Dirty

by Debra Webb

  “I smell a rat,” Hobbs muttered as he followed me inside.

  I just kept walking. He’d find out soon enough that the rat in question was actually a federal agent with a serious God complex. Between Willis, Hobbs, and Brooks my parade had seriously been rained on this morning. Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed. But then, it was actually getting in bed that had gotten me into trouble.

  In the heart of Houston, the Mercer Agency occupied the first floor of one of the few remaining antiquated buildings that looked like a red-headed stepchild next to the high rises and skyscrapers all around it. I’d known it was the one for me the moment I laid eyes on it ten years ago. Only three stories, the second floor housed a temp agency that placed more illegal immigrants in the local blue collar job market than Houstonians—but you didn’t hear that from me—while the top floor provided space for a small independently owned insurance company.

  For the most part I loved my location, but it came with its own special set of stressors. Every time the building commission scheduled a meeting with downtown revitalization on the agenda I started to sweat. This is Texas after all, where bigger is better and sports is the primary religion. Why let a three-story building stand when you can tear it down and build a soaring tower of steel and glass?

  Personally, I prefer a more intimate feel to a space. A place where I can get comfortable. Not to mention the fact that a tight budget forced one to aim a little lower and a lot less sophisticated when shopping for office space.

  Inside my beloved, however squatty, building a narrow corridor splits the leaseable first floor space. A small kitchen that we use as a lounge along with the tiniest bathroom ever designed brings up the rear. As you near the reception area, there are two final doors, one to the left, one to the right, each leading to a slightly cramped office separated from reception by a glass wall. Mine was on the right—the one decorated with accolades and achievements from my son’s academic life. The other was currently vacant. My uncle had carried away the last of his personal belongings last week.

  God I missed him. How could spending four-day weekends at some casino resort hotel with all those gambling senior citizens be more fun than solving cases with me? It never ceased to amaze me how most of those folks wouldn’t be caught dead in Sin City but slap a few casinos in a small community situated within the realm of the Bible belt and that made it okay. Go figure.

  Having Hank Mercer trade in time with me for gambling and chasing after sexually active widows was simply unconscionable. He swore it wasn’t personal. He had turned sixty-five and decided that he wanted to spend his remaining time on this earth exploring all he’d missed after thirty years as a cop and then ten being my partner. I, on the other hand, felt reasonably sure it was nothing more than a rogue Y chromosome he’d somehow managed to keep under control longer than most. Now he was on a ship somewhere in the Caribbean trying to make up for lost time.

  At least I still had Hobbs.

  Speaking of which, I paused in the reception area, territory lorded over by my hyperactive assistant that includes a great view of the street and an entrance from the main lobby of the building. An ancient but full of character staircase in that shared main lobby leads to the upper floors as well as to the underground pedestrian tunnel system. That perk was supposed to entice tenants to overlook the building’s numerous other eccentricities like bad plumbing and less than adequate wiring. As you may have already guessed my landlord is a man.

  Just another prime example proving men are scum. I glowered at my assistant but then reminded myself that, technically, he didn’t count.

  “Let me get Dawson’s file for you.” Hobbs scooted past me and hurried to his desk.

  I followed...wondering why I would even consider hiring a man when a woman would surely be a better choice. Since no one else, male or female, had applied I might as well get over it and take a quick gander at the guy’s application before meeting him. I glanced toward the glass wall of my office and noted the back of a dark blond head. Dawson sat in one of the two chairs facing my desk. Judging by the one long leg I could see and the rise of his shoulders above the seat’s back, I would estimate his height at six one or two. His relaxed posture indicated massive amounts of self-confidence or just plain laziness. I deemed neither particularly attractive in a potential employee. Strike one.

  Hobbs shoved a manila folder in my hand, dragging my attention back to him. “I really think you’ll like him.”

  Ignoring the comment, I squinted as I attempted to read Dawson’s information.

  “Try these.”

  Hobbs passed me a pair of black-framed reading glasses, the half lens type. “When did you start wearing glasses?” I asked, surprised. Who knew? He hadn’t mentioned vision problems. Who would have thought that anything could faze my impervious assistant? Hmmm. He was a mere mortal after all.

  “They’re not for me,” he said archly, “they’re for you.”

  Appalled at his suggestion, I stared at the truly ugly eyewear with something akin to contempt. “You’re kidding, right?” Even my seventy-year-old mother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing these.

  Ever the diligent employee, Hobbs continued to shuffle papers as he answered my question. “It’s called presbyopia, in your case over forty vision. Accept it. Get past it.”

  I wanted to be pissed, but, sadly, he was right. The fine print got finer every day. But did he have to remind me? My ego was already bruised. I didn’t need him throwing in my face how after forty you fell apart...starting with the eyes. A thought I usually kept imprisoned deep in the farthest recesses of my mind escaped. I was old. No point pretending.

  Fine. Accept it. Old didn’t mean dead. I jabbed the eyewear into place. Blinked repeatedly, then stared at the application. “Oh.” Big difference.

  Hobbs made one of those I told you so sounds that I hate. Electing not to comment on his rude observation, I moved on to the work history. Dawson had spent the past four years on NYPD’s homicide detail. Impressive.

  “So he’s from New York,” I said more to myself than to my assistant.

  “Jersey, actually.” Hobbs pointed to the former address line. “He was an extra in an HBO movie last season.”

  I looked up at him, dread curdling in my gut. “He’s an actor too?” Now maybe in New York or L.A. being an actor is a good thing, possibly even a great thing. But down here, an actor is generally plugged into the category of wannabe—not good for much else as far as most folks are concerned. Strike two.

  Hobbs shook his head adamantly. “No. Nothing like that. Some friend involved with the cast talked him into it. The gig was more a favor than anything else.”

  Right. O-kay. Just what I need. An investigator who has dabbled in the movie-making business.

  “We should call his references,” I suggested, perusing the form again. Might as well give the guy the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t like I had applicants flocking to my door.

  “Already did.”

  Looking over the top of the glasses so as to prevent dizziness my gaze shot to his. Hobbs had always been exceedingly prompt but this was ridiculous. “You called his references already? How long has this guy been waiting?”

  A nauseating sensation, the one you felt when humiliation loomed on the horizon like back in high school when you forgot to cram for a test, tightened my throat. I had a very bad feeling about the answer I was about to get.

  “He...” Hobbs lowered his voice. “He was waiting when I opened up this morning.”

  Which meant he could have overheard the call.

  Heat rushed up my neck, scalded my cheeks. I snatched off the confounding glasses and tossed them onto his desk. Tolerating any more humiliation, whether real or imagined, was simply out of the question. “Tell me what I want to hear,” I snarled like a rabid dog.

  “Don’t worry,” Hobbs vowed in a near whisper, “I had him filling out his application while I made that call.” Hobbs cleared his throat and glanced over my shoulder tow
ard the him in question. “And I had my back turned.”

  For the second time today I considered the repercussions of committing murder in a given situation.

  “He didn’t hear a thing,” my loyal assistant hastened to assure me. He pressed his hand to his chest and adopted an expression of supreme humility. “Discreet is my middle name.”

  I weathered the urge to tell him that I would make it a point to remember that in his epitaph. Jesus! It wasn’t enough that I’d had to endure Nance and some Fed who’d jerked next month’s operating budget out of my hand after—AFTER—finding out my lover was a con-artist felon hanging on the end of a puppet string for said arrogant Fed.

  Wait. A new concept occurred to me. This could actually work to my advantage. Relief washed over me and I almost smiled. Considering Hobbs took such liberty with my virtue, or at least my reputation with a potential employee, we could call it even when he learned what happened in the chief’s office this morning.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I capitulated, tucking away my annoyance and the leverage I’d just gained for later use. “Let’s not keep Mr. Dawson on pins and needles any longer.”

  Hobbs hummed his agreement without looking up and didn’t appear to notice how easily I let the subject drop. I’d learned a long time ago that this business required frequent compromise, give and take. If you didn’t have the ammunition you needed, you usually got taken. I preferred to remain armed and ready at all times. Taking was a hell of a lot more fun than giving.

  I walked over to my office door, summoned my most professional demeanor, opened it and stepped inside. The future of my agency depended upon my ability to hire a good, solid investigator. As independent as I was, I recognized that it took two to draw in the necessary cash flow. I needed a partner I could count on.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Dawson.” I strode to my desk and turned to face him. “I’m Jackie Mercer.” I offered my hand as he pushed out of his chair.

  His gaze collided with mine and in that instant I froze like a fan who’d just ran headlong into her favorite big screen movie star. To say he caught me by surprise would be like saying Gandhi was a nice guy. Derrick Dawson put the ooo in ooo la la.

  He smiled—my knees went a little weak—and then he closed his hand around mine. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Mercer.”

  I’m forty-five years old. I was married for fifteen years, been divorced for ten. I have a son, probably not much younger than this guy, in college. All of which is precisely why I refused to acknowledge the jolt that went through me as he gave my hand a firm squeeze before letting go.

  Forcing myself to analyze rather than fantasize, I’d been right about his height. Six one or two with broad shoulders. The navy Ralph Lauren sports jacket looked good with the faded denim of his jeans. The way that worn soft cotton hugged him had me starting to sweat all over again. A plain white T-shirt that contoured to the terrain beneath and polished leather boots completed the look. All he needed was a hat and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate and he’d be ready to do a little shit kickin’ at the Ice House on Friday night.

  I recovered some measure of my composure and spackled the smile back on my face. “Have a seat, Mr. Dawson.” I started around my desk.

  “Most people just call me Dawson,” he said in that deep male voice that sent goosebumps frog leaping one over the other on my skin.

  Wrestling aside my foolish adolescent reaction to the guy, I settled into my chair and pretended to review his application. No wonder Hobbs had gotten all giddy. Dawson was an absolute hunk. Killer blue eyes and the kind of chiseled profile that would make a nun hard pressed to stick to her vows. He was actor material all right. Even in his heyday, Brad Pitt had nothing on this guy. I mentally sighed and noted the third strike against my only candidate for the vacancy I needed desperately to fill—too sexy.

  “Dawson,” I allowed, cramming all the businesslike tone I could into my voice, “what made you decide to leave New York and your work in homicide there?” I opted not to ask about the acting sideline. Though on second thought, the skill was actually more relevant than one would think in this business. Assuming alternate identities and putting on an act comes second nature to a good PI. I figured I should give him a break on strike two, which left him one last chance.

  He shrugged, one of those nonchalant gestures that could mean anything or nothing at all but gorgeous guys like him had down to an exact science. “The truth?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

  “I don’t deal in anything else,” I let him know in no uncertain terms. In fact, there wasn’t a female in Texas who disliked deceit and subterfuge more. Well, unless it’s in the line of duty and I’m the one doing the dirty deed. Whatever it took to get the job done didn’t count.

  “I got pissed off at my lieutenant and I decked him. I had two choices, resign or be arrested. And here I am.”

  The degree of indifference in his expression spiked my curiosity. Hobbs hadn’t mentioned learning any information along those lines when he checked Dawson’s references. As if he’d read my mind, he said, “In exchange for my resignation the incident was left out of my personnel file, but you asked for the truth.”

  To offer a deal like that his superiors must have been eager to be rid of him. I couldn’t help wondering if a bad attitude or a lack of respect for authority hovered just beneath that sexy as hell exterior. “Why did you deck your lieutenant?”

  A guard went up in those blue eyes, again prompting my desire to peel away all those delicious outer trappings and find out what made this guy tick. I gave myself a mental shake. I couldn’t recall ever having this much difficulty staying professionally focused. Men were scum, remember? Why was it I seemed to have trouble keeping that fact in front of me when I encountered a particularly handsome one?

  “That’s personal,” Dawson replied without a lick of contrition.

  I bit the inside of my jaw, glanced over his application again and tried to think of a polite way to tell him to get lost. It wasn’t that I didn’t think people made mistakes; maybe he’d been provoked into punching his superior officer. But he wasn’t being totally up front with me, final strike. Quite honestly I was looking for a more mature investigator anyway. Not some hunky young rebel who could model underwear on billboards in Times Square or have me squirming in my seat in his mere presence.

  Bottom line, in my potential partner poll he’d already struck out like last season’s lowest ranked rookie.

  Since that reason wasn’t PC, I had to come up with another excuse to brush him off. “Well.” I stood, his open file still in my hands. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Dawson. I’ll call you when I’ve made a decision. I’m considering several applicants.” It was a flat out lie but what was a little fib after what I’d been through today? Surely God would cut me some slack.

  Dawson braced his hands on the chair arms and pushed up, that carefully shielded, yet analyzing gaze never leaving mine. “I appreciate your time.”

  That was easier than I’d anticipated. Incredibly, disappointment at his abrupt surrender trickled through me. Deep down I’d expected more from him. It was the strangest thing. I was definitely off my game today. I felt sure they made drugs for this kind of neurosis.

  Halfway to the door Dawson stopped.

  I held my breath, part of me wishing he would just keep walking while another part, the foolish swooning female part, waited with bated breath for him to speak.

  He turned and walked straight back to my desk without a second’s hesitation. “Look.” Something flashed in his eyes, something very basic, almost desperate. “I know a kiss off when I get one. You’re not going to call.” He lifted a shoulder in another of those sexy, negligible shrugs. “Whatever you think you don’t like about me, know this, I’m a damn good detective. What’s more, I’ve done my research, Ms. Mercer, and you need me.”

  His presumptuous disclosure left me speechless long enough to give him the advantage. Before
I could tell him that his too cocky attitude was exactly why he was getting a kiss off, he went on with his tirade.

  “Your agency has an outstanding reputation but you need two investigators to carry a caseload sufficient for the requisite income. Your downtown office space keeps your budget spread thin, but you need the exposure. You need me,” he pressed. “In spite of your many applicants.”

  He flavored the last with the vaguest hint of sarcasm. I might just kill Hobbs, I decided, regardless of the consequences. He had to have opened his mouth about the lack of response to the help wanted ad.

  Dawson flattened those long-fingered hands on my desk and leaned toward me. My heart did one of those ridiculous little flip-flops.

  “I want the job,” he reiterated just in case I hadn’t gotten that part already. A trace of his aftershave, understated and innately male, caressed my senses, demanded my full attention.

  I held my ground though every instinct I possessed urged me to take a step back. To some extent I had to respect the guy’s fearless, take-no-prisoners attitude. He was determined. I would give him that. But I knew from experience the other traits that went hand in hand with that one. And there was that itty bitty detail of my bad luck when it came to men this tempting.

  Standing in my office looking at Derrick Dawson, I knew without doubt that sex would be inevitable.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” I challenged, mentally scrambling for a way to end this now and put us both out of our misery even before it began.

  “All I’m asking is that you give me a chance.”

  Those blue eyes bored into mine. The mesmerizing lines and angles of that handsome face looked even more fascinating this close. Just something else I shouldn’t have zeroed in on. Hobbs and I were going to have a really long talk about what kind of investigator I had pictured as assuming Hank’s role in the agency.

  “You’re in my personal space, Mr. Dawson,” I warned sternly when he didn’t back off, though I felt fairly certain I’d just waved a white flag to his way of thinking.