Perfect Victim, The (5 page)

Grinding her teeth in anger, she took matters into her own hands. With an ungraceful yank, she jerked the material free, tearing her skirt. "Go to hell," she said and limped toward the safety of the sidewalk.

"Ah another happy customer,” Jack said as he rolled the wheelchair into the office.

Despite the headache and the lingering effects of Addison Fox, Randall managed to smile. "Morning, Jack." He wondered if he should tell his brother how badly he'd screwed up his nine o'clock appointment.

Jack wheeled past him. "Did Felicia show?"

Randall winced, deciding it would be best not to complicate an already complicated situation. Things were tense at best between him and his brother. No reason to make matters worse. "No," he said.

"Or were you too drunk to answer the door?"

Not in the mood for a lecture, Randall started for the coffeemaker.

"You could have drunk yourself to death in Washington
,
" Jack said. "Why the hell did you bother corning back here to do it?"

"I couldn
'
t cut the mustard back in D.C
.
, remember?" Randall didn
'
t like the bitterness in his voice
.
He hadn't wanted to be bitter about walking out on his career. He hadn't intended to disappoint himself
.
To his dismay, he'd managed to accomplish both.

Expertly maneuvering the chair, Jack closed the door behind him and headed for the thermostat
.
"I suppose any man who enjoys tramping ove
r
dead bodies is one s
i
ck son of a bitch anyway."

Randall shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans
.
He
'
d never imagined himself as a candidate for post traumatic stress disorder
.
He hated it that the illness had taken him down so hard and fast without so much as a warning. He hated even more the vulnerability he felt knowing he might not ever be able to resume a career he
'
d invested twelve years of his life in.

Shoving the feelings aside, he watched his brother struggle to reach the thermostat
.
"You got anything for a headache?
"
he asked, feeling as though days had passed since he
'
d picked up that bottle of whiskey
.

"You'd be surprised how far a little self-discipline goes
.
"

Randall frowned
,
relieved when Jack succeeded in adjusting the room temperature
.
He didn
'
t like watching his brother struggle to accomplish the little things most people took for granted. But having lived with him for the past four months, he knew better than to offer assistance
.

It was Randall who had needed his brother after the crumbling of his career at the National Transportation Safety Board. For the first time in his life he
'
d needed family, someone to fall back on, someone he could count on.

Four months earlier, he
'
d gotten his walk
i
ng papers
.
He'd been officially diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder—which meant a mandatory six-month leave of absence. Shaken and angry
,
uncertain about his future and the state
of his health, he'd sublet his town house in D.C., packed all of his worldly possessions into his Jeep, and headed back to the only home he'd ever known.

"It's not like we've got clients to spare. What the hell did you do to her?" Jack demanded.

Randall wished he hadn't come down so hard on the lady. He'd awakened feeling mean and itching for a fight. She'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. What the hell had gotten into him? Jack couldn't afford to have him scaring off clients.

"I guess my customer service is a little rusty." It galled the hell out of him that he could still feel the hard knot of arousal in his groin.

"You always were a charmer." Shaking his head, Jack rolled the chair over to his desk and reached for his cigarettes.

"I thought the doctor told you to stop smoking," Randall said.

"A man in a wheelchair's got to have some vice. I sure as hell can't womanize anymore."

There was bitterness there, too, and Randall moved to quickly stanch it. "You've always had an infatuation with your dick."

Jack laughed heartily and, for a moment, looked much like the man he'd been before the motorcycle accident that had severed his spinal cord five years earlier. "Don't we all, little brother.”

Randall spooned coffee into the filter basket and flipped the switch. "What's on the agenda for today?"

“
I was hoping you'd start that ramp you promised me four months ago."

In an effort to earn his keep, Randall had offered to build a wheelchair ramp off the rear deck of Jack's home. He'd bought the lumber and power tools six weeks ago. But time had gotten away from him, and he had yet to haul the supplies out of his Jeep. So much for good intentions.

"I'll start this morning," he said.

Jack only shook his head. "Don't worry, little brother, I won't hold you to it
.
" He wheeled over to the computer. "I'm going to work on the Allen divorce case. I've got to hack into the wife's bank account to check the balances. See if she's holding out on her old man
.
"

"Doesn't the IRS do that?"

"Not in the Cayman Islands."

Randall nodded, never ceasing to be impressed by his brother's computer-related talents
.
A programmer before the accident, Jack had spent much of the last five years playing computer games. When he became bored with playing
,
he immersed himself in writing them. When he'd conquered both, he began hacking. At first, it had been a way to pass the time and alleviate the boredom and depression that had come with the wheelchair
.
Today
,
he was a master and put his uncanny abilities to use in the private investigation firm he
'
d founded two years earlier
.

Jack switched on the computer
.
"I'll make a deal with you, Randall
.
I
'
ll cut out the cigarettes if you cut out the liquid diet
.
"

Rather than make a promise he probably wouldn't keep, Randall remained silent, hoping his brother would let it pass. As far as he was concerned
,
his jaunt down the superhighway of self-destruction was his business
.
He'd get his shit together when he was ready.

After pouring two cups of coffee
,
Randall set one on the desk in front of Jack and watched as he played the keyboard like a finely tuned musical instrument
.

"When are you going back to D
.
C
.
?" Jack asked
,
skimming deft fingers o
v
er the keys.

Because he hadn't been sure how long he would be staying in Denver
,
because he hadn't been too sure about anything at the time
,
Randall had moved in with Jack
,
but soon found that a roommate was the last thing his independent-minded older brother wanted. Self-reliance was too important to Jack, especially since he'd been confined to the wheelchair. He
made no bones about giving Randall a six-month limit on his tenancy.

"My leave is up in a few weeks. I'll be going back to work then." If I'm deemed competent, a little voice chimed in.

Jack spoke without looking away from the monitor. "You're welcome to stay on here a little longer if you want. You became a resident. Got your P.I. license. If you weren't sleeping with your bottle every night, I might have offered you a partnership."

"Next time I need a lecture, I'll let you know," Randall said tightly, wishing his brother would stop treating him as if he were some kind of alcoholic. Admittedly, he drank too much, but he didn't think he was in over his head. At least not yet.

Setting the cup on his desk, Randall noticed the manila folder. He reached for it, flipped it open, and found himself looking at a copy of a birth certificate, letters from a local attorney, and handwritten notes. The name Addison Fox drew his gaze, and an uncomfortable sense of guilt settled over him.

She'd caught him off guard. Not hard to do after a bottle of whiskey and three hours of sleep, he thought sourly. Not that his general frame of mind was a plus these days. He'd acted like a loser, and she'd treated him accordingly.

Randall wasn't proud of what he'd become, and he felt the loss of his personal integrity like a stake through his heart. A man had hit bottom when he started making mistakes like the one he'd made this morning. He'd cost his brother a client and, in the process, his own self-respect had slipped another notch.

A business card with the depiction of a steaming cup of coffee was clipped to the front of the folder. Frowning, he plucked it off and realized she owned the upscale coffee shop on the corner a few blocks down. He wondered why she needed a private detective.

He stared at the card, taking in the faint scent of her per
fume, trying in vain to ignore the tug of shame that drifted over him
.
Something about her had him thinking about the sorry state of his life. She'd looked young and wholesome and undamaged by the same world that had nearly destroyed him.

He considered stopping in at the Coffee Cup but doubted she would be receptive to an apology so soon
.
Might be best to let her cool off a couple of days
.
As he walked out the door, Randall realized he was looking forward to seeing her again. Next time
,
under different circumstances.

* * *

Addison wanted to break something, preferably Randall Talbot's skull
.
She was still furious when she arrived back at the shop. Not even the brisk walk or the sight of the falling snow had cooled her anger
.
Talbot was a crude
,
unethical man who had the nerve to call himself a professional, then prey on unsuspecting people in need.

It only disgusted her further that her body hadn't noticed
.