Close To The Edge

“Give me some credit. I heard he carried his business ledger with him.” She rounded the desk to pull open the center drawer. Withdrawing a small black notebook, she waggled it, feeling smug. “This fell on the floor after I arranged to have him distracted. I managed to swipe it on my way out.”

“You arranged? The guy that provoked him was workin’ with you?”

One of the nice things about Lucky, she thought, as she dropped the notebook back in the drawer, was that he caught on so quickly. She never had to waste time explaining things.

Admiration sounded in his voice. “Very nice. Devious, yet simple.”

“Thank you. I learned from the master.” She went to her bag, withdrew a small purse that would match the dress, and began transferring a few things from the one she’d carried earlier. “Apparently each girl he has working for him frequents the same few locations. I’ll spend some time staking them out, and then when I can be certain of the location Cheryl frequents, I’ll let her grandparents know.”

“So they can do what? Kidnap her?”

Snapping her purse closed, she searched the bag for the flat jewelry box that held her grandmother’s pearls. Pushing aside a tiny sliver of uncertainty, she responded, “That will be up to them. My job was just to find her. Help me with these, will you?”

Lucky moved in back of her and took the two ends of the necklace and fastened the clasp. But when he was done, he didn’t step away. He turned her around, his hands remaining on her arms, his face serious. “She had a chance to leave that life the last time the police picked her up, and her grandparents were alerted. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave, have you ever thought of that? You may not approve of her choice, but she still has the right to make it.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed over a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and the difference was inevitably reflected in their attitudes. But knowing that, understanding it, didn’t make it any less annoying this time. “My approval doesn’t have anything to do with it. He might have gotten her hooked on drugs. Or she might be too afraid of him to leave. She’ll get her choice, and it won’t be tempered by fear or addiction.”

Not every case handled by Wheeler and Associates was imbued with moral implications. Most, as a matter of fact, bordered on the mundane. But there were cases, plural, and the knowledge filled Jacey with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She’d started the private investigation business as soon as she could get her hands on her trust-fund monies, over the vehement objections of her mother. She’d acquired the training, found the building and done the advertising. And then, for the better part of a year, she’d twiddled her thumbs.

It seemed that few in her circle of acquaintances had need for a PI, however upscale and discreet. And most who had stopped in had lost interest quickly when it became apparent that hers was a one-woman operation. That had abruptly changed when Lucky Boucher had walked through her door three years ago.

Rather than bringing her a case, he’d been looking for work. The idea had been laughable, since she couldn’t even keep herself busy. And he…he had been completely inappropriate, even if she had been considering employees. He was too rough, too unpolished and his background bordered on the unsavory. He’d also been impossible to get rid of.

He’d snatched the lone case file off her desk and read it over her furious objection. Then he’d left, after vowing to find the bail jumper she’d been hired to trace within twenty-four hours.

It had taken him six.

After two weeks and two more solved cases, his constant badgering had worn her down. Besides, as he’d pointed out then, he worked cheap. She’d hired him reluctantly, fully expecting him to tire of the job and move on within weeks. He’d surprised them both by staying. Even more shocking, they had somehow, along the way, become friends.

At least, she thought that was what they were. She trusted him, in a way she did no other, although at times it was difficult to tell just who was the boss and who was the employee. She seemed to spend most of her time reminding him.

He dropped his hands, freeing her. But instead of moving away, she frowned, reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face. “Did your pool partner catch up with you after I left?”

He’d never been one to miss a chance to milk an opportunity. Making a show of wincing, he said, “No, this bouele was delivered by one of your would-be admirers. There were several who thought of followin’ you out of the bar. I convinced them otherwise.”

Rather than looking grateful, she appeared mildly amused. “So you were protecting me? Lucky, that’s so sweet.”

Discomfited, he shrugged. There was something about the woman that could make him feel like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “Well, if one had hurt you, I’d have had to do all the work around here. Since I already carry more than my load, I was just thinkin’ of myself.”

She made a sound that almost qualified as a sniff, one she often used to denote derision and disagreement without having to do something as ill-bred as argue. It never failed to set his teeth on edge.

“I think I demonstrated my ability to take care of myself in there. Was that biker walking again by the time you left?”

He hadn’t been, but Lucky didn’t want to swell her head by telling her so. “Next time give him a good kick once he’s down. You want to disable him completely, not just piss him off.”

“Thank you so much.” From the sweet smile she was gracing him with, he was given the impression that she was considering carrying out his advice on him. “But I don’t have time for your lavish compliments.” She glanced at the clock and made a face, reaching for a ridiculously small purse. “I should have called for a cab, but it’s too late. And my mother is going to be impossible.”

“That goes without sayin’.” Impossible was a much more favorable description than any he would have come up with. He and Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler regarded each other with thinly veiled contempt.

“All right.” She gave a deep breath, smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”

With a critical eye, he surveyed her. “Prim as a librarian. A very dull librarian.”

“Why would I even ask you?” she muttered, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. Crossing to a mirror on the opposite wall, she applied it carefully. “You’ve made your preferences regarding women’s attire all too clear.”

He slouched against the wall to watch her. “Low-cut top, short skirt, panties optional. Choices that never go out of fashion.”

“Any question about your fashion sense is answered by reading the shirts you insist on wearing.”

Offended, he looked down at his favorite black T-shirt, which proclaimed I love everybody. You’re next. “You’re just bein’ mean because you have to spend the evenin’ with your mother.”

She blotted her lipstick and dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. “I have to go. Lock up for me, will you? And don’t forget to set the alarm. And check the windows. And make sure the door closes tightly behind you. It kind of sticks, you know, and I’m afraid…”

He gave her a friendly nudge out the office door. “I know how to lock up. Go. Have as good a time as possible with the Witches of the South.”

He thought, he was almost certain, he heard a smile in her voice. “Sisters of the South. Thanks. And you get one of your girlfriends to look at that bruise. I’m sure, given your skills, you can appear pathetic enough to be plied with TLC all night.”

The thought was cheering. “If not, I’m losin’ my touch.” And there was no reason, none at all, to believe that was true. He stood watching while she dashed through the rain to the car she’d parked right in front of the business. It wasn’t until the taillights winked and she pulled away, that he turned back to the office, already flipping through a mental file. Who should he call? Desiree? Leanne? Monique? Reaching for the phone, he punched in a number. With a pitying look at the now-empty street, Lucky was certain of one thing. Whatever he ended up doing this evening, it would beat what Jacey had waiting for her, hands down.

Chapter 2

“I’ve made your apologies to the hostess.”

The first words Charlotte Wheeler spoke were delivered in her customary genteel voice, carefully modulated. But years of experience had Jacey reading the disapproval layered beneath. Your late arrival is insufferably rude. There is no reason, short of death, that could possibly excuse your tardiness.

And because no excuse would mollify her mother, least of all the truth, Jacey didn’t offer any. “Thank you. Have you found your table setting yet?”

Charlotte’s lips tightened just a fraction. “We’re seated together. I waited for you before dining. I didn’t want to disturb the others at our table by both of us holding up their meals.”

Years of practice had her skirting the verbal land mine. “Let’s sit then, shall we? You’re looking lovely tonight. I always like that color on you.”

That, at least, could be said honestly. Charlotte’s dress was the same bottle-green color as her eyes. She was sixty, and, thanks to a skilled and discreet plastic surgeon, looked fifteen years younger. Her brown hair was worn short, as Charlotte subscribed to the outdated belief that a woman of a certain age should never wear long hair. It wasn’t the only antiquated notion she clung to, nor the only one they disagreed upon.

Jacey followed her mother across the crowded room, stopping several times to return greetings and exchange pleasantries. The contrast between the staid dinner and the smoky bar she’d left less than an hour ago couldn’t be more stark. If her mother had her way, Jacey’s entire adult life would be filled with more of the same; an endless parade of boring functions, peopled by equally dull members of what passed for New Orleans’ high society.

A shudder worked down her spine at the thought. They were shown to their table by a white-jacketed waiter who seated them, then summoned another to bring their plates. Every time Jacey wearied of the constant battles with her mother over her choice of careers, she had only to think of events like this to feel her resolve stiffen. That strength was necessary. Battles with Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler could leave lasting wounds.

The upside of her tardiness was that she was still eating when the guest speaker was introduced, which gave her something to focus on besides what promised to be an excruciatingly long-winded speech. With an ease born of long practice, Jacey assumed a politely interested expression and tuned the woman out.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the plight of the walruses, which was the current issue of the moment for the Sisters of the South Auxillary. Jacey would be happy to write a check, which was the pitch the speaker was working up to. But it seemed like the venues selected for the fund-raisers—fancy dinners or formal balls—were a bit ironic. Why not spend the money instead on the cause itself, and eliminate one layer of cost?

Her mind drifted to her business. She needed more help. Not that there had been any truth to Lucky’s breezy assertion that he carried more than his share of the weight, but there was no denying that a third investigator would lighten the load for them both. It was a nice problem to have, especially since there had been a time a few years ago when she’d almost despaired of getting to this point. But her business had been self-supporting for two years now. She no longer had to dip into her trust fund to pay her bills. Joan, her secretary, had her hands full managing the office, but Jacey didn’t think they were yet at the place where they could keep another full-timer busy. She decided to advertise next week for part-time help, and have the new employee handle some of the research.

Twenty minutes later there was a burst of applause and Jacey joined in, already calculating how much longer she’d have to stay. She’d be required to mingle, of course. Her mother would insist on that. But with any luck she could fulfill her obligations and be home in an hour.

The thought of her comfortable home in the French Quarter beckoned. Once she got there she’d chase away the chill from the evening rain by wrapping up on her couch in a quilt, with a hot drink and maybe an ice pack for her knee. It still throbbed, just a bit from the blow she’d landed on the biker. She could only hope that he was nursing a far more serious injury.

She parted from her mother, making the rounds as quickly as she could manage. Jacey had just stopped to speak to Suzanne Shrever, a former classmate of hers, when she felt eyes on her. She turned around, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.