Dirty (14 page)

Applause prevented me from having to go on immediately.

“Gosh, Mary Jane,” Shari teased when the clapping ceased.
 
“We all got an orgasm since our last confessional except you.”

“Who said I didn’t get one?” Mary Jane tossed back.
 
“You think I don’t know how to use a vibrator?”

More laughter broke out around the room.
 
Even I stifled a chuckle.
 
Mary Jane just wasn’t the vibrator type. But then again, who would have thought she had a secret fantasy about Lil Wayne?

“So, break this down for us,” Donna said, steering the conversation back to me, “will you be seeing him again?”
 
She couldn’t stand the anticipation a moment longer.
 
She always had to know
all
the details.
 
“If the sex was that good...”
 
Donna left the statement dangling but all in the room understood.
 
At our age, great sex didn’t come along every day—especially with a guy close to our age.

I moistened my lips and confessed to the rest.
 
“Actually I kind of hope not.”

Shari frowned.
 
“Why?
 
He sounds terrific from what you’ve told us.”

Stupid me.
 
I’d bragged the last time we’d gotten together about how great my new guy was.

“Well, there was a little glitch,” I mumbled.

“Glitch?” Donna parroted.
 
“Did his Viagra run out too early?”
 
More hysterical chortling.

Ha-ha.
 
“No it wasn’t anything like that.
 
He remained armed and ready at all times.”
 
This time I did laugh out loud.
 
It was probably the JD taking hold.
 
Or hysteria.
 
Maybe both.
 
“The problem was he’s a felon.
 
A fugitive.”

Mary Jane gasped.
 
“You took him in?”

Donna’s eyes danced with delight.
 
“You mean you had great sex and then you cuffed him?”

I nodded.
 
“Actually, it was a little later.
 
He was in the shower.”

Shari’s mouth dropped open.
 
“Ohmigawd!
 
Were you naked?”

I shook my head.
 
“Nope.
 
I had on my pink Victoria’s Secret thong and matching bra.
 
But
he
was naked.”

Whoops and cheers punctuated my admission.
 
I laughed some more and then I downed the rest of my drink.
 
Might as well enjoy this.
 
I held up a hand for silence.
 
“And then I went to the office and hired a new investigator who looks every bit as buff and sexy as Brad does in that movie.”
 
I lowered my voice.
 
“Only he doesn’t need make-up or special effects.”

The prize was mine.
 
A new thong, this one lavender, with matching supersexy bra.

We turned to poker then, passing around a Swisher Sweet cigar.
 
I had never been a smoker but I loved the weekly ritual of sucking down the cherry flavored smoke.
 
Even my mother had a good attitude about our weekly dip into debauchery.
 
You gotta die from something
.
 
If one thing doesn’t get you, another will
.

My phone rang.
 
Speak of the devil.
 
Mom probably wanted to make sure I was okay after our bonding moment today.
 
Mother’s exploits on the courthouse steps would come up later with the girls, after a couple more bourbons and Cokes.
 
That was another perk of being the hostess.
 
You didn’t have to worry about driving home.

And there was the photograph with its ominous message.
 
It wasn’t like I could keep that a secret.
 
The girls might even have some useful insights.
 
They’d helped me flesh out a puzzling case more than once.
 
I thought about the man in the photo and something tugged at my insides, made me yearn to learn the whole truth about him.

How had that man, a total stranger, touched me so that night?
 
And how had I managed to block the memory so effectively for all this time?
 
The phone rang again, nudging me back to the present.

“Mercer.”
 
It was habit.
 
Home or office.

“Got company?”

Dawson
.

I’d know that sensual voice anywhere.

I started to ask how he knew I had company but then I considered the noise in the background.
 
“What’s up?”
 
I was feeling just enough of a buzz not to really care how he knew I had company.
 
Truth was, I just wanted to hear his voice.
 
How pathetic was that?

“I didn’t thank you properly today.”

For what, I wondered.
 
I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until he answered.

“You took a chance on me,” he said, something besides sensual vibes in his tone now.
 
“I appreciate that.”

Doing my level best to ignore how his voice disturbed my senses, I walked over to the front window to get away from the chatter.
 
I stared out into the darkness and wondered where he was calling from.
 
Where did Dawson call home?
 
There had been an address on his application...but I couldn’t for the life of me remember it since I’d been sure I wouldn’t be hiring him.

“I won’t let you down, Jackie Mercer,” he said softly.
 
“That’s a promise.”

I squinted.
 
Was that a pick-up truck parked across the street?
 
I couldn’t determine the color...but it didn’t belong to any of my neighbors unless they’d just bought it.
 
Despite my alcohol induced state of relaxation a flurry of tension fluttered through me.
 
Did whoever sent that message have someone watching me?

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said when I didn’t bother responding.

Tomorrow.
 
That reminded me.
 
I couldn’t celebrate too much tonight.
 
I had to track down that case file. Disposable.
 
Nasty business
.
 
That’s what Bob had said.
 
Drugs and murder, involving illegal immigrants.
 
I thought of Alita and her request.
 
I had to get to work on that as well.

“Yeah,” I finally answered, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
 
The tension from the strange link happening between Dawson and me gave awkward new meaning.
 
Considering that and all the bizarre happenings of the last few hours I was glad the day was nearly over.

“Have a nice evening.”

“You, too,” I said, suddenly needing to sever the connection.
 
Talking to him made me feel uncomfortable on too many levels.
 
Probably because of the attraction, I felt guilty about it.
 
It didn’t take Donna’s psych courses to recognize the symptoms.
 
He was my employee now, like it or not.
 
I wasn’t supposed to be feeling any of this.
 
Not to mention I just found out my latest lover was a fraud...and an old lover had suddenly reappeared, so to speak, in my life with an unsettling mystery of his own.
 
I didn’t need more man problems just now.

“Good night,” rasped silkily across the airwaves.

I depressed the end call button without saying more.

Setting aside chemistry, the jury was still out on this guy.
 
And I still didn’t know how he’d managed to handle Big Hoss.
 
Like Dawson said, if things didn’t work out I could always let him go.

Time was the great healer but it was also the great revealer.
 
Time would tell.
 
Until then, Mr. NYPD Blue Eyes was on probation in my book.

I wrestled my thoughts away from work and back to the girls and the conversation.
 
Tonight was girls’ night.
 
It was my night.
 
No worries, no expectations, and no cares about what should be and wasn’t.

Definitely no work.
 
Right now I just wanted to enjoy being Jackie Mercer, the woman...I grinned...forty-five and loving it.
 
Maybe I wasn’t so savvy when it came to men...but there was always tomorrow.

CHAPTER NINE

First thing this morning I climbed into my trusty Jeep to go in search of any facts on the Disposable case I could flush out.
 
Armed with what I’d learned from Bob as well as what I hadn’t discovered through Max, both were telling in their own ways, I needed something to tie the two together.

The day went downhill from there.
 
I just happened to look into the rearview mirror and did a double take so fast my brain probably rocked against my skull.

My roots were showing.

Dread coiled in my gut.
 
I leaned forward and inspected the situation more closely.

Not the dark brown or black grow off you see on bottled blonds.
 
No, this was far worse.
 
I groaned.
 
A glimmer of shiny, silvery gray edged up from my scalp, as obvious as strewn glitter in my otherwise brunette hair.

“Oh God.”

I blew out a disgusted breath and fretted a moment as to how I could fit a touch-up into my schedule or my stylist’s.
 
She was usually booked for weeks in advance.
 
Perfect.

Backing out onto the street the horn of a red Audi blared angrily as the annoyed driver cut around me.
 
I waved apologetically and, taking the time to ensure the street was clear, headed on my way.

I couldn’t worry about gray roots right now.

There were more pressing issues, like not getting in a traffic accident.
 
Donna would say I was crazy, that nothing was more pressing than hiding the encroaching signs of age.
 
But then she didn’t have an old lover—possibly an old, dead lover—on her plate.

It took a while but eventually I put the issue out of my immediate thoughts and dove into my work.

I started my search at the site of Houston’s very own Holy Grail—
The Houston Chronicle
.
 
Like the New York Times, anything printed in
The Chronicle
was automatically regarded as the gospel.
 
Amen.

Considerable advanced manual dexterity was required, I learned, of those utilizing a microfiche machine for more than a few minutes.
 
By the time I stumbled upon anything relevant to my case I had started to ponder why we called a strip of negatives imprinted with pictures of out of date newspapers something that sounds as much like a nukeable frozen dinner as microfiche.

Actually, I completely understood that my mental ramblings were about keeping my mind occupied and off my new investigator.

I rotated my wrist to relieve what felt like the beginnings of carpel tunnel and peered at the screen.

Jury Selection in Drug Trafficking Trial Begins
.

Brandon Masters and Peter Reagan had been arraigned and held without bail until the date of the trial.
 
My eyebrows plunged into a vee before I could stop the automatic reaction.
 
Shari had lectured me repeatedly about this particular facial expression and how it added to the lines developing on my forehead.
 
Something I hadn’t actually noticed until she brought it to my attention.
 
I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
 
Why did I care?
 
The best thing I could do for myself was let my gray roots show and put on fifty pounds, then I wouldn’t have to worry about always picking the wrong guy.
 
Most of them would run if I even looked their way.

God, we live in a vain world.
 
Looks are everything.
 
It’s so damned depressing.

I shook off the frustrating thoughts and focused my attention back on the screen.

Why would two fat cat rich guys like Masters and Reagan—men without prior records—be denied bail?
 
Certainly there was the risk of flight, but wasn’t that always the case?
 
These were Texans, born with the proverbial silver spoons in their mouths and spurs on their booties.
 
Wealthy, connected, all the things that mattered by today’s standards.
 
What judge in his right mind would deny one of his fellow good ol’ boys bail?
 
Scrolling down the article I looked for the name of the judge in the case.

Jackson Mercer
.

“Whoa.”

Startled, I sat back and looked again.
 
My
father
was the judge on the case?
 
It wasn’t really a question since I stared directly at the answer.

Astonished, I read on.

Not only had my father been the judge, but my uncle, Hank Mercer himself, had served as lead investigator of the task force composed of local cops as well as federal agents, both FBI and DEA.

“Jesus Christ.”

I stabbed the print key and levied my lower jaw off the floor.
 
Now I was completely confused.

What did the guy in the picture have to do with Disposable?
 
Was I being targeted here because my father and uncle were key players in this ill-fated saga?
 
Did someone think I knew something simply by virtue of the fact that my father had been the judge?
 
Or because my uncle was the lead investigator?