“Listen bird-lady, keep your bird crap in the street where it belongs.” Margo’s voice reached an impressive volume. “We got a lot to manage here, and there’s no time to scrape up after your bird.”
Carlye squinched her eyes, upturned her nose, and turned her back to Margo. “Judge, my baby Shazam will you help relax, so you can stop that nose-flaring thing you do when you’re upset.” Carlye placed her hands on her hips. “When you were on the bench your tiny nose was flaring like Fourth of July on the riverfront.” Carlye clipped on another feather above her ear. She held up painted nails of all designs. “I do it all.”
“So we’ve heard.” Margo paused for dramatic effect. Her power was in her pause. “And leave Judge’s nose alone—it’s cute, flaring and all.”
“Enough commentary on my nasal equipage.” I advised Margo that Carlye would be presiding over Station Two.
“You gonna bring in gross men or handsome men—I mean considering your old line of work, I’m inquiring.” Margo’s re-styled life didn’t include improved tact.
From one of her thigh-high boots, Carlye slid out a pair of Kamisori Emerald shears and dangled them at Margo. “Careful Schnozeratchi, I’m picky about my men. I’m just not a braggart.” Her leopard-print bangles clanked together, and she smoothed her rainbow sweater over her black leopard-print shirt. Her lowered shoulder curve exposed healthy cleavage until she sat upright in her stylist chair and crossed her legs. She aimed the shears like a gun barrel. “I am a private person. I—”
“Private as red neon.” Margo interrupted and cracked her gum with a teasing smile.
I double-checked my nostrils and shot Margo a raised eyebrow signaling her to behave.
“Let’s see what supplies you need.” Margo opened Carlye’s cupboard.
“Them’s enough supplies. They expensive.” Carlye closed the cupboard. “There’s no magical money, dream-girl, not in real-women’s working world. I’ll make my way without wasting valuable hair product.” Carlye stopped to face Margo and pointed a head-bob with such force her chest quaked.
“Better pump up your work, like those platform-high-heeled boots you’re wearing,” Margo said before shuffling on to her station.
Carlye huffed. “I never been talked to like that.”
“We know that’s a lie.” Margo bounced with a hip-hop style twirl—a clever distraction from the building tension.
Trisha’s hyena laugh came from behind me, and I turned back toward her. A line had formed at her desk, and while she attended to the in-house customers, she seemed to have abandoned all callers on hold. Only one of four lines was free. Maybe it was a good thing Carlye had hired herself.
I motioned to Margo to greet an incoming customer and headed up to assist Trisha. “I’ve got to get into the Courthouse before I do anything. I’ve got to find the real killer,” I mumbled.
Trisha patted my shoulder.
Margo’s bright-orange high-tops approached and slid past me to meet a curly-headed client, and the telephone rang again.
“Judge.” Trisha extended the telephone receiver toward me. “For you.”
“Too early. Need more caffeine. I have too much to do. Make appointment.”
Trisha chortled at my robot voice. “It’s you-know-him.”
“Sebastian?” We were meeting later to discuss my case. Had something happened?
“No, it’s H-I-M,” Trisha spelled and emphasized each letter.
Oh, God. I’d married that him, gave three kids and eighteen years to him, and divorced him. You’d think that would be enough. At the mention of my ex, my top lip pushed up to my nose. Surviving thirty-eight years on the planet gave me license not to care that I looked fish-lipped. I edged back toward the reception desk.
“Him misses you and wants to make sure you’re all right,” she whispered.
“Him wants to make sure his million-dollar-bond money hasn’t skipped.”
Trisha giggled and stepped away.
I aimed my pained face at her and spoke into the receiver: “Tether here.”
“Hey, lover.” His voice, soft and deep, bed-cozy. Memory Armani fumes emanated from his flesh and soft into the sheets . . .
“Not anymore.” A sniff of my own scented wrist grounded me. “Divorce. Remember?”
“It’s just a piece of paper.” He said it as if pronouncing it made it so.
Some days I felt the same way, but I’d never tell him that. “Money’s just paper, too,” I said. “But you spent all your time counting it.”
“Guilty. But I’ve changed. And I’ve posted a million reasons for exoneration.”
“And I owe you a million thank-yous.” A tether was way better than remand. “Other than that, I’ll sort this out on my own. I’ll take help where I can get it, but I am in total control of the investigation. That’s the deal.”
“I’ve got news.” His intentional I’m-too-sexy-for-my-jet voice struck deep inner chords. Parts of me wanted to run to him, to be safe with him, to wake up from this nightmare with him. “Open your front door,” he said.
“Good news?” I stepped toward the bay window. Was it possible Dex was standing outside? Damn. I pictured Dexter Breckenridge’s six-feet-muscle-firm body in the thong bathing suit he’d once bought as a joke. He’d paraded through the bedroom and carried me into a bubble-filled hot tub. Okay, hot flash, pulse increased.
Dexter’s voice flopped from bedroom to boardroom. “I hired protection.”
“Hairnet, panty-liner, or Sumo wrestler?”
“Lover—”
“It’s not some playground fight.” I swallowed. “I’m charged with murder because I refused to play an illegal, self-serving game with an unconstitutional rulebook and a bully. And I have a plan.” Okay, my plan was raw, but it was brewing.
Then I spotted a dark muscle truck with tinted windows—parked directly across from the salon entrance, subtle as an Uzi on fortified cereal with nine vitamins.
“Lover, this is—”
“Call me that one more time and your lips get shellacked with the deep-freeze hairspray.”
“Toss back a double espresso and listen. My CEO-sense tells me you don’t kill somebody for colleague bullying.”
“So, you hired a Michigan Terminator to guard your investment?”
“Face facts,” he said. “You’re a bad shot. That alone proves you’re innocent.”
“You just earned a double shot of deep-freeze hairspray.”
Dex chuckled. “Every clay pigeon that’s ever been in your sights has lived a long and happy life and retired in Vegas. Improbable you shot and killed that bastard with a single shot. The newspaper said one shot killed him.”
“Quit calling me a bad shot.” But I chuckled. It was true. I’d always had fun with the guys on the range, but air, dirt, and anthills were the primary victims of my questionable aim.
Dex got serious. “Reality: You. Are. Being. Set. Up. Our sons have ordered me to protect you.”
“They’re supposed to be learning your business, not holding spy conventions.”
“I’m protecting them from the three-ring fiasco called your life,” Dex said. “Them learning to run a ski resort is merely a perk.”
I knew all about the intimate perks of marriage to Dex. Damn him. His voice still made me lose airspace. “I trust you’ll keep the boys entertained until I’m cleared.”
“Gotta go, Lover.”
I was dismissed, reminiscent of our marriage. I ripped the receiver from my ear and straight-arm slammed it, but I didn’t let go, and it rang again. Overruled by my ex, like he was the Supreme Court, and I had lost my final appeal. Well, he’d forgotten one crucial thing: I was here. I had possession of my life. I had the final word. Okay. That’s three things.
“Now, Judge.” One finger at a time, Trisha pried the receiver from my grip. “I need to answ
er the phone.”
I was calm.
I was going to solve this murder.
Whether anyone liked it or not, I was in control.
Chapter Sixteen
I crossed the salon to the front door and stepped outside. My immediate mission was to make it clear to the hired gun across the street that I’d take help where I could get it, but I was in total control of the investigation.
Dex might be able to long-distance steamroll me, but I could handle any other man. There wasn’t anything that couldn’t be resolved in a hair salon. Even murder.
With the strength of the July morning sun, I marched across the street toward the immense black truck. If there’s one thing I’d learned as a Judge, everyone had a back-story. I knuckle-rapped the tinted windshield, then the driver’s window.
It slid down.
I saw him. My mouth sagged open. I may have gasped.
That was the thing about ex-anyone you’ve slept with: they knew you. And Dex knew that Hunter Greene, who’d had the worst reputation in high school, who I’d met the first day of high school—where we’d all met—would protect me with his life.
“Toots.” Hunter flashed a slow, easy grin. His teeth were as white and straight as I remembered, his forever-tan skin. Where other men wished they had muscles, Hunter had brute force. He’d filled in enough to give me early hot flashes. His eyes and hair were dark, and he had curls like waves my fingers could ride for days. English. I had to find some. Hormones. I had to lose some.
“Toots.” The word suddenly had two sexy syllables.
“That name went away with—” What was I saying? “—with my anklets and acne.”
“You’ll always be my Toots.” His eyes meandered from my eyes to my feet. “Did you ever learn to dance?” He spoke in Michael Bublé tones.
I gave him my practiced judicial evil-eye and prayed my hormones didn’t mix it up with my bedroom eye. Damn.
His reply: a closed-mouth puckery grin. The soft lips I remembered.
Covered in instant memory fog, I recalled the Freshman Homecoming Dance. Hunter had never ridiculed my awkward slow dance, but tossed my shoes, planted me on top of his size fifteens, steadied me in his arms like a china doll, and floated me around the dance floor.
Back to reality in the light morning breeze, I found my words, but my grasp on realty remained tentative. “I learned to dance for my wedding.” It came out a whisper.
“Then danced your way to divorce, while I was still enlisted.” Hunter first looked sincerely sorry, let that pass and twitched his dimple.
I ordered myself not to melt. Only one task here: make sure this ginormous hunk of irritating gorgeous knew I oversaw every aspect of my life, my protection, and my exoneration. “I’ll take help where I can get it, but I remain in total control of the investigation. For the record, once with you was enough.” I pulsed my shoulders back to punctuate my strength, sincerity, and control—and realized I’d just pushed my breasts forward.
“I’m intrigued you still think about me like that.” He winked.
Against my will, I blushed. I neither recalled nor liked this macho-winking thing. I wanted to be swallowed up in a large can of hairspray and blown out in a million particles of strength.
I stomped my right boot onto my left to shift my control into gear. I’d silently stalked Hunter’s career. “Those twenty years in Military Intelligence, didn’t you learn to be inconspicuous?” I used all my arm power on an inclusive gesture toward his huge truck. “For my customers, this shiny black behemoth is nerve-wracking.”
He shot me a wink/half-grin combo.
I felt stripped right down to my panties. Man, it was a hot July.
“In law school, you clearly snoozed through how-to-avoid-being-charged-with-murder.” Hunter inserted an exclamation point by cracking his knuckles with an enormous smirk that caused his eyes to crinkle.
He was fun and warm. Adorable in an irritating way. Just like I remembered.
Then he leaned over and opened the passenger door for me. “Get in.”
Generally speaking, I don’t take orders from individuals with an overload of testosterone. But Hunter Greene was an exceptional individual. I climbed in.
Suddenly he was all business and showed me last Friday’s Lansing State Journal—the writeup on Donnettelli’s death. “Toots, we’ve done a lot of things,” he said. “But we’ve always told each other the truth. Did you kill him?”
I blasted my fist into his shoulder and damn near broke my hand. “No.”
“Then I can help you.”
You’d think his smugness would be a turn off. But no. My cheeks burned.
Hunter hit the high points of Donnettelli’s demise: 57-years-old, blah, blah, in his Chambers, blah, the ME put the time of death by GSW between 3:30 and 5:30 in the morning, body found by cleaning crew at six. Witness on W. Kalamazoo heard a single shot at four. No sign of struggle. No unusual prints. No other physical evidence except the cleaning personnel said the room smelled like lemon Pledge.” Hunter looked disgusted. “Not a hell of a lot to go on, Toots.” He made it sound like an accusation.
“If I’d custom-ordered the hit, I’d have planted somebody else’s fingerprints and DNA, and then sent an encrypted thank-you note to the shooter.”
Hunter threw back his head and let out his whole-body laugh. He’d always lived easy in his skin, and now I thought about crawling right in there with him.
I returned to my teenage years bundled in confused feelings, hormones, and missteps. Why did Dex hire him? My insides whirled. And Hunter knew he had that effect on me. Whoa. Time to find the Ejector Button. I patted where I’d punched him, opened the door, and slid out. “I’ve got a business to run.” Toward the front door, I double-timed it.
But the truck’s door opened. “Toots.”
Oooh. I stopped. But I wouldn’t look back.
“Send out coffee, strong and black.” He lowered his voice. “Or I’ll be in to get what I want.”
I felt it in soft places. Damn him, he knew that about me, too. He and Dex must believe I’m in really big trouble.
“With pastry,” he called out.
I didn’t look back. At least I was in control of the investigation.
Chapter Seventeen
Back inside, I delegated every task I could, including intrusions like schlepping coffee and tarts to Hunter, and then I focused on getting files from inside the Courthouse.
As soon as could, I got some time alone with Trisha. “I’m going into the Courthouse—undercover—”
Trisha uncharacteristically cut me off. “You’d best take Sebastian in with you.”
If Sebastian found out—Yikes! “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
She showed me her understanding silent face.
The day was slipping away and my freedom with it. I needed to reinvent myself in the privacy of my closet. “Trisha, hold down the garrison for a few hours. Not a word to anyone. I’ve got to see a closet about a hairpiece.”
* * * *
Forty-five minutes later, I inspected my reflection in my closet mirror. No one in the Courthouse would suspect a pregnant hippie-professor gathering statistics for a doctoral dissertation.
I’d swapped my cowboy boots for espadrilles, pinned my hair under a long blonde-highlighted wig, tossed on a worn blue-jean jacket (which I’d rescued from Dexter before our divorce) over a padded floral sundress, and added dangling earrings. I slicked on a dark lipstick and covered half my face with sunglasses. My wrists, ankles, and neck were clad in mystical magnetic necklaces and bracelets.
Twenty-seven minutes later, I’d made it through Courthouse security, just barely. I had to convince two guards, who repeatedly scanned me with wands, that I’d set off the security warning bells with my healing magnets, which couldn’t be removed because of evil health spirits.
> I stood in the clerk’s office gripping a stack of files the court clerk had placed in front of me. She refused to meet my eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was irritated, bored, or trying not to laugh at me. Neither did I care; my get-up had got up and gotten me in. I wanted to know how many corporations Donnettelli had messed with.
“Need some help?” A deep, subdued voice asked from behind me.
Startled, I stepped back, pinched someone’s shoe and teetered, but big hands caught me.
“Ouch. Did you learn how to dance and forget how to walk?” He leaned down, so he could whisper in my ear. “When are you due, Toots?”
“Damn you.” I headed for one of the seats lining the wall in the oblong office. “Don’t you have other clients to stalk?”
Hunter followed me. “With employees in five states, I choose whom to follow.”
“I don’t need a homing-pigeon.” I planted myself in a chair next to a small table where I stacked the files. “How the hell did you find me?”
“I get bonus-bucks for penetrating your disguises.” He towered over me. “Tell me what you’re looking for—or are you here to plug another Judge?”
“Ass.” But he was doing his job, and it was unlikely anyone would recognize him or connect him to me. With every female in the room sneaking peaks at him, no one noticed me. “Sit.”
Hunter sat on the other side of the table, and I placed my palm on the stack of files. “These are from my former docket. Suits against large asbestos companies that caused injury, illness, or wrongful death. They’ve been reassigned to Judge Jurisa Haddes—”
“And why are we looking at them?”
“Crap.”
Hunter followed my line of vision. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Noel Lemmon and Peter Dune—they worked for Donnettelli. They’re likely on the hunt for files—maybe even the ones we’ve got.”
Peter glanced in my direction, but I was sure he hadn’t recognized me. I turned so my protruding belly couldn’t be missed, focused on the files, and in a whisper, explained Donnettelli’s blackmail plan to Hunter. “His ultimatum: let Manville Corporation off the hook, or he’d make a phony charge of insider trading against Laurel and Michael Briggs.”
All Rise Page 6