Dirty (9 page)

“Sorry I couldn’t give you any more than that, Mrs. C.”

Steven’s friends had called me Mrs. C., for Carter, my married name.
 
That I was no longer a missus or a Carter didn’t enter Max’s logic.
 
I didn’t bother correcting him.

“I could try tapping some of my other contacts.”
 
His fingers flew across the keys, taking his system back to his home site.
 
“I know a dude in the Bureau.”

“I’d really appreciate it, Max.”
 
He’d scanned the photo.
 
Any databases he could think to try later would be great.

“Let me know if you come across anything.”
 
I tucked the original photo back into my bag and gifted him with a big smile.
 
“It was good to see you.
 
You’ll have to come to dinner some time when Steven’s home for the weekend.”
 
These days that didn’t happen very often.
 
Hey, maybe I could use Max coming to dinner as bait to lure my son home.

I pushed to my feet, grateful to be out of that stiff chair.
 
My ass would be deliriously happy in about ten minutes when the feeling returned.
 
“I owe you one.”

Always polite, Max hurried to stand, shoving his chair back so fast that it banged against a nearby file cabinet.
 
He shuffled nervously from foot to foot before he appeared to find his voice.
 
“Ah...Mrs. C., would you mind autographing something for me?”

My brow scrunched into a frown.
 
Autograph something?
 
“Sure, Max...but...”
 
Why in Sam Hill would he want my autograph?
 
If Steven had told him another one of those wild stories about his mother once being a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader I’d have to ground him until he was at least thirty.
 
But he hadn’t done anything like that since his senior year of high school. I was praying he hadn’t regressed.
 
Taking advantage of a naïve friend, even one who was twenty-three and likely a bona fide genius, wasn’t very nice.

Before I could ask for further clarification Max had rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a glossy eight by ten photograph.
 
I blinked once, twice, then looked again to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

A candid shot had been taken of me on a joint undercover operation with HPD.
 
I remembered the op vividly, though I didn’t recall a photographer.
 
The black leather micro mini skirt and fishnets were highlighted with hot pink thigh high boots and a matching tube top sheer enough to show off my erect nipples. Jesus Christ, and the blond wig.
 
Damn.
 
Did they have to take pictures on the coolest night of that crappy sting?
 
I gave my head a little shake to clear the confusion.
 
What I really wanted to know was who authorized someone to take pictures period?
 
Or to duplicate them?

“Who...?”
 
My gaze shifted to the young man whose knees I’d once patched.
 
“Where did you get this?”

A dopey grin had stretched across his face.
 
“There’s more,” he enthused.
 
“Wanna see?”

Max leaned down and fingered his keyboard until the HPD official website bloomed on his screen.
 
“Watch this.”
 
He slid and clicked the mouse and a new page popped up.
 
“What you’re about to see is Rob-Ho’s
unofficial
page.”
 
Another click and the screen filled with several shots of me all decked out in that same streetwalker garb and a couple other women I didn’t recognize.

My mouth gaped.
 
What the hell?
 
When I’d recovered to some degree from the initial shock, I stammered, “Did...you say Rob-Ho?”

Max clicked on a frame and it enlarged to fill the page.
 
“The page is a hidden, authorized-access-only tack on to the official site.
 
They update it every week or two but your pictures are keepers apparently.
 
Yours are always there.”

Somehow my fingers managed to wrap around the Sharpie pen and scrawl my name on the eight by ten glossy Max would likely pin up next to his mother’s sweet little five by seven.
 
The only thing I could mentally grasp just then was how I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Nance.

I was going to kill the bastard.

Funny, I mused.
 
My whole day had pretty much revolved around two things...sex and murder.
 
I’d already had sex.
 
I guess murder was next.

CHAPTER SIX

I didn’t go directly to Chief Cates as I’d first thought I might.
 
Instead, I decided to file away the information on Nance’s scam and retrieve it at some point when it might prove the most beneficial.
 
I did a lot of that in my line of work.
 
Still, I couldn’t let Nance slide without some sort of sneaky retribution.
 
I’d have to ponder his punishment for a time, orchestrate the perfect payback.
 
A grin pulled across my face.
 
Oh, yeah.
 
I was going to enjoy this.

But first, I had work to do.

I considered the best place to go next with my long, lost lover investigation and knew there was one other man who might be able to cut through some of the time-consuming legwork and give me what I needed to move forward.

Bob Fraley was a seventy-five-year-old man who had retired only a few years ago from a lucrative career as a jury consultant.
 
Before that he’d been a practicing criminal attorney.
 
The top of the heap, at least until his fetish for ignoring the law caught up to him.
 
But Bob didn’t let a little thing like getting disbarred slow him down.
 
He started a consulting firm and was soon one of the most highly sought after jury consultants in the business.
 
The man had a mind like a steel trap, never forgot a face, name or a case.
 
That was precisely what I was counting on.

The Fraley brothers, Bob and his brother Luther, were infamous in this town.
 
Each had chosen his respective career field—on opposing sides of the law of course—and risen to famedom.
 
Until his nervous breakdown, Luther was rumored to have been a topnotch hitman.
 
There was no evidence of this rumor, however.
 
Just the tall Texas tales passed along in huddles involving large quantities of alcohol and the testosterone fueled need to top the previous tale.

Bob spent most of his days now monitoring the ever-changing flow of patrons at the Cow Palace, a five-star restaurant where the up and coming and ego-driven movers and shakers hang out to feed or simply to see and be seen.

As a regular, Bob had reached a kind of status that included the proverbial table with his name on it in the most desired spot.
 
From this prized location on the very edge of the smoking section (they still have a few of those around here) he could watch the lifeblood of Houston pump and pulse amid those currently possessing the power.

En route to Bob’s table I spied enough designer suits to start my own department store.
 
Not particularly caring whether it was proper etiquette or not I snagged the nearest waitress and ordered a glass of iced tea then sashayed right up to my destination and made myself comfortable in the seat opposite my surprised target.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Ms. Jackie Mercer?” Bob asked before taking a deep draw from his cigarette and then exhaling a blue plume of carcinogen-carrying smoke.
 
A line of ash had formed on the tip of the Turkish cigarette, threatening to fall into his tumbler of Scotch any second if he didn’t make a dive for the ashtray pronto.
 
Somehow he managed to make it in the nick of time.
 
It was like some sort of personal challenge.
 
Suck it to the very filter with only two dips to the ashtray.
 
Was he going for a Guinness world record?

The accommodating waitress settled a delicate crystal glass filled with the finest blended tea on the table before me.
 
“Thanks,” I said before plucking the lemon wedge off the rim and giving it a squeeze.
 
I stirred the drink then had a long, whistle wetting swallow.

Bob waited patiently while I indulged my thirst but he studied me closely, looking for signs of what was on my mind and perhaps any trouble I might be about to drag him into.
 
I had a reputation for the latter.

“I need some information about an old court case,” I said, getting straight to the point.
 
Bob had been around the block too many times to be jerked around by a private gumshoe like me.
 
I’d worked with him before when I needed his special brand of intelligence or devious expertise.
 
If he didn’t know the answer he would know who did.

“Does this case have a name?” he asked noncommittally.

I had no idea who the central suspect was in the case, maybe the man in the photograph. I did know that the case’s moniker had started with a D. D-1216.
 
Assuming it was a case number, but I was pretty sure on that score.

“I don’t have a name but I do have a possible case number, D-1216.
 
Could have been on the docket as far back as ten years ago.”
 
I watched his reaction in hopes of noting recognition, the slightest shift in posture or a facial twitch that might indicate I’d hit a nerve or vein of information, but Bob was too good.
 
Poker Face 101 was probably required for lawyers.
 
I’d have to ask my son.

“That is an old one, Jackie,” he remarked offhandedly, those dark eyes still watching mine too closely.

I took another sip of my tea and considered the people seated around the room to buy some time since I didn’t want to give away anymore of my hand.
 
Every table was occupied with elegantly dressed men and women.
 
The city’s elite.
 
Wallets filled with platinum Visas and cell phones set on vibrate in silk pockets and jeweled purses.
 
I fully expected to see Donald Trump make an appearance to drum up support for his presidential bid.

“I believe it was called Disposable,” Bob said finally.
 
“Something about drugs and illegal immigrants being used as disposable mules.”

Now we were cooking with gas.
 
“Did you serve as a consultant on that one?”
 
I should only be so lucky.

He considered my question long enough to suck down a little more nicotine.
 
“I could have, but I passed.”

“Do you mind sharing your reason for that decision?”
 
Though I couldn’t be certain, I had the distinct impression that he planned to make me drag this out of him a syllable at a time.
 
I sensed a resistance I’d never encountered before, which only served to heighten my curiosity, as well as my tension.

“I’d worked against the two defendants previously in my capacity as an attorney,” he returned.
 
“Consulting on the case might have been construed as unethical.”

Now I was really suspicious.
 
Ethics had ever stopped Robert Bob Fraley before.
 
That he had the
cajones
to use that excuse on me felt a little like an insult.
 
“Did anyone local do the consulting?”

Bob shook his head.
 
“Some hotshot team from California.”

“But you did know the defendants?” I pushed.

“I did.”

I couldn’t help feeling surprised all over again at his blatant stall tactics.
 
“That means you remember their names?”

That dark gaze suddenly emptied of discernible emotion leaving me wondering if he’d lost interest in playing the information game in general or if he was merely hiding something from me for some reason I couldn’t hope to fathom.
 
I couldn’t see the motivation for his hesitation.
 
It wasn’t like he’d been involved in the case, right?
 
He’d just said as much.
 
Then again, was it possible to ever be completely certain about anything?

Did I mention that paranoia went along with this gig?

Bob smashed out what remained of his darkly elegant cigarette.
 
“I’ve always admired you, Jackie,” he admitted.
 
“You decided what you wanted to do and you stuck it out, never once giving up.
 
That says a lot about a woman.”

His gaze drifted down to my breasts and back.
 
Now, I’m here to tell you, my cup size is nothing to write home about.
 
But I supposed, to a seventy-five-year-old man, the hint at voluptuousness produced by the racy bra I wore with its state-of-the-art under wire support might prove intriguing.

“But ambition,” he added, “can be a dangerous thing.”
 
A frown disrupted the folds of his cheeks.
 
“Why the sudden interest in ancient history?”

I ordered my lips into a confident smile.
 
“Don’t worry, Bob.
 
I learned how to dodge trouble from the best.
 
As far as my interest in the case, let’s just say I have an old friend who asked me to look into it.”
 
So, it wasn’t exactly the truth, but it wasn’t really a lie either.