Dirty

by Debra Webb

“Chief Cates wants to see you upstairs,” the sergeant told me without actually looking up and definitely sans any suggestion of a return smile. This guy had evidently skipped the class on public relations or maybe someone besides me woke up in the wrong bed this morning. Still, I muttered another thanks and moved on.

  I didn’t bother with the stairs since I’d already had my aerobic workout for the day, took the elevator to the third floor instead. Besides, I didn’t want to risk scuffing one of my heels. This is the only pair of Christian Louboutins I own and only by virtue of the fact that a former client had used the like new designer shoes for her retainer fee. I protected them at all costs. Anything I own in the way of designer icing, like the cherished Hermes Birkin bag, I gained that way. I’m a woman, I can’t help myself. We all need a little pampering now and again.

  I didn’t like this little detour. Getting called into the chief’s office usually meant I’d encroached on someone else’s territory or otherwise overstepped my bounds as a private investigator. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time or the last.

  The elevator doors slid open and a sea of cluttered desks and harried detectives dressed in cheap suits spread out over the tan commercial carpet and beige painted terrain for as far as the eye could see.

  The Robbery-Homicide bullpen, otherwise known as Rob-Ho. The largest division in the department. The guys who got all the glory. Narcotics didn’t have half the manpower but that division did have its own private niche in the basement where few outsiders dared to venture. I’d been there once not long ago after a joint sting involving a pimp who’d decided to go into an additional crack trade in his spare time. Those narc dudes rarely associated with other cops. Homicide might get all the glory but those guys in the basement were the ones with all the guts. The T-types. Men who got off on the thrills of near death experiences.

  As I navigated my way to the far side of the male dominated domain a couple of the detectives I’d worked with on missing persons cases turned homicides waved, phones attached to their ears like a permanent accessory. I waved back, flashed my pearly whites. Felt good all over again about the black mini skirt I’d opted to wear last night in light of the blatant gawks of approval several of the guys tossed my way.

  Look all you want, boys, I mused. It’s all natural, no lifts, no tucks, and no nips. Forty-five and loving it.

  It’s funny, I considered briefly, how much a mind-blowing session of sex could do for one’s self esteem–in spite of present circumstances.

  As I reached the chief’s door a voice I’d just as soon banish from my memory banks for all eternity made me hesitate. The sound had the same effect as nails scraping across a blackboard. I cringed.

  “Well, damn, Mercer, I hardly recognized you without the blond wig, fishnets and street-walker boots.”

  I told myself to ignore the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. Argued that anything I said would only give the misogynistic dinosaur glee. And it might have worked had I not overheard the aside he made to his partner.

  “If I had an ass and tits like that I’d sure as hell put them to better use.”

  I turned around slowly. Pinned my lips into a wide smile. “What’s up, Nance?” Definitely not your limp dick, I mused as I stalked over to his generic metal desk.

  The coordinating economical chair squeaked as he dropped his feet from the desktop to the floor and sat up straight. He grinned like the jackass he was. “I was just saying to O’Linger here,” he jerked his head toward his partner who was preoccupied with my bare legs, “how nice it is to see you.”

  “Yeah, I heard.” I leaned down and flattened my palms on Nance’s desk giving both him and his partner a wide-angle view of the cleavage provided by the wickedly tight devil red tank I ambitiously selected last night to complement the skirt. Who would have guessed I’d end up at HPD this morning?

  “You made a good point, Nance,” I allowed, “if you had an ass and tits like this you might actually be good for something.”

  His lower jaw joined his feet on the floor.

  “O’Linger,” I said with an acknowledging nod to the other detective who looked red-faced from choking back the mirth shaking his belly. Then I swiveled on the heel of my coveted stilettos and strutted straight into the chief’s office. There was nothing like putting a jerk in his place to make me feel on top of the world. Yeah, baby. Don’t mess with this private dick—pardon the pun.

  “Mercer.” The chief stood as I walked in. “Close the door.” He didn’t look happy. Not that he ever did but this morning he looked particularly unhappy. I suppose after twenty years of tracking down killers and analyzing dead bodies at gruesome murder scenes a guy had the right to look anyway he wanted. Since I hadn’t killed anybody lately and couldn’t recall pissing off a member of law enforcement, I should be out of here before Nance had time to think of a witty comeback.

  I closed the door and tacked my team player smile into place. When interacting with other law enforcement authorities (Nance not included) I’d learned to respond humbly whenever possible. Most of them were a little on the sensitive side. “What can I do for you today, chief?” I asked with all the team spirit I could rally.

  “I think you’ve done quite enough.”

  My gaze shot to the left where the owner of the unfamiliar voice pushed off the conference table and started in my direction. Classy charcoal suit. Crisp white shirt. Red power tie and shiny black leather loafers. Regulation haircut with not a single brunette strand out of place. A cloying whiff of Hugo Boss cologne preceded him, making my nose twitch with distaste before I even learned his name.

  Federal agent. I could spot one a mile off. You could shoot’em and bury’em in the same suit. My instincts went on point.

  “Mercer, this is Special Agent Terrence Brooks from our local Bureau office. He replaced Agent Watts.”

  I flicked a glance back at the chief. “What’s this about?” Thanks for the setup, Cates. Go team!

  “You compromised our primary asset in an ongoing operation,” Brooks accused. Judging by his tone he was seriously PO’d. He stopped right next to me and pumped up the intimidation in the gray eyes that were one or two shades lighter than his thousand-dollar suit. “Now we’re going to have to scramble to get him back in the game.”

  Ah-ha. Willis. This must be his handler. “Well, Agent Brooks,” I said, propping a hand on my hip in a show of unrepentant confidence, “the Bureau should consider concealing the warrants on a fugitive felon they don’t want picked off the street.” So much for humility.

  Fury tightened the smooth, probably-purchased-at-the-spa tanned features of his face. “Willis is working undercover for us,” he snapped. “We need him. We’re keeping him.”

  Chief Cates cleared his throat, drawing my flabbergasted attention back to him before I could shake off the denial and launch a defensive. “Mercer, we’re going to have to pretend this never happened and put him back on the street.”

  “What?” They couldn’t do this! One look at the Fed next to me and I knew they not only could but would.

  The chief held up a hand as if he feared I might do something rash, like scramble over his desk and shake the hell out of him or punch the suit towering over me. “Our cooperation is essential,” he stated flatly as if the final decision had already been made and this discussion was a mere technicality. “No one can know that Willis has been made.”

  Say what? I gave my head a shake to arrest the mounting mixture of anger and confusion. “You’re not serious?”

  “You made a mistake, Mercer,” Brooks cut in. “As far as the world knows the man you brought in this morning is Kevin Williams. That’s the way it has to stay.”

  “Bullshit.” I glared up at Brooks. “I got this guy fair and square. No mistake about it.” I waved the body receipt in his face.

  The arrogant Fed had the nerve to smile at me! I wanted to shoot him. But that amounted to capitol murder and the idea of taking my last breath in old Sparky changed my mind.

  “Yo
u have any solid evidence to back up your claim?” he challenged smugly. “If not, Mr. Williams is free to go.” The smile turned into a cold, hard smirk. “Any more questions?”

  For one second I felt defeated. But then victory roared through me. Hobbs always double-checked his sources. I’d bet my Birkin he’d run Willis’s prints. Prints, I suddenly realized, that my over zealous, perpetually resourceful assistant had probably lifted off something at my place that Willis had touched on his one visit. If Hobbs said the paper on this guy was negotiable then it was. He had been suspicious of Willis from day one. I should have listened. Hobbs had the merit badge I was missing...the high-tech radar that made him so damned good. And I, as well as he, would have the verifiable proof of Willis’s identity—matching latent prints.

  “Actually,” I said to the Fed, “I do have evidence.”

  His triumphant expression darkened with impatience. “What could you possibly have?”

  I laughed softly, relishing my victory a moment before I finished this. “Why, I have his DNA and prints all over my body.” I opened my arms widely in invitation. “You want to take a few comparison samples?”

  The discussion went downhill from there.

  The old saying you can’t fight city hall is even truer of the Feds. So I left...mad as hell, without my body receipt that served as payment voucher for my hard work and with the scent and taste of Ken Willis clawing at my senses.

  “I need a bath,” I muttered as I climbed into my decade old Jeep Cherokee. Note to self: never sleep with potential income.

  June’s heat wave made the vehicle’s interior stifling. I twisted the ignition and set the air conditioning to maximum. The digital clock blinked, forcing me to acknowledge the hour. 10:21. Damn. I needed to get to the office. With my partner retired, I was the only PI at the Mercer Agency. But first I had to shower and change. I couldn’t stomach the idea of walking around the rest of the day with Willis’ genetic material reminding me of my temporary slip into ignorant bliss.

  At this time of day traffic was light. It wouldn’t take that long to get across town. Ten minutes to shower and change. And then I would go to the office and break the news to my efficient assistant. Next month’s operating budget had been stamped “hands off.” Enroute I tried my level best to keep my mind off what was likely taking place back at Central Processing. Willis would be released. A clerical error report would be filed. End of story.

  My lips tightened in outrage. The Feds should get their shit together. Sinking the warrants on Willis would have preempted this entire situation. His cover would not have been jeopardized and I wouldn’t be sitting here regretting the best sex I’d had in years.

  Frustration knotted in my stomach. Hot, frantic clips from last night as well as this morning kept hijacking my concentration, like annoying redirects on Google. I could only hope that I wouldn’t run into Willis around town. I felt reasonably sure Agent Brooks wouldn’t want his protected felon damaged in any way. If the guy gave me any trouble I’d have to bust his kneecaps.

  I told myself I hated Willis for deceiving me, but mostly my feelings were pricked and I was mad as hell that despite knowing how he’d lied to me I couldn’t deny the sex was great.

  “Oh, damn.” I groaned. It was Monday. I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. Dinner with the girls. Maybe I’d fake some sudden illness. I performed a quick inventory. Fatigue. Headache. Big knot in my stomach. Oh, yeah. I definitely wasn’t up to par.

  It was the only way to salvage this day.

  Dinner confessional was out of the question. It was too damned hard to hide anything from the girls. They knew me too well. That’s what happened when you kept the same best friends your entire life. They know you better than you know yourself.

  I parked at the curb in front of my cottage at West University Place. It wasn’t one of the newer high-end homes the neighborhood had to offer but I loved it. Cute and cozy. Bought and paid for with sheer determination. My ex hadn’t paid the first red cent on this place. Not that I resented all those years of hard work to make it mine. I didn’t. Nor was I bitter that I had to do it alone. Getting rid of the no-good, two-timing buttwad I married was the best thing I ever did. Especially for him. Another minute of his lying and cheating and I would have had no choice but to kill him.

  My only regret was that my son Steven was forced to see the truth about his spineless father. It wasn’t like I could keep it from him after the bastard deserted us in favor of his new, younger wife who, ironically, was pregnant at the time. What did he need with his old family when he had a new one?

  Steven had survived. Grown up into a fine young man currently enrolled in law school at Ole Miss. I take singular credit for that major feat as well.

  I got out of my Jeep and inhaled deeply, then let it go, forcing all depressing thoughts from my mind. I was home now. My retreat from urban mania. My “comfort food” place from the stress of working downtown. A mere thirty minutes from the office and brimming with peace and quiet. Exactly what I needed to counter the insanity of my chosen profession.

  Inside the cool air immediately started the stress deconstruction. I checked my messages, grabbed an apple from the kitchen counter and headed for my bedroom. The quiet felt good. Went a long way in soothing my ragged nerves.

  The unwelcome sound of my evil cell phone interrupted my journey toward putting the past couple of hours behind me. So much for serenity.

  I rummaged for the annoyance, tossed my bag onto the sofa and turned my attention back to my destination. My plan would not be thwarted. I had to wash this creep off my skin. Had to recharge my self-esteem batteries.

  “Mercer.”

  “Where are you?”

  Hobbs.

  “I had to stop by the house,” I snarked, allowing my inner bitch to rear her vicious head. The warning was clear in my tone: don’t get between a woman and her after-sex-with-a-jerk bath. “I’ll give you an update when I get to the office.”

  “Oh.” Silence. “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  Give the man a frigging cigar. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Well, all right,” Hobbs relented, then qualified, “but make it fast because you’ve got a prospective investigator waiting to be interviewed. He has the markings of excellent partner material.”

  I twisted the knob to turn on the cascade of water in my tub and then reached for a towel. “Someone responded to the ad?” I asked, surprised—no, scratch that, astounded.

  “It would appear so,” Hobbs allowed patiently.

  Not even his condescending response could hamper my enthusiasm. This was great! I desperately needed a new investigator who might turn into a partner eventually. But finding a qualified applicant interested in a one-horse operation was pretty much wishful thinking...or, at least, I had figured as much. “Someone local?” I queried, intrigued.

  “Gotta go. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  My assistant hung up, leaving me with the distinct impression that something else in my shaky world was about to be rocked and it had nothing to do with amazing sex.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had no sooner cut the ignition on my Jeep in the narrow rear alley behind the building my agency called home than Hobbs covertly popped out the backdoor.

  Surely he hadn’t heard about the fiasco at HPD already. What was I saying? Of course he had. Hobbs had the kind of hound dog instincts that could ferret out Al-Qaeda. I’d box him up and ship him to the White House to help out there if I didn’t need him so damn bad here. I blew the bangs out of my eyes with an exasperated breath. Might as well get this over with and put it behind me. Hobbs was going to be difficult to live with the rest of the day.

  The heat and humidity pressed in around me the moment I slid from behind the wheel. I plucked my blouse from my skin in a doomed effort to circulate the nonexistent breeze. If it was this bad now, July would be pure hell. There wasn’t an antiperspirant on the market that could keep you cool and dry from June until
October in the Lone Star State. The phrase “Texas hot” hadn’t been coined for nothing.

  “His name is Derrick Dawson,” Hobbs said before I got halfway to where he waited. His slender, well-dressed frame essentially vibrated with excitement.

  Not quite the reaction I’d expected considering I’d shown up empty handed. “Whose name is Derrick Dawson?” I measured Hobbs openly as I tugged my bag onto my shoulder and covered the last few steps that stood between us. I hadn’t seen him this excited since Will and Grace helped pave the way for broader acceptance of alternative lifestyles. And that was saying something.

  He huffed impatiently. “Him.” He canted his head and gave me one of those looks that said you know!...him!

  Hobbs would stand nose to nose with me, an easy five eight, except for my stiletto advantage. He outweighed me by twenty or thirty pounds but it was tight, lean muscle. He didn’t go to Gold’s Gym four times a week for nothing. We’d worked together for nine years. I knew him as well as I knew my own mother, maybe better. But whatever the hell was going on behind those glittering hazel eyes just now was a complete mystery to me.

  “The applicant for the investigator position,” he said out of the side of his mouth as if he feared someone would hear and make something of it. Then he gave me another of those knowing looks that only a true drama queen could pull off.

  Oh, yeah. “Dawson.” I nodded. “Right.” I paused, a troubling concept taking shape in my head. My gut clenched. “Is he...” God, how did I put this delicately? “Is he gay?” Not that I have a problem with alternative lifestyles, mind you. But working with one gay man, especially an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist, is quite enough.

  My assistant’s eyes rolled back in his head. “I wish.” His gaze narrowed abruptly as if he’d just remembered something of extreme importance. Unfortunately for me, he likely had. “Where’s that body receipt?” he asked, his tone dripping with suspicion.

  “I’ll...ah...tell you about that later.” I grabbed for the door and pulled it open. “I don’t want to keep this guy waiting any longer than I already have.”