by T. L. Hart
“Investigator? You’ve had me investigated?” Irritation flamed to outrage. “You have no right—”
“I have every right. I’m your husband. You haven’t been well. I’ve been worried about you, and with very good reason, as it turns out.”
He snapped at me as if I should jump to attention. Maybe Jennifer did that in the past, but boy, was he in for a surprise from here on out.
“What exactly are you trying to say? Just skip the sugarcoating and put it in little words, so I can understand you.”
“Okay, little words. Half the people you are working with are gay. You’ve been sheltered, but these people running that Outreach Oaklawn place where you volunteer are known homosexuals.”
“I’m hanging out with gay people. That’s what’s got you in an uproar?” I was nearing the boiling point.
“And psychopaths. You were talking to Max Sealy for over an hour yesterday.”
“I had a business matter to discuss with Max Sealy, not that it’s any of your concern.” I was curious why Gregory considered Sealy to be a nut job. Maybe birds of a feather or it takes one to know one or something like that. “Why is he a psychopath? Is he gay too?”
“Of course he’s not gay,” Gregory said, obviously horrified. “He was one of the top athletes in the country.”
“How stupid of me.” I popped myself in the forehead with my open palm. “What was I thinking? I hope no one told Billy Bean or Martina Navratilova about this.”
“You can be sarcastic, but you should listen to me. There was talk at the club that Sealy was involved in a bad situation a few months ago. They were vague on the details, but one of the guys from Sealy’s attorney’s office said he was guilty as sin.” Gregory lived and died by the tidbits he gleaned at the club. “I can’t let you get tangled up with dangerous types without having you looked after.”
“By looked after, you mean having me followed.”
“I decided it was necessary.”
“You bastard, you no longer get to decide what’s necessary for my life. How long has this been going on?”
“I’ve had someone watching over you since the day you moved out.” He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “Jennifer, I’m worried about your mental and physical well-being. You are still my wife and—”
“And that’s about to change.”
I pushed my chair back so hard it crashed over on the floor, making a loud enough noise that the room fell into an expectant hush. This wasn’t the kind of restaurant where one got to see a rumble very often. Although I was tempted to pitch a fit, I thought it wiser to get out quickly than provide the day’s entertainment.
A sea of curious diners watched me make my dramatic exit. I thought I heard a couple of spontaneous claps from somewhere, but it may have been my imagination.
Chapter Nineteen
Gregory caught up with me in the parking lot.
“Jennifer wait.” He was out of breath from running, something he hated to do. “Don’t make a public spectacle of us both.”
“That’s so you.” He reached out to take my arm but drew back after one look at my snarling face. “Smart man. It’s fine to stalk people—”
“I’m not stalking you.” His smile was pure mockery. “I haven’t been within miles of you until today.”
“I stand corrected. It’s okay to hire someone to stalk me, but don’t make a scene in public? Fine sense of ethics you’ve got.”
“Be reasonable. I’m trying to look out for you. You obviously aren’t in any state of mind to look after yourself right now.”
“If this is your idea of an apology, you’re making a bad start.”
“You aren’t well. You haven’t been since the accident. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to continue living like you have been. I don’t think you are able to make good decisions for yourself.”
“I sure hope you aren’t threatening me, Gregory.”
“Of course not. When your parents died so tragically, I made a vow to look after you. I’m trying to make sure you’re safe—physically, mentally and financially.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Maybe instead of living alone in that apartment, you might need to have some company for a while. An assistant of sorts, a nurse perhaps, someone who could make sure your head injury isn’t causing you to do anything rash.”
“Anything rash, like divorcing you, perhaps?”
“I’m only looking out for your best interests.”
“And my finances? You looking after my money too?” The plan was beginning to make sense. The stupid shit was going to try to screw his rich little wife to the floor. “Is that what this is all about? My money?”
“You’re being paranoid, Jennifer.”
“Stop calling me that.” I wanted to spit on him, but that would make me look like a crazy person. “Get away from me. And stop calling me that.”
“Stop calling you by your name, Jennifer?” He was taunting me, trying to make me lose it. “I think you may need someone to oversee your legal affairs until you are able to think better.”
“I’m thinking much better, you ass. I got smart enough to leave you, didn’t I?”
“I’m not sure your actions and associations since you moved out don’t make you look a little, shall we say, unstable?” He looked around the parking lot to make sure no one was close enough to hear him.
“I have no intention of being made a fool of. I haven’t seen them yet, but there are pictures of you arm in arm with that big jock basketball player, so drunk you had to be halfway carried out of Uncle Julio’s.”
“You have pictures?” I never liked having my picture taken when I didn’t know it, but this was ridiculous. “Of me and Aggie? What are you accusing me of? Not that it’s any of your business anymore.”
“She didn’t leave your apartment for hours. Doesn’t look good, Jennifer.” He licked his lips, as bad a Freudian slip as words ever were. “You get falling down drunk in public, then end up being carried out into the night by that dyke? Doesn’t look good at all.”
“If it doesn’t look good, why are you practically drooling at the thought, you sick shit?”
“I’m not the one providing erotic fantasies for the public.” His mouth twisted, but not in a smile. “I have enough evidence of your unsound mind and enough contacts at the club to get you committed if you push me. Don’t think I can’t do it either.”
“Oh, I’m sure your buddies would back you. It is especially important to get your wife locked up if she would rather sleep with a woman than one of you big, manly studs. That is a sure sign of insanity.”
I stood there, very still, very angry, not taking my eyes off him. He had messed with me long enough; he thought this was Survivor and he was going to get me voted off the island. Outwit, outplay, outsmart me? Game on. We’d see who survived this challenge.
He had no idea he was dealing with me—Cotton Claymore. I, who had tasted death and come back out of the fog. Me, not his brain-damaged little wife. He had never played Texas hold ’em with a street fighter who only looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I was about to call him with a bluff of my own.
“You’re making a mistake, Gregory.” Gloves off. “If you think I’m going to let you threaten me, listen very closely.”
He smirked.
“I have more money than you. I have more imagination than you. And I have a major advantage if you try to double-cross me.”
“Yeah?” He was mocking me. “What do you think you can do to stop me?”
“I can ruin you. Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?”
“I have no idea what crazy ideas you have.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
A “tell,” they called it in poker. A little tic, a little fear. A “tell.” Any man who would threaten his wife with commitment in order to get her money had to be up to something. Time for a raise.
“You try to bully me or make one move to c
ontrol me and I will ask for an audit of all the accounts you have handled for me over the last four years. I intend to get my lawyer started on it as soon as I leave here.”
Sweat bullets appeared on his upper lip. They could have been caused by the heat and humidity, but if he was the kind of gravy-sucking pig he had been behaving like, I didn’t think so. I check-raised him—all in.
“Even if you get me locked up, I would be willing to bet the accommodations I have will be a lot nicer than those in prison. Stock fraud, theft, embezzlement—I’m sure they’d find something.” He stepped back. “Oh, yes, they would, wouldn’t they?”
“And Greg?” He looked at me as I got in my car and fastened my seat belt. “Care to bet that I’d be out on the street again at least twenty years before you?”
Chapter Twenty
Calling Gregory’s bluff got him off my back for the moment, but it gave me things to think about until my head hurt. I didn’t believe for one minute that the creep was going to suddenly change his ways and walk the straight and narrow. Nope, he would only get more desperate and more deceptive. It was the nature of the beast—the knuckle-dragging beast cloaked in a Versace suit and Rolex watch.
I had to protect myself, as well. Cover my assets and my ass. The first thing I did was make a stop at his office to see John Allen White, my banker—remember the guy protecting all the zeros? He welcomed me as if my frantic visit was all in a normal afternoon’s work, and he was more than happy to offer the name of a firm to look after my interests. He excused himself a moment, picked up his cell phone and stepped outside the door. I could hear his voice, but he spoke too softly for me to eavesdrop. Within a minute he had an appointment for me to talk to the head honcho at Greenly Inc., which conveniently was located two floors above where I was sitting at the moment. John insisted on personally escorting me and hand-delivering me to Sean Greenly himself.
Himself, as I christened him in my mind after hearing his Irish brogue, was a combination of Gaelic charm and Dublin street fighter. He was ruddy-faced and a touch too charming at first glance, but it didn’t take long for me to realize this was a guy I wanted on my side.
“John Allen says you need a little looking after.”
“Well, I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I guess that’s why I’m here.” I looked around the office, impressed by the lack of frills. It was minimalism carried to the extreme of sparseness. Tables, chairs, desks, bookshelves with enough leather law books to start a small library, a beyond-state-of-the-art computer center—all very expensive, but not geared to impress with artsy sculpture or decorator touches. “This isn’t what I expected a private investigator’s office to look like.”
“Oh, this isn’t a PI firm,” Sean informed me. “We do have people who handle investigations, though, should we need them. And a team of lawyers who specialize in divorce. We have forensic accountants, foreign contacts, personal protection, general hand-holding, all available as the situation requires.”
I’m sure my puzzled expression was comical. I could feel it myself, but Himself’s rollicking laugh was confirmation.
“Don’t worry, darlin’ girl,” he soothed. “You are literally and figuratively going to be in safe and discreet hands. Greenly Inc. isn’t printed on the building directory or listed in the phone book. We are a very exclusive resource for very discerning clients. We do what needs doing to make your life easier in these difficult times.”
“I’m not sure that shouldn’t scare me,” I said, only half kidding. “I feel like the theme song from The Godfather should be playing in the background.”
“I can arrange that if you like.” He smiled. “I’m not a hit man, Ms. Strickland. I don’t so much work outside the rules as I work around them. We find out where the bodies are buried that you need found. Or not found.”
“Good to know. Right now, I have a long list of questions and a short list of answers. I may not even know yet, everything I need you to look into.”
“Let’s talk for a while,” he said. “We’ll know where to go after that, no worries.”
After spending an hour talking to Sean, I was a lot less worried. He took notes when I mentioned Dewayne and warned me about making any promises or giving away any cash, suggesting I try to avoid talking to Dewayne for a few days.
With a nod, a raised eyebrow and a lot of nosy questions, many of which I either didn’t know or couldn’t explain how I didn’t know, he managed to make me feel he had a better grip on my reality than I did. I left out all the Cotton Claymore details though. He didn’t look the type to believe in anything he couldn’t verify. Still, after our talk I felt like a good Catholic had to feel after going to confession—cleansed and filled with equal parts of remorse and hope.
Sharks smelling blood in the water were pussycats compared to this guy. It was more than having private investigators on retainer who were used to dirty, upcoming divorces, more than crackerjack accountants and hard-nosed lawyers. I got the feeling that standard operating procedure for the firm was far from standard.
It was going to be interesting to see Gregory on the other end of an investigation. Sean Himself promised me that in a week I’d have a dossier on Gregory that would make the guys from Homeland Security jealous. Good to know they were on it. I had something more important to deal with.
* * *
Jo Keesling. Jo. The black-haired woman who had filled my sleeping dreams and waking thoughts.
It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t remember her. Jo—for the love of heaven! She was the woman I loved—the one who I had been killed for loving. Aggie had practically made us into a legend—a warning to avoid the fatal attraction of love. What kind of true and eternal love could be blocked by a stupid head injury?
I hoped her voice would be the key that would open the stubborn door to my memory, so I called Keesling Consulting to set up a meeting. All I got was a bland machine message inviting me to leave a brief message and telling me my call would be returned right away. I did as instructed, feeling awkward as I tried to think of any real reason I needed to hire a media consultant. Mumbling something about a fundraiser for a charitable cause took me past the time allowed for the message. I had to call back and leave a second message explaining why I didn’t leave my name and number on the last message. I barely got the phone number in before I was cut off again.
Smooth operator that I am, I sat holding my cell phone and wiping flop sweat from my face. The phone was clutched in my still damp palm when her return call came. I recognized the number, but was too scared to talk to her so I let it go to voice. Coward. Idiot and coward.
I waited ten minutes before I had the nerve to retrieve her message. The low-pitched, husky drawl sent shivers down my spine. If someone born and raised in the South says someone has a drawl, you better believe it’s a beauty. Wait-for-it slow, singsongy rhythm, maple syrup over hot pancakes—that was the effect. Central nervous system meltdown.
No one had ever mentioned to me that Jo Keesling wasn’t from Texas. Way Deep South, for sure. Georgia, if I had to guess. Wherever—it was the sexiest voice I’d ever heard.
Unfortunately, I didn’t remember ever hearing it before.
I listened to it probably ten times, willing myself to recognize it, imagining, hoping, finally cursing that it was still only the sexiest voice I’d ever heard, but nothing more. Well, actually…it did make me pretty damn sure I was Cotton Claymore, that the memories growing stronger every day were not a delusional fantasy. My response to the voice wasn’t visceral—it was purely and unexpectedly sexual. Liquid heat that I certainly never felt as Jennifer Strickland reminded me that being a lesbian wasn’t first and foremost a political decision. Hormones kicked into overdrive, unleashing a flood of knee-weakening longing. I understood the cliché of guys taking a cold shower. Instead, I decided on taking a steamy, soapy bath before I returned the call. It was a very long bath.
When I called back, I was braced to withstand the drawl. Instead, it was answered by
a nasal teenager who was very easy to talk to, if somewhat less thrilling. She confirmed a meeting with Ms. Keesling for the following day. Yes, one thirty would be fine. Did I need driving instructions?
* * *
Aggie wasn’t thrilled with my initiative.
“You did what?”
Aggie and I were closing down the ground floor area of the Outreach for the night, locking the office and food bank and making sure all the coffeepots were turned off in the cafeteria. We’d already cleaned up in the gym. I ran the big rectangular dust mop over the hardwood floor while she put the basketballs in the hopper by tossing them from as many angles as she could manage. She wasn’t beyond showing off.
“J.C., what kind of business do you have with Jo Keesling? I’ve about had it with all your weird shit. Another message from the great beyond?”
“No, a message from here.” I waved my arms to include the whole building. “This place needs help.”
“You got that right. Like it needed a couple of new cars and pickup trucks.” Aggie looked at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t offer one.
“It needs more money for food, for repairs, for hiring more staff.”
“No lie. What does that have to do with you running over to see Jo? I think you got some bug up your butt about Jo and Cotton and you figure that talking to her is going to make a difference to whatever’s going on in your banged-up brain.”
“I heard she helped with the last time we…they raised any cash around here. I wanted to see if she was available again.”
“Oh, if it’s a big enough deal, Jo will make herself available.” Aggie sounded less than a fan. “If you can attach a party with lots of lights and cameras, you can count on it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothin’. Just being a big old bitch.”
“No argument from me. I got the impression you and Jo were close.”
“No. Cotton and Jo were close. Cotton and I were close. Jo was a fact of life I was having to get used to.”