Dirty

by Debra Webb

  “The Jade dress and the stilettoes,” I said. “And hello to you too.”

  “Sorry. You know how I get before a blind date.”

  How she got? It was my blind date. One that I’d just as soon forget by the way.

  “What about perfume?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I said flatly. I knew what she was doing. Trying to gauge my excitement level. I didn’t bother telling her that after last night’s near-death experience I wasn’t sure anything could excite me ever again.

  “You’ll like Tony,” she went on, choosing to ignore the jab. “He’s irresistible. A real pro at laying on the charm.”

  I felt my eyes narrowing in suspicion. Why the sales pitch? This date was about distraction. Nothing else. No need to sell me on the gentleman, we weren’t picking out china patterns.

  Two consecutive beeps informed me that I had another call. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Gotta go.” Before she could argue I stabbed flash. “Mercer.”

  “Are you wearing the Jade dress?”

  Shari.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

  We went through the steps. Yes, Tony was supposed to be great. Yes, the Jade dress did wonders for my figure.

  With a promise to tell her everything tomorrow, Shari was off to ready for her own date—with the yoga instructor who could stand on his head during intercourse or something like that.

  I dabbed on a little Escada and checked my teeth for signs of lipstick.

  “This is as good as it gets,” I told my reflection.

  Maybe it was just the dress but my ass didn’t look as wide today. Maybe I’d sweated off a few pounds in that faux silk-lined box last night. I checked a rear view then a side angle. Definitely thinner.

  I made a sound of approval and wondered if I should patent the idea. If being buried for under an hour three times per week could help people lose weight I could get rich. Course I’d probably get sued the first time someone failed to follow directions and ended up losing more than a few pounds.

  I headed for the living room just as the doorbell chimed. Was that perfect timing or what? I might even manage to escape before Mary Jane got around to calling. I knew her spiel by heart. If you must have sex, use a condom. Two if he’s wearing both boots and a hat.

  Striding to the door with all the confidence provided by my favorite dress and having recently enjoyed an orgasm, however unorthodox the method, I pasted on a smile that took no effort at all.

  Said smile drooped into a floor dragging frown when I opened the door to find Special Agent Terrence Brooks loitering there.

  “May I have a minute of your time?” he asked, far too politely for my comfort.

  “Are you asking?” I tossed back. If so, that was a change, he generally plowed head first into my life and didn’t bother with formality or social etiquette at all.

  “This is important, Mercer,” he pressed, his usually indifferent expression looking utterly sincere.

  I huffed indignantly and stepped back for him to come inside. “You’ll have to make it fast, I have a date.”

  He didn’t look surprised, I noticed as I closed the door behind him. For a moment I almost took that as a compliment then I realized he probably knew this because he had my phone tapped or someone watching me.

  He set his hands on his hips, forcing the lapels of his pricy suit out of the way. He was nicely built, I couldn’t help noticing, then I mentally kicked myself.

  “I know you’re digging around in the Disposable case,” he said frankly.

  No surprise there. I’d suspected he was watching me. “So what? I’m a PI. I dig into whatever clients pay me for.”

  He inclined that handsome head and eyed me skeptically. “Who’s your client, Mercer? A ghost from the past?”

  Apprehension coiled through me before I could stop it. “That’s privileged information,” I said tightly. How the hell did he know this? He couldn’t know about Rayburn and me. Then I knew. Cates. Dammit. Why was he keeping this Fed up to speed on my business?

  “I suppose that’s understandable.” Brooks ran a hand over his smooth jaw. A guy with a jaw that smooth at this hour of the evening had to shave twice a day. Maybe it was part of the training at Quantico. “Let me be candid here,” he suggested.

  I matched his stance. “Please do. Because, to be honest, your constant interference in my life is confusing the hell out of me.”

  That knowing gaze settled heavily onto mine. “I have reason to believe that there was a cover up in the Disposable case and whoever was responsible for it has started up the operation again.”

  “Illegals end up dead too often,” I countered. “Some are carrying drugs. That problem has steadily increased in recent years. What makes you think this is anything outside the norm?” I knew he meant the dead guy Sanchez and then the woman from last night, but I wasn’t going to let him think for a minute that I was agreeing with him.

  “Sanchez was a blatant warning to someone,” Brooks said. “I think that someone is you.”

  His statement set me on the defensive. “You can’t be sure of that anymore than I can.” I didn’t want that to be true, since that would mean the man had died because of me.

  He shrugged. “Maybe not, but there seems to be a more blatant spin to this hideous activity since you started nosing around in Disposable.”

  Max. Shit. His dipping into the Bureau’s database or his contact there had sold us out. That was the only way Brooks could be so certain of what I was working on. Or maybe Cates had simply told him I’d looked at the case file. Either way, he was on to me.

  “What about the woman last night?” I lifted my chin and glared at him. “We don’t know that she’s connected to Sanchez.” As much as I needed this case to make sense, on some level I’d feel a hell of a lot better if she wasn’t.

  For several seconds before he responded there was something in the way Brooks looked at me that gave me my answer...an answer I didn’t want.

  “She wasn’t actually connected to Sanchez,” he allowed. “But she’d crossed less than twenty-four hours prior to her death and she was carrying several pounds of illegal white powder in the breast implants she’d recently obtained by a butcher south of the border.”

  Two murders...two victims. Surely their deaths weren’t because of my investigation...

  “Whatever you’re up to, Mercer,” Brooks cautioned, “you need to work with me, not against me.”

  The phone and the doorbell rang simultaneously, making me jump. I didn’t have to look to know who each was. Mary Jane calling to relay her advice, and my blind date at the door.

  “Think about it,” Brooks urged, taking the interruption as his cue. “You’re in deeper than you know. I could help you.”

  With that forbidding statement he left me to enjoy my evening.

  Like that was going to happen.

  Tony turned out to be a former stripper turned high school math teacher. He still had the Chippendale body (and I’m not talking furniture here) and there was nothing school teacherish about his wardrobe. Tony knew how to dress. Couldn’t have been a day over thirty-five and had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. My biggest concern about him was his preoccupation with cleanliness. He’d excused himself to wash his hands at least six times.

  He had scrutinized the dinnerware to the point of infuriating the waiter. Otherwise he was a decent date. Friendly, good-looking, and not at all shabby in the sex appeal department.

  “Dessert?”

  The waiter stood by as patiently as a man whose tolerance level had been sorely tested could.

  I held up a hand. “I’m good, thanks.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at the waiter. I didn’t want him to remember me from this night in case I came here again anytime soon, which was quite likely since John Paul’s was one of the most popular restaurants on this end of town.

  “Coffee perhaps,” the waiter offered, determined to be thorough.

  Tony ordered decafs for both
of us. Mercifully my cell phone sang out and I used the intrusion to excuse myself.

  I couldn’t get to the ladies room fast enough.

  “Mercer.”

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  Steven.

  Happiness bloomed in my chest, momentarily taking my mind off another supreme example of why I despised blind dates. “Hey, baby, how ya doing?” He hated when I called him baby but I just couldn’t help it. He would forevermore be my one and only child.

  “We need to talk.”

  Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good. “What’s up?” I told myself to stay calm. Steven gave his studies his all. Was an honor student. Even worked part time at a law firm close to school. Had never had an automobile accident. Hadn’t gotten anyone pregnant. He was a good kid. A nice young man, I amended.

  “Dad and I have been talking,” he began.

  My heart did one of those double-whammy flip-flops, the kind associated with extreme fear or trauma. “Oh, really. How’s your father anyway?”

  “He’s great. Look, he made me an offer I’m not sure I can turn down.”

  Complete neuron freeze kept me paralyzed while I listened to the rest of what he had to say.

  “He’s about to start a new clinic in Dallas that caters to the more wealthy residents and he’d like me to run the office. Oversee everything. Isn’t that cool? He trusts me that much.”

  I could hear the excitement in my son’s voice and I didn’t want to say anything to ruin that. He’d been so hurt when his father first left...especially when the other child was born—also a boy.

  “Wow, that is exciting,” I said with all the enthusiasm I could summon. “Would you be returning to Ole Miss this fall?” I held my breath...knowing the answer even before he spoke.

  “Actually, no. But I would take classes two days a week at home. It would take longer to get my law degree but I would be earning a tremendous salary in the meantime as well as building a nice resume of work experience.”

  Home. I wondered, my chest constricting, if he meant Houston or Dallas. “Well.” I swallowed back the tears crowding into my throat. I’d worked so hard to get him into Ole Miss, the Harvard of the south as far as law schools went. “That’s an offer that certainly deserves due consideration.” I lost the battle with the tears. Silently I cursed myself for being such a wimp.

  I truly wanted Steven to love his father and enjoy a healthy relationship with him, but I had to be honest, it killed me to hear him talk like this. I was the one who raised him. I was the one who put him through college and then onto law school. My ex hadn’t helped or encouraged him in any way and now he does this? I wanted to scream or kick something. But I had to remember that it didn’t matter how I felt. This had to be about Steven.

  “I’ll keep you posted. Thanks, Mom. I knew you’d understand. We’ll talk on Sunday, okay?”

  In case you hadn’t noticed, Sunday is the day kin touches base in Texas. You either went to church together, ate together, called or a combination of two or more. Anything less was unacceptable.

  I managed to get through the good-byes without breaking down. It took another five minutes for me to pull myself together enough to return to my blind date.

  I was surprised to find the coffee hadn’t been delivered yet. I hated to be rude, but I was ready for this night to be over. The sooner the coffee came, the sooner the check would follow and we could be done with this blind date thing.

  But nothing in my life was ever that simple. The waiter returned with what I discovered was the third round of coffee and still Tony found fault with it.

  When he started to examine the waiter’s hands for cleanliness I was out of there.

  The good thing about Houston at night was the always abundant supply of waiting cabs. The moment I walked out the door of the restaurant one was at the curb.

  I settled into the back seat and closed my eyes. God, how had I gotten to this place?

  Had my need to succeed after the divorce backed me into an emotional corner? All this time I’d thought I was doing the right thing focusing on my son and my career. Admittedly, I’d let my love life flounder amid an endless chain of going nowhere, mini-relationships. Was that a mistake? Had my driven work ethic ensured that I would spend the rest of my days alone?

  Memories of the night I spent with Warren Rayburn whirred one after the other through my mind like an old black and white movie. A classic that never went out of vogue. He’d touched something inside me no one else had even come close to since. Was he really dead? Or was he the one playing all these games?

  Then there was Willis. Just another cul-de-sac romance–one that never actually went anywhere but deserved a higher rating than dead end. He might not have touched me on the same level as Rayburn, but he’d stirred my blood, there was no denying that. Even after I’d learned of his deception I’d felt a traitorous tingle for him. I felt certain years of counseling would not figure that one out.

  Dawson. God, I didn’t even want to think about him. One way or another I had to keep that relationship from wandering back into forbidden territory. Thank God we hadn’t kissed. That would have made last night too intimate to ignore. We hadn’t kissed and we hadn’t actually touched, not skin to skin anyway, I reminded myself. Well, my cheek had touched his jaw, but nothing more. Cheeks grazing cheeks, the ones north of the neck anyway, was accepted as asexual in most civilized societies, so that was okay.

  Last night aside, there was just something about him that tugged at my emotions.

  My eyes popped open. Maybe I was finally having that midlife crisis I hadn’t had time for in the past decade.

  Hormones. That had to be it. Maybe I was a late bloomer...like Hank.

  The taxi pulled into my driveway and I paid my fare, including a generous tip.

  “Thanks, lady.” The teasing sparkle in his eyes made me hesitate before getting out. “You know,” he said, “that’s one helluva dress.”

  And just like that every bit of last night’s as well as tonight’s tension drained away. “Thanks.” I emerged from the cab with a fresh outlook.

  I did look damn good for a mature woman. My life wasn’t over yet. There was still hope I might find the right man for a second chance at a long-term relationship that would work. I didn’t care about happy endings any more, those were for fairy tales. All I wanted was a shot at a truly satisfying one.

  With a genuine smile on my face and a lightness in my step, I went inside, undressed, poured myself a glass of JD. Then I kicked back on the sofa to check the late news. I hoped like hell HPD had made good on their promise and kept mine and Dawson’s name out of the headlines.

  By the time the sports segment aired I felt reasonably confident Nance had stood by his word.

  Just when I thought this night might turn out all right after all my doorbell broke into chimes.

  I glanced at the clock. After eleven. Who the hell would be at my door at this time of night?

  Like I had to ask.

  I would wring Dawson’s neck if he was out there. Considering the fact that I still didn’t know who’d taken a rock from my yard and used it to disfigure a murder victim or who had left a snake in my bed (I had since ordered the locks changed and a new password from my security service) I checked the peep hole before opening the door.

  Hobbs.

  A whole new set of worries morphed into frown lines on my face (that would likely become permanent wrinkles–hey, but that’s what Botox is for), I jerked the door open. “This better be good.”

  Hobbs looked me up and down then lifted a disapproving eyebrow at my tattered terry-cloth robe. “Guess what you’re getting for Christmas?”

  I hauled him through the door and closed it behind him. “What do you want, Hobbs? JD and I were just getting reacquainted.” Another round and I might actually sleep soundly tonight, snake or no.

  “Shouldn’t you be armed? There does appear to be someone out to get you, Jackie.”

  I pulled back one side of my robe and sh
owed him the sweet little hootchie holster that kept my equally sweet little .32 nestled right against my lavender panties. The .32 didn’t have a nickname. Carrying the extra piece almost felt like cheating on Shorty, but a girl could never be too careful. And why the hell was everybody suddenly worried about me? I had been taking care of myself for years, I could do it now.

  “How do you sleep like that?”

  I blew out a puff of indignation and marched back over to the couch. I didn’t bother explaining that when I went to bed the weapon went under my pillow. “What do you want, Hobbs?” I took a long swallow of JD. When I looked up my assistant was suddenly standing over me, the fifth in hand, to refill my glass. That bad, huh? “Okay, what?” I demanded.

  He moistened his lips and filled the glass before answering my question.

  “Well.” He set the bottle aside and seemed to have trouble deciding what to do with his hands after that. “I made a new discovery about Rayburn this evening.”

  Hobbs was right. I needed another drink. When the burn had subsided I said, “Spill it.”

  He roamed the boundaries of the room a couple of times. But that was Hobbs, he had to get to the point his own way and in his own time. I held my tongue and let him do his thing. Abruptly he stopped and announced, “Your long lost lover did have a family.”

  I sat up a little straighter. Jesus. Anticipation gave way to uncertainty. I didn’t want to learn I’d helped a married man commit adultery. Wasn’t it enough that he had gone missing, was presumed dead?

  Hobbs cleared his throat and went on. “Rogue agent or not, prior to coming to Houston to work on the Disposable case, Mr. Rayburn was quite the celebrated hero.”

  My attention shifted from my self-pity session to Hobbs as he continued. “I found an article from an obscure New Jersey newspaper about Rayburn’s outstanding service. He received some sort of commendation.”

  I ordered my fingers to relax before I cracked the glass I held in a death grip.

  He said the rest without pausing to catch his breath or giving me room to interrupt. “The picture in the newspaper showed Warren Rayburn with his mother and stepfather, Laura Rayburn Dawson and Charles Dawson. Also pictured was his one sibling, a younger brother named Derrick Dawson.”