and crafts shop. And, thank God, he wasn’t dead or still holding a grudge against me.
Strange, I decided, that so many of those who’d been involved were dead now.
My thoughts went instantly to the mystery man in the photo...you were the last one to see him alive.
How did he fit into all this?
Who the hell was he?
I didn’t know. The only fact about him I had was his awesome ability between the sheets. I hadn’t been with anyone except my husband in more than fifteen years until that night. And, unlike my self-absorbed ex, the mystery man had made it a point to pleasure me first and foremost. He’d been utterly selfless.
Then and there, in the middle of The Chronicle’s massive archives, I melted inside at the memory. I remembered vividly the way his hands moved over my skin...his lips...the exquisite skill of his tongue. A shiver shook me back to reality. Not a good idea to go there.
I pushed out of my seat and grabbed my bag as well as my perspective. I couldn’t do this if I didn’t maintain some level of objectivity, which was difficult considering what the man whose name I didn’t know and I had shared. But I had to try.
Glancing at the clock on the wall above the rows of file cabinets I considered that going by the office to check in should be my next stop...I’d skipped that part this morning.
Puffing out a breath of resignation, I shoved my chair in and went to the printer to retrieve the pages I’d sent there.
By the time I got to the office I had to have my entire perspective in order. I could not do this whole walking around on egg shells thing. Dawson worked for me, for Christ’s sake! I had to find a way to get over the errant little sizzle that never failed to ignite between us. All it had taken last night was a phone call, just hearing his voice! How ridiculous was that? There had to be a way to block that foolish reaction.
I understood with complete certainty that a relationship with him would be bad, capital B A D. No question.
He was my employee (emphasis on the ee). I knew me and men too well to let the volatile combination merge with business. It was clear from past experience that relationships were like higher math to me. I never got it...hard as I tried.
Sex, now that was a different story. If, think something around the size of Texas—mega huge if, I could merely have sex and leave off the idea of a relationship, then it worked. Worked damned well. At least for a while. Hey, mystery man and I’d had killer sex. I might never know his name but I knew that with absolute certainty. I had nothing but good memories about him and it was because there hadn’t been anything but the sex.
Okay. Enough about sex. I snatched the pages from the printer hopper and strode away.
On second thought, I didn’t have to go by the office. If Hobbs needed me he would call. I had an agenda. And any excuse to stay away from Dawson was likely a smart move.
Fred Morgan, former homicide detective and partner to my sunbathing, suddenly-deciding-to live-his-dream-of-woman-watching uncle. Fred’s place would be my next stop. I’d known the guy since I was a kid. Getting honest and complete answers out of him would be a piece of cake.
“You’ll have to ask your uncle.”
I stared at the stubborn man, my mouth agape. “But he’s on vacation, Mr. Morgan, that’s why I’m asking you.”
He wouldn’t even look at me now. I could not believe this. Dear old Fred, who kind of reminded me of the character bearing that same name from the I Love Lucy show, had been all smiles, even hugged me when I first arrived. Admittedly I could have done without the hug. I had to remember that Fred’s wife had left him some twenty years prior for cheating on her. Fred was the sort who had difficulty keeping his wiener in the same bun. He, apparently, liked a little too much variety. And, his bear hugs always included wandering paws.
Beyond the hug, my tailored navy Liz Claiborne pantsuit got me nowhere fast. When I’d purchased it I’d picked it precisely for one reason, my ass looked great in it as did the rest of me. My waist looked whale-bone corset narrow. As black’s sister color, the navy instantly created the illusion of thinness. It was the perfect suit. Even Donald Trump’s illustrious power suits couldn’t hold a candle to this. The shocking red lipstick I sported was definitely better than a tie.
Fred propped both hands on the worktable, his power sander still gripped in his right but at least it was off now. Up to then I’d had to talk over the grinding noise. I resisted the urge to peer down at my Liz Claiborne adorned shoulders where a fine dusting of wood powder had no doubt taken up residence.
The man who had served with my uncle for more than two decades ripped off his dust mask and stared at me for three long beats before speaking. “Jackie, I have two words for you in regards to that case.”
I noticed that he refused to utter the precise name of the case. Since I didn’t see a rabbit’s foot, horseshoe or any four-leaf clovers lying around I had to assume he wasn’t the superstitious type.
“Bad news.” He glowered at me with those beady eyes that didn’t go well with the size of his bald head. “I don’t know what or who has you fishing around in that hole, but my advice to you is to leave it alone. There are some things that are better left buried and this is one of them.”
Since nothing else I could say would matter, I nodded my understanding though I didn’t really understand at all. What was it about this case that made folks want to avoid the whole subject like a plague of biblical proportions? Bob had said practically the same thing.
“Thanks anyway, Mr. Morgan.”
As we said goodbye I didn’t get the usual hold-on-too-long hug. In fact, Fred kept the work table between us. When he made no move to say more or show me to the door, I pivoted on the heel of my coveted shoes and walked out of the garage workshop I’d played in as a kid while my uncle and his closest friend, even before they’d become partners, fleshed out baffling cases.
It felt weird...as if I’d unknowingly crossed some boundary line that made me the enemy in the least expected situations.
I climbed into my Jeep and poked around in my purse for my cell phone. There was one person I knew without question I could expect the whole truth from.
“Hello.”
I frowned at the breathless quality of my mother’s voice. “Hey
, Mom, you busy?”
Silence.
My frown deepened.
“Actually I was just on my way out the door. I ran all the way back inside to answer the phone.”
Well that explained the breathlessness. “I need to talk.” I started the Jeep. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“Sorry, Jackie, but I have an appointment I can’t reschedule. Maybe later?”
Well, damn. Even my own mother was too busy for me. That sucked. “Sure...I...” No, I couldn’t wait until later. I had questions. Questions that needed answers now. “Look, Mom, do you remember a case Dad presided over about ten years ago called Disposable?”
More of that uncharacteristic silence. What was up with that? My mother, of all people, never, ever ran out of sassy retorts.
“Look, Jackie...” Her tone sounded oddly serious. “You know your father and I never discussed his cases. Not really.”
I stopped at the edge of the driveway, before backing out onto the street. One close encounter a day with another vehicle was plenty. My face had rearranged into one of those say what expressions at my mother’s response.
“You were the one who talked shop with your father,” she reminded.
Remembered hurt stung through me. “You’re right. We did. Until the divorce.” I barely suppressed the bite in my next words. “You know how it was after that.” The incomparable Judge Jackson Mercer saw his only child in a different light after that. I couldn’t do anything right. Hell, he hadn’t even trusted me to start my own business without help from Hank.
My mother’s sigh echoed with aching familiarity. She didn’t have to say a word. I knew the routine by heart. Jackie, your father only wanted to protect you. You mistook those intentions for mistrust.
“Your father only wanted to protect you...”
There she went. Whatever else she said after that didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to learn anything from my mother either. The truth was that after the divorce my father no longer had any faith in me whatsoever. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been my fault. We no longer talked about his cases or anything other than was I okay or did I need anything? My mother could believe that my PI work had posed a possible conflict of interest for Dad if she wanted to, but I knew the truth.
I’d failed in his eyes. I was no longer worthy of his intellectual discussions on the law.
I drove to the office and remarkably I didn’t even cry. Yeah, I usually did that whenever I let myself dwell on how the divorce had changed my father’s concept of who I was. He’d loved me, I knew that. I had damn sure loved him. But, like every man in my life, he’d left way before I was ready to let him go. Maybe I never would have been prepared for that.
“Dammit.” I clenched my teeth and forced back the tears. I’d only thought I’d gotten by without the emotions that generally accompanied memories of my father.
I jerked the door open and stormed through the rear entrance with only one thing on my mind: biting off the head of anyone who dared say boo to me.
I’d almost made it into my office when Hobbs stepped between me and the door. “You have messages,” he said pointedly, then his face morphed into one of those oh my expressions he was famous for. “Never mind.” He stepped out of my path and practically threw himself behind his desk for cover.
I went on into my office, tossed my bag onto my desk and rounded it. I collapsed into my comfy exec chair and shoved my fingers through my hair. Getting this frustrated right off the bat was not like me. But this was different. This was personal.
I dragged the photo from my bag and stared at it. Dark eyes stared back at me. “Who are you?” Why the hell can’t I find out anything about this case you want me to look into? Did it have something to do with you? Obviously.
Okay. I’d really lost it now. Asking myself questions was one thing, but when I started to answer I really got worried.
“You figure out who that guy is yet?”
My head came up.
Dawson.
Just what I needed.
Damn.
There was no Ralph Lauren jacket today. Just form-fitting, well worn jeans that instantly made me sweat and a white shirt that lay open one button too many and summoned my beleaguered attention there.
Double damn.
I felt my gaze narrow as rational thinking kicked in. “Who told you about this?” There was really no need to ask but the question charged out of my mouth before I could stop it. Hobbs would not survive the week at this rate. He was already high on my shit list.
Playing innocent, Dawson hitched a thumb toward reception. “Hobbs brought me up to speed on all the ongoing cases.”
There was only one. Disposable. And it was mine. Mine alone. Any other files Hobbs had discussed with Dawson would be about bail jumpers or background searches.
Ever since Hank announced his retirement the Mercer Agency had suffered a drought. It would pass...I hoped. From out of nowhere Hobbs’ insistence that women wanted a strong, good-looking man to work their cases broadsided my thoughts, pissing me off even further.
“Well, this one is mine, Dawson, so back off.”
Our gazes locked, mine full of piss and vinegar and ready to do battle, his oddly calm and searching.
“I understand.”
Every damned tense, ready for battle muscle in my body went limp. Not so much at his statement, though the two simple words were sweet as hell, but more at the way he said them. Low, husky, as if we’d just had eye sex and he’d wanted me to know it was as good for him as it had been for me.
Before I could snap out of the ensuing spell he turned to leave.
“Wait.” I pushed out of my chair, propped one hand at my waist and massaged my tense neck with the other. One way or another I had to get past this thing. Had to give him a fair shot. We were working together here. I’d hired him. He deserved an impartial opportunity to prove his worth.
He turned back to face me and I almost lost my nerve. Me. Jackie Mercer, the tough broad who took no crap from anyone. It was insane.
“Sorry,” I managed to say without mumbling or chewing off my own tongue. “I jumped you and my frustration this morning isn’t about you.”
That lopsided grin that made my heart skip at least two beats slid across his too handsome face. “It’s okay. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have jump me.”
And just like that he had me back at square one.
He dropped into the closest chair, legs spread wide, offering me a bird’s eye view of the bulge at his crotch. Oh hell. I felt my eyes widen and zoom like a Nikon loaded with a telescoping lens.
He held up both hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He sat up a little straighter and crossed one leg over the other.
Mortification slid from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. He’d seen me looking at his crotch.
Oh, God. Why me? I dropped back into my own chair. How could this cocky guy, this stranger, rattle me so?
“I mean,” he said, making me blink and jerking my gaze back to his, “I have to remember not to say things like that. You know, double entendre stuff.”
“No,” I barked, then caught myself. I squared my shoulders, adjusted my jacket. “I...ah...haven’t identified the guy in the photo yet.”
Dawson nodded. “Need any help?”
There was something about the cut of his jaw...square and yet somehow softened by the lean chiseled features. Or maybe it was the perfect proportion of his nose or the irresistible sky blue color of his eyes. God knew everything else about him was damned well proportioned and utterly irresistible.
I bolted back out of my chair like a Jack-in-the-box that couldn’t decide whether to stay up or down. I could not do this right now.
He got to his feet in response to my move.
“I have a...” I searched for an excuse to leave when I hadn’t been in the office all morning. Then it hit me that I didn’t need an excuse. I was the fucking boss. “Lunch.” I forced my lips into a smi
le. “See you later.”
I snagged my Birkin and sauntered out of the room before he could decide what he wanted to say next. I paused at my assistant’s desk. “You have messages for me?” I gave him a don’t-mess-with-me look that promised we would talk in the near future.
He canted his head as if miffed that I would dare speak to him in such a brusque tone much less look at him like he mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
He offered the stack of yellow call back notes. “You should speak to your stylist about that,” he suggested with a glance at my shoulders.
I stared down at myself, a new burst of humiliation adding insult to injury. A fine layer of sawdust clung to my navy clad shoulders just as I had suspected it would after my visit to Fred’s workshop, only I’d forgotten all about it.
Thankfully, the hazardous mixture of fury and humiliation kept my lips sealed tightly just long enough for me to grab back my composure. “Thank you, Hobbs.” I took the messages and turned without saying another word. Incredibly I even managed to toss Dawson, who stood in the doorway of my office, a nod as I passed.
I walked out the rear exit, settled into my Jeep, started the engine, turned the radio’s volume to full blast and did the only sane thing a woman in my position could do.
I screamed at the top of my lungs.
CHAPTER TEN
If you’re a woman, you know that, as a female, you’re genetically designed to act as other women’s counselor, psychiatrist, surrogate mother or otherwise sounding board. There is no subject too personal, too inflammatory, or too humiliating to dissect with your female friends, your support group. We can be there for each other any time, day or night. A single phone call was all it took.
Case in point, the fact that, like now, in public social situations we women gather like a posse straight out of Gunsmoke in the ladies room.
“I don’t see the problem, Jackie,” Donna said matter-of-factly as she artfully applied her liner and lipstick. Donna was our high priestess of make-up. At home her glamorous master bath looked like an Armageddon survival shelter for an Estee Lauder addict. No one knew more or stayed on top of the latest trends and retail offerings like she did. Not even Shari, she was more into the total body strength and beauty.
