Dirty (4 page)

The heat and humidity pressed in around me the moment I slid from behind the wheel.
 
I plucked my blouse from my skin in a doomed effort to circulate the nonexistent breeze.
 
If it was this bad now, July would be pure hell.
 
There wasn’t an antiperspirant on the market that could keep you cool and dry from June until October in the Lone Star State.
 
The phrase “Texas hot” hadn’t been coined for nothing.

“His name is Derrick Dawson,” Hobbs said before I got halfway to where he waited.
 
His slender, well-dressed frame essentially vibrated with excitement.

Not quite the reaction I’d expected considering I’d shown up empty handed.
 
“Whose name is Derrick Dawson?”
 
I measured Hobbs openly as I tugged my bag onto my shoulder and covered the last few steps that stood between us.
 
I hadn’t seen him this excited since
Will and Grace
helped pave the way for broader acceptance of alternative lifestyles.
 
And that was saying something.

He huffed impatiently.
 
“
Him
.”
 
He canted his head and gave me one of those looks that said you know!...
him
!

Hobbs would stand nose to nose with me, an easy five eight, except for my stiletto advantage.
 
He outweighed me by twenty or thirty pounds but it was tight, lean muscle.
 
He didn’t go to Gold’s Gym four times a week for nothing.
 
We’d worked together for nine years.
 
I knew him as well as I knew my own mother, maybe better.
 
But whatever the hell was going on behind those glittering hazel eyes just now was a complete mystery to me.

“The applicant for the investigator position,” he said out of the side of his mouth as if he feared someone would hear and make something of it.
 
Then he gave me another of those knowing looks that only a true drama queen could pull off.

Oh, yeah.
 
“Dawson.”
 
I nodded.
 
“Right.”
 
I paused, a troubling concept taking shape in my head.
 
My gut clenched.
 
“Is he...”
 
God, how did I put this delicately?
 
“Is he gay?”
 
Not that I have a problem with alternative lifestyles, mind you.
 
But working with one gay man, especially an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist, is quite enough.

My assistant’s eyes rolled back in his head.
 
“I wish.”
 
His gaze narrowed abruptly as if he’d just remembered something of extreme importance.
 
Unfortunately for me, he likely had.
 
“Where’s that body receipt?” he asked, his tone dripping with suspicion.

“I’ll...ah...tell you about that later.”
 
I grabbed for the door and pulled it open.
 
“I don’t want to keep this guy waiting any longer than I already have.”

“I smell a rat,” Hobbs muttered as he followed me inside.

I just kept walking.
 
He’d find out soon enough that the rat in question was actually a federal agent with a serious God complex.
 
Between Willis, Hobbs, and Brooks my parade had seriously been rained on this morning.
 
Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.
 
But then, it was actually getting in bed that had gotten me into trouble.

In the heart of Houston, the Mercer Agency occupied the first floor of one of the few remaining antiquated buildings that looked like a red-headed stepchild next to the high rises and skyscrapers all around it.
 
I’d known it was the one for me the moment I laid eyes on it ten years ago.
 
Only three stories, the second floor housed a temp agency that placed more illegal immigrants in the local blue collar job market than Houstonians—but you didn’t hear that from me—while the top floor provided space for a small independently owned insurance company.

For the most part I loved my location, but it came with its own special set of stressors.
 
Every time the building commission scheduled a meeting with downtown revitalization on the agenda I started to sweat.
 
This is Texas after all, where bigger is better and sports is the primary religion.
 
Why let a three-story building stand when you can tear it down and build a soaring tower of steel and glass?

Personally, I prefer a more intimate feel to a space.
 
A place where I can get comfortable.
 
Not to mention the fact that a tight budget forced one to aim a little lower and a lot less sophisticated when shopping for office space.

Inside my beloved, however squatty, building a narrow corridor splits the leaseable first floor space.
 
A small kitchen that we use as a lounge along with the tiniest bathroom ever designed brings up the rear.
 
As you near the reception area, there are two final doors, one to the left, one to the right, each leading to a slightly cramped office separated from reception by a glass wall.
 
Mine was on the right—the one decorated with accolades and achievements from my son’s academic life.
 
The other was currently vacant.
 
My uncle had carried away the last of his personal belongings last week.

God I missed him.
 
How could spending four-day weekends at some casino resort hotel with all those gambling senior citizens be more fun than solving cases with me?
 
It never ceased to amaze me how most of those folks wouldn’t be caught dead in Sin City but slap a few casinos in a small community situated within the realm of the Bible belt and that made it okay.
 
Go figure.

Having Hank Mercer trade in time with me for gambling and chasing after sexually active widows was simply unconscionable.
 
He swore it wasn’t personal.
 
He had turned sixty-five and decided that he wanted to spend his remaining time on this earth exploring all he’d missed after thirty years as a cop and then ten being my partner.
 
I, on the other hand, felt reasonably sure it was nothing more than a rogue Y chromosome he’d somehow managed to keep under control longer than most.
 
Now he was on a ship somewhere in the Caribbean trying to make up for lost time.

At least I still had Hobbs.

Speaking of which, I paused in the reception area, territory lorded over by my hyperactive assistant that includes a great view of the street and an entrance from the main lobby of the building.
 
An ancient but full of character staircase in that shared main lobby leads to the upper floors as well as to the underground pedestrian tunnel system.
 
That perk was supposed to entice tenants to overlook the building’s numerous other eccentricities like bad plumbing and less than adequate wiring.
 
As you may have already guessed my landlord is a man.

Just another prime example proving men are scum.
 
I glowered at my assistant but then reminded myself that, technically, he didn’t count.

“Let me get Dawson’s file for you.”
 
Hobbs scooted past me and hurried to his desk.

I followed...wondering why I would even consider hiring a man when a woman would surely be a better choice.
 
Since no one else, male or female, had applied I might as well get over it and take a quick gander at the guy’s application before meeting him.
 
I glanced toward the glass wall of my office and noted the back of a dark blond head.
 
Dawson sat in one of the two chairs facing my desk.
 
Judging by the one long leg I could see and the rise of his shoulders above the seat’s back, I would estimate his height at six one or two.
 
His relaxed posture indicated massive amounts of self-confidence or just plain laziness.
 
I deemed neither particularly attractive in a potential employee.
 
Strike one.

Hobbs shoved a manila folder in my hand, dragging my attention back to him.
 
“I really think you’ll like him.”

Ignoring the comment, I squinted as I attempted to read Dawson’s information.

“Try these.”

Hobbs passed me a pair of black-framed reading glasses, the half lens type.
 
“When did you start wearing glasses?” I asked, surprised.
 
Who knew?
 
He hadn’t mentioned vision problems.
 
Who would have thought that anything could faze my impervious assistant?
 
Hmmm.
 
He was a mere mortal after all.

“They’re not for me,” he said archly, “they’re for you.”

Appalled at his suggestion, I stared at the truly ugly eyewear with something akin to contempt.
 
“You’re kidding, right?”
 
Even my seventy-year-old mother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing these.

Ever the diligent employee, Hobbs continued to shuffle papers as he answered my question.
 
“It’s called presbyopia, in your case over forty vision.
 
Accept it.
 
Get past it.”

I wanted to be pissed, but, sadly, he was right.
 
The fine print got finer every day.
 
But did he have to remind me?
 
My ego was already bruised.
 
I didn’t need him throwing in my face how after forty you fell apart...starting with the eyes.
 
A thought I usually kept imprisoned deep in the farthest recesses of my mind escaped.
 
I was old.
 
No point pretending.

Fine.
 
Accept it.
 
Old didn’t mean dead.
 
I jabbed the eyewear into place.
 
Blinked repeatedly, then stared at the application.
 
“Oh.”
 
Big difference.

Hobbs made one of those
I told you so
sounds that I hate.
 
Electing not to comment on his rude observation, I moved on to the work history.
 
Dawson had spent the past four years on NYPD’s homicide detail.
 
Impressive.

“So he’s from New York,” I said more to myself than to my assistant.

“Jersey, actually.”
 
Hobbs pointed to the former address line.
 
“He was an extra in an HBO movie last season.”

I looked up at him, dread curdling in my gut.
 
“He’s an actor too?”
 
Now maybe in New York or L.A. being an actor is a good thing, possibly even a great thing.
 
But down here, an actor is generally plugged into the category of wannabe—not good for much else as far as most folks are concerned.
 
Strike two.

Hobbs shook his head adamantly.
 
“No.
 
Nothing like that.
 
Some friend involved with the cast talked him into it.
 
The gig was more a favor than anything else.”

Right.
 
O-kay.
 
Just what I need.
 
An investigator who has dabbled in the movie-making business.

“We should call his references,” I suggested, perusing the form again.
 
Might as well give the guy the benefit of the doubt.
 
It wasn’t like I had applicants flocking to my door.

“Already did.”

Looking over the top of the glasses so as to prevent dizziness my gaze shot to his.
 
Hobbs had always been exceedingly prompt but this was ridiculous.
 
“You called his references already?
 
How long has this guy been waiting?”

A nauseating sensation, the one you felt when humiliation loomed on the horizon like back in high school when you forgot to cram for a test, tightened my throat.
 
I had a very bad feeling about the answer I was about to get.

“He...”
 
Hobbs lowered his voice.
 
“He was waiting when I opened up this morning.”

Which meant he could have overheard
the call
.

Heat rushed up my neck, scalded my cheeks.
 
I snatched off the confounding glasses and tossed them onto his desk.
 
Tolerating any more humiliation, whether real or imagined, was simply out of the question.
 
“Tell me what I want to hear,” I snarled like a rabid dog.

“Don’t worry,” Hobbs vowed in a near whisper, “I had him filling out his application while I made that call.”
 
Hobbs cleared his throat and glanced over my shoulder toward the
him
in question.
 
“And I had my back turned.”

For the second time today I considered the repercussions of committing murder in a given situation.
 

“He didn’t hear a thing,” my loyal assistant hastened to assure me.
 
He pressed his hand to his chest and adopted an expression of supreme humility.
 
“Discreet is my middle name.”

I weathered the urge to tell him that I would make it a point to remember that in his epitaph.
 
Jesus!
 
It wasn’t enough that I’d had to endure Nance and some Fed who’d jerked next month’s operating budget out of my hand after—AFTER—finding out my lover was a con-artist felon hanging on the end of a puppet string for said arrogant Fed.

Wait.
 
A new concept occurred to me.
 
This could actually work to my advantage.
 
Relief washed over me and I almost smiled.
 
Considering Hobbs took such liberty with my virtue, or at least my reputation with a potential employee, we could call it even when he learned what happened in the chief’s office this morning.