Dirty (15 page)

I moved through a few more pages of articles until I found one that provided photos of the two men charged in the case.
 
My mystery man definitely wasn’t Masters or Reagan, which made sense since both had been sitting behind bars the night in question.
 
Whispered sounds and the memory of hot flesh gliding against hot flesh instantly sifted into my thoughts.
 
I pushed them away, read on.

Suspects Slain in Disposable Case
.

An unknown gunman had shot down Brandon Masters and Peter Reagan the final day of jury selection as the two suspects were ushered into the courthouse.

My father had denied the two men bail but had allowed them to sit in on the jury selection process.
 
Another of those marring frowns furrowed a path between my eyes.

Who was the defense attorney?

I moved back to the first article.
 
Russell Barnett.
 
Legal eagle from Dallas.
 
Never lost a case in his career.
 
Too bad he’d mixed driving and drinking and ended up wrapped around a tree at ninety miles per hour a few years later.
 
Now there was a headline I remembered.
 
I’d used it to remind my son about the dangers of drinking and driving.

Why was it I could remember that and virtually nothing about Disposable?
 
Why hadn’t my father ever mentioned the case?
 
I sat back in my chair again and searched the recesses of my brain for some reasonable explanation.

Then I knew.

A sigh heaved past my lips.
 
Ten years ago I’d been in the midst of my ugly divorce.
 
My whole life had been in an uproar.
 
Between my asshole of an ex and my confused son, the last thing I’d been worried about was current events, local or national.

I sat up straight again.
 
Why the hell didn’t Bob tell me my father and uncle were involved in this case?

My gaze narrowed.
 
I knew it.
 
Bob was hiding something.
 
Yes, sirree.
 
No question.
 
I moved my head side to side.
 
I would be talking to him again.
 
Whether he wanted to protect my feelings or simply wanted to shield my uncle from my interrogation tactics mattered little to me just now.
 
Bob had always been up front with me.
 
I hated like hell that he’d decided not to be this time.

Was my father’s involvement the reason for Bob’s refusal to advise on the case?
 
Had he stepped back out of respect?
 
That didn’t feel right somehow.
 
Something about this whole case felt way, way off.
 
Dead suspects, dead defense attorney, dead judge.
 
I shuddered.

Glancing over the articles one last time I hesitated on a smaller headline in the edition of
The Chronicle
after the one that touted the
Suspects Slain...
piece.
 
“What the hell?” I muttered.
 
Ralph McElroy, DEA, dies of self-inflicted gunshot, I read silently.
 
No mention of the Disposable case in this one, but it struck me as odd that a DEA agent assigned to the Houston area had died in that same twenty-four hour period.
 
Maybe his death was unrelated.
 
Call me cynical, but I wasn’t one to believe in coincidences.

I looked at the names on the bylines of the pertinent articles.
 
Hoyt Lehane.
 
Perfect.
 
There was one route I wouldn’t be going.
 
Lehane hated me.
 
I didn’t know why...well, maybe it had something to do with my digging up the truth and proving he’d manufactured a whole series of stories related to a local urban legend.
 
His treachery had cost him his marriage and his career at
The Chronicle
.
 
The idea that I had only been doing the job I was hired to do gave him no comfort.

I had only one other option.

Only one avenue to explore.

Hank Mercer.
 
He had been the lead investigator after all.

“Shit.”
 
He was on a frigging cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean.
 
But I could still reach him.
 
I had the number.
 
He’d given it to me before he left.

My frustration gave way to the softer emotions that had gotten me into trouble more than once.
 
This vacation was his first real vacation in too many years to remember.
 
I couldn’t go dragging his attention back to Houston.
 
It just wouldn’t be fair.
 
His decision to take a cruise was about relaxing and meeting hot chicks...even a sixty-five year old man needed a social life.
 
I blinked away the vision of broads on social security sporting bikinis.

I wondered vaguely why it was that my uncle had never married.
 
He’d dedicated his entire youth to HPD, then the past ten years to me.

No way in hell could I interrupt his first all-out escape from reality.
 
I had to work around his absence.

His partner.
 
Fred Morgan.
 
Yeah.
 
That was the ticket.
 
He, from what I’d discerned hadn’t been involved with the case, but he should remember at least some of the details.
 
Surely he and Hank had talked about it.
 
He’d retired from HPD several years ago but, unlike Hank, he spent his time at home building handmade furniture for a local arts and crafts shop.
 
And, thank God, he wasn’t dead or still holding a grudge against me.

Strange, I decided, that so many of those who’d been involved were dead now.

My thoughts went instantly to the mystery man in the photo...
you were the last one to see him alive
.

How did he fit into all this?

Who the hell was he?

I didn’t know.
 
The only fact about him I had was his awesome ability between the sheets.
 
I hadn’t been with anyone except my husband in more than fifteen years until that night.
 
And, unlike my self-absorbed ex, the mystery man had made it a point to pleasure me first and foremost.
 
He’d been utterly selfless.

Then and there, in the middle of
The Chronicle’s
massive archives, I melted inside at the memory.
 
I remembered vividly the way his hands moved over my skin...his lips...the exquisite skill of his tongue.
 
A shiver shook me back to reality.
 
Not a good idea to go there.

I pushed out of my seat and grabbed my bag as well as my perspective.
 
I couldn’t do this if I didn’t maintain some level of objectivity, which was difficult considering what the man whose name I didn’t know and I had shared.
 
But I had to try.

Glancing at the clock on the wall above the rows of file cabinets I considered that going by the office to check in should be my next stop...I’d skipped that part this morning.

Puffing out a breath of resignation, I shoved my chair in and went to the printer to retrieve the pages I’d sent there.

By the time I got to the office I had to have my entire perspective in order.
 
I could not do this whole walking around on egg shells thing.
 
Dawson worked for me, for Christ’s sake!
 
I had to find a way to get over the errant little sizzle that never failed to ignite between us.
 
All it had taken last night was a phone call, just hearing his voice!
 
How ridiculous was that?
 
There had to be a way to block that foolish reaction.

I understood with complete certainty that a relationship with him would be bad, capital B A D.
 
No question.

He was my employee (emphasis on the
ee
).
 
I knew me
and
men too well to let the volatile combination merge with business.
 
It was clear from past experience that relationships were like higher math to me.
 
I never got it...hard as I tried.

Sex, now that was a different story.
 
If, think something around the size of Texas—mega huge if, I could merely have sex and leave off the idea of a relationship, then it worked.
 
Worked damned well.
 
At least for a while. Hey, mystery man and I’d had killer sex.
 
I might never know his name but I knew that with absolute certainty.
 
I had nothing but good memories about him and it was because there hadn’t been anything but the sex.

Okay.
 
Enough about sex.
 
I snatched the pages from the printer hopper and strode away.

On second thought, I didn’t have to go by the office.
 
If Hobbs needed me he would call.
 
I had an agenda.
 
And any excuse to stay away from Dawson was likely a smart move.

Fred Morgan, former homicide detective and partner to my sunbathing, suddenly-deciding-to live-his-dream-of-woman-watching uncle.
 
Fred’s place would be my next stop.
 
I’d known the guy since I was a kid.
 
Getting honest and complete answers out of him would be a piece of cake.

“You’ll have to ask your uncle.”

I stared at the stubborn man, my mouth agape.
 
“But he’s on vacation, Mr. Morgan, that’s why I’m asking you.”

He wouldn’t even look at me now.
 
I could not believe this.
 
Dear old Fred, who kind of reminded me of the character bearing that same name from the
I Love Lucy
show, had been all smiles, even hugged me when I first arrived.
 
Admittedly I could have done without the hug.
 
I had to remember that Fred’s wife had left him some twenty years prior for cheating on her.
 
Fred was the sort who had difficulty keeping his wiener in the same bun.
 
He, apparently, liked a little too much variety.
 
And, his bear hugs always included wandering paws.

Beyond the hug, my tailored navy Liz Claiborne pantsuit got me nowhere fast.
 
When I’d purchased it I’d picked it precisely for one reason, my ass looked great in it as did the rest of me.
 
My waist looked whale-bone corset narrow.
 
As black’s sister color, the navy instantly created the illusion of thinness.
 
It was the perfect suit.
 
Even Donald Trump’s illustrious power suits couldn’t hold a candle to this.
 
The shocking red lipstick I sported was definitely better than a tie.

Fred propped both hands on the worktable, his power sander still gripped in his right but at least it was off now.
 
Up to then I’d had to talk over the grinding noise.
 
I resisted the urge to peer down at my Liz Claiborne adorned shoulders where a fine dusting of wood powder had no doubt taken up residence.

The man who had served with my uncle for more than two decades ripped off his dust mask and stared at me for three long beats before speaking.
 
“Jackie, I have two words for you in regards to that case.”

I noticed that he refused to utter the precise name of the case.
 
Since I didn’t see a rabbit’s foot, horseshoe or any four-leaf clovers lying around I had to assume he wasn’t the superstitious type.

 
“
Bad news
.”
 
He glowered at me with those beady eyes that didn’t go well with the size of his bald head.
 
“I don’t know what or who has you fishing around in that hole, but my advice to you is to leave it alone.
 
There are some things that are better left buried and this is one of them.”

Since nothing else I could say would matter, I nodded my understanding though I didn’t really understand at all.
 
What was it about this case that made folks want to avoid the whole subject like a plague of biblical proportions?
 
Bob had said practically the same thing.

“Thanks anyway, Mr. Morgan.”

As we said goodbye I didn’t get the usual hold-on-too-long hug.
 
In fact, Fred kept the work table between us.
 
When he made no move to say more or show me to the door, I pivoted on the heel of my coveted shoes and walked out of the garage workshop I’d played in as a kid while my uncle and his closest friend, even before they’d become partners, fleshed out baffling cases.