by N.L. Wilson
“You look scared,” were the first words out of Dylan’s mouth.
I snorted a laugh. “Nah. That’s just caffeine withdrawal.”
He handed me a cup of coffee and perched himself on the edge of my desk. He half sat/half stood with one foot firmly planted on the ground and the other dangling lazily off the side of the desk. He looked tired. Tired and scruffy at this late hour. He’d not shaved in a day or two judging by the stubble that roughened his face. I suspected he was dying for a shower. He ran a hand through his hair, then across his face, making that uniquely masculine rasping sound. He crossed his arms easily over his chest. I swallowed, and out of ever-growing necessity, I crossed my arms over my chest too.
“How did it go with Head?” he asked.
“He’s an asshole.” I leaned back in my chair and rubbed the crick in my neck that just wouldn’t give. I let my eyes drift shut, just for a second.
“I thought he was a dickhead?”
“He is.” I nodded as if this were perfectly logical. Perfectly feasible. “He’s both.”
“That would give a whole new meaning to ‘go fuck yourself’, wouldn’t it?”
My eyes shot open wide. “Okay, now that’s funny.”
“Good to see you smile, Dix.”
So that’s what that strange sensation in my cheekbones was. Hmm, go figure.
“Head’s a lot of things, Dylan,” I said. “But one thing he is not is stupid. This could be very bad for me. Head’s been waiting for a long time to even the score.”
“Yeah, but you and I both know he can’t pin this murder on you.”
“Really? Let’s see what he’s got—my fingerprints and footprints all over the crime scene, a connection to Jennifer Weatherby, opportunity, since I knew when she’d be home and Ned wouldn’t, and let’s not forget, a motive fabricated out of thin air by the man who probably hates me more than any other in Marport City. And that’s a pretty long list to be at the top of.”
“And don’t forget the week’s worth of trailing evidence they got from the car,” Dylan added.
As if I could.
“Did they find the bug?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a mercy.”
“Yeah, a small one.” I closed my eyes again. “Even if he can’t pin the murder on me, he’ll do his damnedest to put me out of business. I’m so humped on this one, Dylan.”
The silence was uncomfortable. Hard and heavy.
The desk creaked as Dylan stood. He strode over to the filing cabinet and picked up a yellow legal pad. “I’ve been thinking on the business cards, Dix.”
I opened one bleary eye. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be kidding?”
“I don’t really think this is the time for that.”
He ignored me. “I’ve got a couple ideas.” He cleared his throat. “How about this: Dix Dodd, Private Investigation Service. If clues were shoes, we’d be wearing Prada.”
I opened the other eye. “Ahhhhh... no.”
“If clues came in two’s, then we’d tango for you-s.”
“Big no.”
“If clues were booze, we’d be drunk on your doorstep.”
I groaned. No, I mean it, I really, really groaned. “That’s awful, Dylan.”
“Okay, well that was just my first three shots. I have more.”
He stood taller, drawing himself up to his full six four. Damn, the man looked good.
“What’s your next shot?”
“Dix Dodd, private detective, keeping your man your man for over twenty years.”
“I’ve only been in business solo for six months.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking ahead.”
Dylan looked at me, straight on. Steady and so sure of himself. So sure of me. It was the least I could do to be the same. Screw this feeling sorry for myself shit! Pity party over; there was work to be done.
I slammed down the last drink of coffee, then slammed the empty mug on my desk. “Okay, we need a plan.”
“Right.”
“We have to find this mistress Jennifer was so sure about. My money’s on her. Now more than ever.”
Dylan went to the large whiteboard that hung on the wall beside my desk. He erased all that was on it, signaling—whether consciously or unconsciously—that he too knew the severity of my situation. He drew a stick figure, putting a triangle skirt on her to mark her as female. “Okay, what do we know about this mysterious mistress of Ned Weatherby’s?”
I just stared at him for a moment while he waited for my reply. “Thanks,” I said. “About the business cards.”
“You mean you liked my ideas?”
“Oh, hell, no. They were gawd-awful.” I hesitated. “Thanks for your faith in me.”
“Any time, Dix.” I caught the flash in his eyes before he put up his own guard again. But for a moment those brown eyes had been softer, and if I’d let myself believe it, for a moment there was more there. He turned towards the whiteboard. “Any time at all.”
We worked into the wee hours of the morning. I reprinted the digital pics that I’d emailed to the office. Detective Head had confiscated the originals of course. As he had with my notes, but I’d sent backup copies of the same to the office every day (thank you, digital technology). Dylan and I went over every little detail. We brainstormed theories. Charted possibilities. Had wild, passionate sex on my desk.
Okay, that last part was just in my mind. Again and again and again.
The sun was just coming up as Dylan grabbed his keys and with a, “Back in a few minutes,” headed out the door.
Despite the adrenaline rush of the last few hours, despite the pounding headache, and the coffee I’d consumed, I soon realized if I was going to function at all, I needed some good old-fashioned sleep. Luckily, I’d installed a cot at the office for just that purpose, given the crazy hours I keep. It wasn’t the comfiest thing in the world, but I’d been sleeping hunched up in cars for days, so it felt like the most decadent of pleasures just to lie prone and stretch out.
My body was ready for sleep, but unfortunately my mind just wouldn’t cooperate. Where would I find her, this mysterious mistress? As my tired mind finally relented and began drifting from consciousness to sleep, I could almost see her turning the corner of it. Walking like a ghost along the streets as I pictured them. Dancing on the edge of my grasp and the edge of my vision.
“You’re never going to find me!” Her voice was singsong, but not singsong-sweet. More that singsong mocking kind of thing, as she danced around me. Of course, I knew I was dreaming, but she still pissed me off.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” I reached to grab her, catching only a wisp of her gown before it slipped through my fingers. I wanted to turn her around to face me. Wanted to push the flowing locks of hair back from her face to get a good look at her.
Somehow she knew this, and evaded me with ease.
“I’m too smart for you, Dix Dodd. I’m too smart for all of you.”
“Don’t count on it, Blondie.” It’s not that I’m prejudiced against blonds, and I never partake in the dumb blond jokes. Well, almost never. Hell, I’m a blond myself. But until I knew the mystery mistress’s name—a detail Jennifer hadn’t been able to supply—Blondie would have to do.
Blondie tittered. “Don’t let the hair color fool you. I’m one smart cookie.” She flounced away from me.
I woke up with my right hand swinging, and my butt on the floor.
And the smell of hotcakes and sausage drifting in from the outer office. I shook my head, rubbed my hands over my face. Then I got off my butt and followed the aroma.
Over breakfast Dylan and I formulated a plan of action.
“So where do we go from here, Dix?”
Dylan speared yet another sausage. He’d scored our breakfast from the shop around the corner, and already he’d put away twice as much of it as I had. Still, I knew he’d not put an ounce onto that lean frame.
“Objective
remains the same as when the Flashing Fashion Queen hired us.” I took a sip of the latte Dylan had brought. Heavenly. “We have to find Ned Weatherby’s mistress.”
“Our boy Ned was pretty clean this week, wasn’t he? Kind of makes you wonder...”
I swallowed a syrupy, buttery bite and refrained from licking my fork. Somehow, when someone else unwraps the fast food, it doesn’t seem so bad. “I know what you mean. Ned was practically—no, he was literally—a choir boy this week. It was almost as if he knew he was being watched.”
“You think Jennifer told him she’d hired us?”
“I doubt that very much.” The logic behind a wife telling her husband he was being tailed was, well, non-existent. That would negate the whole purpose of the exercise. I couldn’t see it happening, especially considering how much dough Jennifer Weatherby was paying me. “However, if I blew cover while I was trailing him, then Ned would certainly modify his behavior.”
Even as I offered that possibility, I knew it wasn’t very likely. I’d never been made by a mark before. At least, not to my knowledge. The one and only benefit of being so ordinary, so average, so nondescript, was that I could blend in practically anywhere. But what other explanation was there?
“Maybe Jennifer told someone she hired you,” he offered. “And they told Ned. Women often have close friends they confide in.”
“That’s good.” I nodded. “That’s very good. Can you check on that?”
“I’m on it. I’ll check with some of the neighbors. At times like these, neighbors are often ready to share what they know.”
Certainly any female friends of Jennifer Weatherby would be more than willing to share some time and information with the young, handsome Dylan Foreman.
“While you’re at it, ask if she belonged to any health clubs. Or charities or anything like that. Might find something out there.”
“You bet.”
Dylan stood, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. He never dawdled, but the speed with which he wanted to attack this particular assignment moved me. I knew he was worried about me. I stood, tossed the plastic breakfast trays and utensils in the trash and grabbed my own jacket from the coat tree in the corner.
“Where are you off to?” Dylan shrugged into his leather jacket.
“The Underhill Motel.”
He hesitated but knew better than to question me, or try to stop me. The Underhill was in a rough part of town, but we both knew I could handle myself.
We locked the office, and headed our respective ways. Whereas I always parked at the far end of the lot, Dylan parked his bike as close to the building as he could get it. He gave me a mock salute before starting the bike and roaring off.
I reminded myself to get him a set of motorcycle chaps for Christmas. Surely that would be an acceptable employer-employee gift? Not too formal. Not too personal. Not too expensive. Not too cheap. And I could just picture them on him—protecting his legs should he fall on the pavement. Keeping him warm when he drove at night. Perfectly framing his denim-covered...
Gawd, I’d better knit him a sweater. Something loose fitting and long-sleeved.
I just hoped I wouldn’t be sending it to him from a federal prison.
