Dirty (8 page)

I considered my assistant, dubious of the idea that anything he could tell me would be good news just now.
 
Then again maybe he’d found out he’d won the Lottery and wanted to share with his soft-hearted boss.
 
I might not have a clue as to the guy in the photograph’s name or whether he was dead or alive, but maybe we would be able to pay next month’s operating expenses.

“Good news?
 
Really?”

Hobbs looked immensely proud of himself.
 
“Two requests for background searches came in, while you were chatting in secret with Alita.”
 
He tacked on that last part as if he’d been shunned and the pain was far too great to bear.

I rolled my eyes.
 
Hobbs was like a jealous girlfriend.
 
He couldn’t stand the idea that Alita and I discussed something he didn’t know about.
 
“Great,” I told him, working at a patient smile.
 
At least those two requests would cover some of next month’s lease payment.

I really should show more enthusiasm.
 
Somehow we always managed to get by, this time would prove no exception.
 
Then again, I wasn’t foolish enough to believe our good fortune was mere luck.
 
Hobbs hustled.
 
He’d likely been on the telephone drumming up business while Alita and I talked about Emilio’s father.
 
I didn’t recall hearing the phone ring with incoming requests.
 
Considering that the two cases I had to focus on just now were non-profit, anything Hobbs brought in would be extremely helpful toward keeping the agency afloat.

“And I have a two hundred dollar bid on the shoes,” he tossed out as if he’d just forecast the weather.

My head came up.
 
“You didn’t,” I charged.
 
My toes instantly curled in a protective manner.
 
These damned shoes were a symbol of my growth as an independent woman.
 
My badge of sex appeal.
 
Hey, I worked hard in a man’s profession.
 
Kicked ass with the best of them.
 
These shoes made me feel feminine.
 
No way was he auctioning them on eBay.

“You insist on taking pro bono cases at every turn (referring to mine and Alita’s conversation no doubt–Hobbs has BESP, Bigass Ears Studiously Panning...he heard everything) and you run off the best thing that could have happened to this agency.”
 
He plopped his hands on his fashionably clad hips and glared at me.
 
“Just think how many new
paying
clients a pretty face like that could draw in.”

My eyebrows winged upward in a what-the-hell-does-that-mean fashion.
 
“I think I’m offended,” I let him know.
 
Christ, it’s not like I’m frickin’ cover model material, but I ain’t exactly ready for an extreme makeover.

He huffed as if I should get it and didn’t.
 
“You’re surely aware that female clients prefer a strong, handsome man to attend to their needs.
 
No offense, but you simply don’t possess the right equipment.”
 
He stared at my feet.
 
“However, you do have those shoes.
 
And that bag.”

“The shoes and bag are off limits,” I snapped.
 
Enough with the eBay cracks.

“Tell me the truth, Jackie,” Hobbs said as he sidled up next to me.
 
“Didn’t you find Dawson the least bit hot?”

The little tingle that stirred made a liar out of me before I even spoke but I wouldn’t have admitted it for a second pair of thousand dollar designer shoes.
 
Come to think of it Hobbs had no doubt used that ploy about the shoe bid just to get my mind off the picture from my past and the message it carried.
 
“Honestly, Hobbs, after what I went through this morning and just now how could you expect me to be attracted to any guy?”

Jesus, did I look that horny?
 
After my shower I’d changed into
work
clothes.
 
The pale blue skirt was hardly a gnat’s ass above my knees.
 
The matching short-sleeved shell epitomized the term conservative.
 
Other than the stylish shoes I could be a bible-thumping missionary at this point.
 
Every delicious ounce of self-esteem I’d garnered from this morning’s amazing romp in the sack had fizzled like a dud firecracker.
 
And now, I stared at the troubling photograph, the past comes back to haunt me.

My too smart for his own good assistant grinned.
 
“I knew you’d like him.”

He just wouldn’t let it go.
 
“Me?”
 
I stood, realizing I couldn’t sit around here feeling sorry for myself any longer.
 
“I wasn’t the one shimmying with excitement.”

Another surge of red brightened his skin from the mock turtleneck of his short-sleeved cotton cashmere sweater to the top of his gelled head.
 
Black sweater, black wide leg Gabardine pants and two-toned leather slingback shoes.
 
Hobbs always looked ready to step onto the dance floor of the poshest club in downtown Houston.
 
Sometimes I hated him for the ease with which he fell into a state of pure elegance.

“For the record,” he said pointedly, “I don’t shimmy.
 
That move went out in the sixties. Don’t you have something to do?
 
Volunteer work of some sort?
 
Tracking down old lovers?”

He was right.
 
The sooner I got on this the sooner I would have some answers.
 
“You nudge your contacts at the DMV,” I told him.
 
I grabbed my bag protectively.
 
“I’ll prod a few contacts on my own.”

“If I hear from Dawson I’ll let you know.”

I didn’t bother telling him not to hold his breath.
 
“You do that.
 
I’ll check in with you later.”
 
I glanced over my shoulder as I headed to the door.
 
“And don’t forget—” I let the weight of my stare settle fully upon him “—the shoes and bag are off limits.”
 
I didn’t hang around to hear his response.

I had to find out what happened to the man in the photograph and what it had to do with me.
 
Someone obviously wanted to know or had a point to prove.

The only thing I knew about that night for sure was that we’d had killer sex.

I winced.
 
Bad word choice.

Actually I knew two things about that night.
 
The sex had been great and my lover had been very much alive when I fell asleep in his arms.

CHAPTER FIVE

Max Caldwell worked deep in the bowels of Houston’s Management Information Systems, which supported HPD as well as the rest of Houston city government.
 
His pasty skin provided indisputable testimony as to how little time he spent in the sunlight considering his ten-hour a day work place was nestled far beneath city hall without a window in sight.

His mop of curly brown hair looked as if it had never been plundered by a comb much less a barber or stylist.
 
Since I’d seen him in swimming trunks I could attest to the matching rugs on his chest and back.
 
Eyeglasses with thick, coke bottle lens required his constant attention to prevent them from slipping off his thin blade of a nose and did little to disguise the unibrow he’d had going on since puberty.
 
Faded T-shirts with unreadable logos, tattered jeans and scuffed sneakers had always defined his wardrobe of choice.

Otherwise, Maximillian Eugene Caldwell was a good-looking young man.
 
There wasn’t a single thing wrong with him that a good stylist, a wax job on the old chassis, contacts, and a trip to Old Navy wouldn’t fix.
 

At twenty-three, Max is the quintessential computer geek...a nerd of the highest order.
 
But a good friend and a reliable contact, so eccentricities are allowed.
 
He’d gone to school with my son and I’d patched up many a skinned knees for both of them as well as baked more than my share of chocolate chip cookies.
 
Believe it or not, despite my lack of actual skill in the kitchen I’d never had the first complaint when it came to my baked goods.
 
No one ever had to know that my secret ingredient was the
package
.
 
Betty Crocker had it going on.
 
Why mess with perfection?

Max shoved his glasses up his nose and pinched his lips together as he searched another database for a match.
 
Needless to say, after more than two hours, my hopes were waning.
 
The metal folding chair he’d scrounged up for me provided hard evidence that the young man rarely had visitors in this dungeon of a workspace.
 
I might not have noticed the lack of amenities if he’d gotten a single hit with the photo.
 
But, as it was, I’d had nothing else to do except scrutinize my surroundings.

Damn.
 
Not one hit.
 
Either the guy wasn’t in any system or his face had changed sufficiently that there weren’t enough value points for a decent match.

My favorite computer guru pecked Enter again and leaned back in his slightly more comfortable upholstered desk chair.
 
He exhaled a mighty breath of spearmint-scented frustration and waited for a report.
 
The kid still liked chewing gum.
 
Which was good since, in view of the number of empty pizza and Thai take-out boxes lying around and the grossly cankered coffee carafe, keeping fresh breath couldn’t be easy.

I resisted the urge to shift around in my seat in hopes of regaining some feeling in my ass.
 
He was doing me a favor and I greatly appreciated the effort.
 
The last thing I wanted to do was give the impression that I was restless or impatient.

When the screen stopped flashing once more it showed that the search had again come up with zero matches.
 
Max grunted.
 
“I can’t find him based on this photo,” he said, admitting defeat after dozens and dozens of searches on every database that allowed him access and a few that didn’t.

Max had learned a number of backdoors into other agency’s systems after two years on the job.
 
But those secrets, he surreptitiously pointed out, he saved for special situations, like now.
 
Max was the smartest guy I knew.
 
He’d finished high school two years early, completed college and graduate school in less than four and even then he’d proclaimed boredom with the academic process.
 
The city of Houston snatched him up before anyone else could.
 

“It was worth a try,” I said in all sincerity.
 
“At least I know he doesn’t have a criminal record.”

Max scrubbed at his chin, his hands far too soft looking and his nails too clean for a straight guy.
 
Maybe I should invite him on a picnic, try to fix him up with some nice girl.
 
I figured the only sex he was having was with Rosie Palm and her five merry sisters.
 
The one picture anywhere around his desk was of his mother.
 
Not a good sign.
 
I knew his mother.
 
Talk about over protective.
 
She’d scarcely let him out of the house as a kid.
 
Thankfully he and Steven had buddied up.
 
Since neither had any interest in sports, a cardinal sin in Texas, or band, a similar but lower level infraction, the two had been considered social outcasts in most school circles.
 
But they had each other.

“Just because I can’t find the case number doesn’t mean it’s not valid,” Max said, wading into my retro ruminations.
 
I’d been doing a lot of that today, traipsing around in the past...recalling things I hadn’t thought of in forever...like long lost lovers.

“They don’t keep those files in the system as long as you’d think,” he went on as he drummed his hands on the arms of his chair.
 
“If it’s been ten years or more it definitely wouldn’t be there.”

Ten.
 
My unlucky number today, or so it seemed.

“How would I go about getting a hard copy of the case file?” I wondered aloud.
 
There had to be a way.
 
Whoever sent me this message had done so for a reason.
 
Wanted me to find out what had happened though I couldn’t yet comprehend why or how.
 
Either that or my John Smith sender intended to lure me into a trap.
 
He definitely hadn’t given me a hell of a lot to go on.
 
And,
he
could be a
she
.
 
There was no way to know for certain.
 
The fact that a he had shipped the package to me, didn’t mean he knew what was inside it.

“Depends upon the judge,” Max explained.
 
“The cases are usually filed by court, then by judge.
 
If the one who presided over the case is retired it might be more difficult to locate the files.
 
But they have to be out there somewhere.”
 
He shoved his glasses into place.
 
“Find the judge and you’ll find the file.”

Since I had no more idea who the judge had been on the case than who the man in the photograph was, the task could take some time.
 
Frankly, I wasn’t even sure the number represented a court case.
 
I was guessing on that one.
 
But Max had come to the same conclusion so I would work under that assumption.
 
My dad had served as a judge.
 
I should have remembered more about how the cases were filed.