Dirty (10 page)

Bob opened the gold case embossed with his initials and withdrew another thin stalk of designer tobacco.
 
He tapped it on the table before planting it between his lips and lighting the tip.
 
He took a nice long drag, then let it go.
 
“Brandon Masters and Peter Reagan were the two defendants named by the state.
 
But neither of them made it to trial.”

“The case got dropped?”
 
My fingers itched to show him the photograph, but I wasn’t willing to take the risk.
 
Bob was a reliable contact, but he was also a man with shady connections.
 
I couldn’t take the chance that the identity of the man in the photograph might be a valuable trading commodity.
 
I wasn’t his only regular patron.

He looked me dead in the eye and what I saw in his sent a chill coursing through me before he even spoke.
 
“They were gunned down three days before the trial was scheduled to begin.
 
The shooter was never identified.”

My pulse skipped.
 
Could the man in the photo be Masters or Reagan?
 
That would be easy enough to determine.
 
Wait.
 
If he was one of the defendants in the trial, wouldn’t his face have popped up on Max’s search?
 
And if he had been a resident of Texas, wouldn’t Hobbs have found him in the DMV database by now?
 
Yes on both counts.
 
Maybe he was a member of the consulting team from California who’d worked on the case.

I shivered when memories from that night slipped beneath my mental firewall and into my concentration.
 
If he wasn’t involved in the investigation or execution of the case, what did he have to do with Disposable?
 
He hadn’t felt like a cop or a bad guy.
 
He’d felt like a...man who needed desperately to connect to another human being...to me.

“Disposable was nasty business, Jackie,” Bob offered.
 
“You might consider leaving the dead buried on that one.
 
Your
friend
would be best served to follow that same advice.”

He made the statements nonchalantly, but I was distinctly aware of the warning in his words.
 
“Thanks, Bob.
 
I’ll keep that in mind.
 
How’s your brother,” I asked, changing the subject.
 
Instinct told me I’d gotten all I was going to get.

“The new medication has helped.”
 
He dropped an inch long line of ash into the ashtray.
 
“He only goes off the deep end once every now and then.”

I nodded disjointedly.
 
“That’s good to hear.”
 

Bob said nothing.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to the office.”
 
I reached into my purse to grab a couple of bills to cover my tea but Bob held up a hand and shook his head.
 
I manufactured another wide, fake smile. “Thanks for the tea, Bob.”

When I would have pushed out of my chair he reached across the table and laid a not so gentle hand over mine.
 
“Come and see me again sometime, Jackie.”
 
His tone was veiled with an ominous quality, not quite threatening but almost.
 
“It doesn’t have to be about business.”

Somehow I managed to keep my smile in place.
 
“Have a nice day, Bob.”
 
I got up and walked away.
 
I felt his eyes burning a hole through me while I exited the restaurant and walked along the luxurious glass front to my Jeep.

He knew more than he was telling.
 
His subtle warning left no doubts on that score.
 
Even if it hadn’t, the blatant flirting at the end would have.
 
Bob had always kept our dealings strictly business.

What did a ten-year-old case called Disposable have to do with the man in the photograph...or me?
 
And, if my one-night stand was deceased, who had sent that damned message?

As I climbed into my Jeep my cell phone burst into musical notes.
 
I collapsed behind the steering wheel and fumbled around in my bag, annoyed by the intrusion.

“Mercer.”

“I hate to interrupt whatever you’re up to with Bob...”

Hobbs.

“We’re done.
 
What’s up?”

“You remember Reggie Yeager?
 
The assistant DA who works in District Attorney Bloom’s office?”

“Vaguely.”
 
I started the Jeep, turned up the AC and shoved the gearshift into Reverse.

“He just called and there’s some sort of disturbance on the courthouse steps.”

“And?” I prompted.
 
Despite my nonchalance, dread crept into the back of my mind though I couldn’t say why.
 
Maybe it was the hesitation I heard in my assistant’s voice.
 
Or maybe it was Bob’s warning taking deeper root.

“Well,” Hobbs hedged. “I’m sure there must be a mistake, but Reggie feels certain he saw your mother amid the mob.”

I exhaled, experiencing a tad of relief.
 
No surprise there.
 
As I backed from the parking slot I said as much.
 
Mother was always protesting something.
 
Ever since she’d turned sixty she couldn’t get politically radical enough.
 
The past half decade hadn’t slowed her down one iota.

“Well...there’s...ah...more.”

“How much more?” I asked, waiting for a lull in traffic.

“It’s actually a very worthy cause.
 
Congressman Feldman is in town today.
 
I’m certain this little rally is for his benefit.
 
Something about Medicare and that health care bill everyone’s talking about.”

I suppressed the need to tap my fingers on the steering wheel.
 
“Get to the point, Hobbs.”

“I believe the theme is
taking the shirt from our backs
.”

Images of nude geriatrics flashed in my mind.
 
Oh damn.
 
“I’m on my way.”

At three-thirty traffic was already picking up as the first of the day-shifters left work.
 
Still, I managed to reach Franklin Street in record time.
 
Blue lights pulsed all around the courthouse.
 
A news helicopter hovered overhead, its blades whop-whop-whopping through the air.

I double parked next to one of the news vans and grabbed a jacket I kept in the back seat for rainy days.
 
I scrambled out and dove straight into the rioting throng.

Half-naked elderly people were scattered up and down the massive steps leading to the towering granite hall of justice.
 
With all the cameras the riot could have been a Playtex and Fruit of the Loom fashion show.
 
I resisted the urge to stop and stare.

Trying not to actually look at any one person below the neck, I scanned the crowd.
 
Blue uniforms darted in every direction in an attempt to round up the senior citizens without hurting anyone.
 
Harried reporters and cameramen worked frantically to take it all in.

“We will be heard!”

The familiar voice propelling those emotion-filled words yanked my attention to the right.
 
Mortification shot through me but I recovered quickly and moved toward my mother as covertly as I could so as not to draw attention.

“Mother!” I snapped in a stage whisper.

Margaret Mercer turned abruptly.
 
“Jackie, what’re you doing here?”

Somehow I managed to keep my gaze on hers and away from her white eighteen-hour support bra.
 
Thank God she hadn’t taken it off.
 
“We’ll talk about it later.”
 
I draped the jacket around her shoulders and dragged her toward the street.

“Wait!”
 
She dug in her heels.
 
“I can’t walk away from my friends.
 
They need my support.
 
I’m about to roast my bra.
 
As soon as the bonfire gets going,” she added with a glance toward a group of cops wrestling one particular senior citizen to the ground.
 
They’d already snagged the torch he carried.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at me.
 
“If you don’t go with me right now, Mother, you’ll go to jail for indecent exposure.”

Her mouth formed a perfect O before she rallied her voice and demanded, “Well what’re we waiting for then?”

She hurried down the remaining steps like a young chick a third her age.
 
I rushed to get ahead and lead the way to the Jeep.
 
I didn’t slow down or bother with breathing until we were both safely ensconced in the vehicle.

Neither of us spoke as I drove to my childhood home on Cedar Street.
 
I didn’t know why my mother kept the big old place.
 
For sentimental reasons I supposed.
 
I parked in the drive of the two-story Federalist style home and wilted, exhaling the tension liberating my mother had prompted.
 
If we were both lucky our faces hadn’t gotten caught by any of the news cameras.

“You coming in?”

Margaret, Maggie as her friends called her, looked at me hopefully and I couldn’t deny her.

“Sure.”

I followed her up the walk and through the front door.
 
I had to admit, she still had a hell of a figure for a woman just past seventy.
 
I could only hope I would end up looking that good.
 
Her dark hair had long ago grayed into that lovely shade which required no artificial dyes.
 
Most women her age would trade a kidney for hair like that.
 
Maggie Mercer had insisted it made her look old and promptly bleached it blond.
 
Now she told everyone it was genetic, she didn’t go gray, she went blond.

There was no denying the blond looked good with her green eyes.
 
The same green eyes I had inherited.
 
Maybe I should go blond.
 
My mother sure appeared to have a lot more fun than me. The pics on Rob-Ho’s unofficial site flashed in my head. I’d sure gotten plenty of attention wearing that Marilyn Monroe style wig.

“I’ll only be a minute, dear,” Maggie promised as she headed up the stairs.
 
“Make yourself at home.”

I watched her go then surveyed the entry hall where I’d descended the staircase to meet my prom date as a high school freshman.
 
Mother had altered my dress so that it fit like a glove.
 
And Sammy Wilcox had looked awestruck.
 
I dated him my entire freshman year.
 
Had thought I was madly in love.
 
Enough so to end up on that bench in the locker room.
 
But we’d gone our separate ways after that.

While in college I met a handsome Med school student and the rest, as they say, is history.
 
I dropped out of college to support
us
while
he
finished his schooling.
 
Somehow I even managed to give birth and juggle being a mother while he focused solely on his medical career.

Fat lot of good that had done me.

I wandered into the family room and studied the framed photographs that covered every available surface.
 
Dozens upon dozens of memories made with my father.
 
God, I missed him.

Respected attorney turned judge, Jack Mercer, had died just five years ago.
 
A pang of regret sliced through me.
 
If only I’d been able to clear the air on the subject of my ability to make it in my chosen profession and to take care of myself without a husband.
 
But it hadn’t happened.

I looked around the big room that still felt exactly like home though I hadn’t lived here in twenty-five years.
 
Even when Simon and I had first divorced I refused to be a burden to my parents.
 
I’d supported my husband during the first half of our marriage, I could support my son after it ended.

My father was not to be thwarted though.
 
Occasionally I would discover a deposit I had no memory of making in my checking account.
 
It was his way of ensuring his daughter and grandson were taken care of.

He hadn’t been so happy with the way I’d elected to support myself.
 
Had insisted that Uncle Hank, since he was about to retire from HPD, be my partner.
 
I closed my eyes and tried to block the painful memories, but it didn’t work.
 
My father had loved me, that much I knew with complete certainty.
 
He’d treated me like an equal my entire life...until I’d started my PI business.
 
Somehow everything had changed after that.
 
He’d suddenly stopped having any confidence in me.
 
Wanted Hank in on every decision.

Admittedly I hadn’t reacted well and he’d never relented.
 
We’d finally agreed to disagree.
 
Then the heart attack had stolen him from me and now I would never know why he’d lost faith in me. How could he have raised me to be so independent; have believed in me all those years and then suddenly act as if I wasn’t capable of doing anything on my own?

The divorce
.

What else could it have been?
 
I’d racked my brain and no other reasonable explanation ever revealed itself.

I plopped onto the sofa.
 
How did things get so complicated?
 
When I allowed myself to go down that road, I found doubt.
 
Doubt in my ability to keep a husband, to control my destiny.
 
To keep my father believing in me.
 
Mother had assured me over and over that my father was only being protective...that it wasn’t about not trusting my ability.
 
Maybe she was right.
 
My emotions had been strained at the time.
 
Maybe it was the breakdown of my marriage that had set off my father’s need to question my ability.
 
I couldn’t say I hadn’t felt the same way to some extent.
 
To this day I occasionally wondered what went wrong between Simon and me.
 
Was I not sexy enough?
 
Not attentive enough?
 
Not smart enough?
 
Not strong enough?