So I had called Ruby and told her that I was going to run a few errands before I came in that morning. I dropped Julia Kate at school, which was back in session, thank goodness, and went to Lowder’s to get cinnamon rolls for my private eye. He seemed like a man who needed a little care, and since this conversation was important, buttering him up with delicious pastry seemed a good bet. I was hopeful Juke had gotten the incriminating photos and evidence of my husband’s infidelity because then he could do the extra snooping to see exactly what kind of deal Scott was involved in and where he might have placed our life’s savings. If it was something illegal or unscrupulous, that might be the leverage I needed to get the money he’d taken back into our accounts . . . before I filed divorce papers. Unless he’d invested it in some stupid opportunity. But I couldn’t see him doing that. He was cautious with money.
Ol’ Scott was about to get his fat butt rocked right out of the boat . . . and then I was going to pull the cord and motor away, leaving him in the middle of shark-infested waters.
So after I procured the pastries, I pointed my minivan north.
I had decided not to alert my PI as to my intentions. I figured if Juke wasn’t in his office, no big deal. I could make an appointment and go back. But something inside me—one of those intuitive hunches—urged me to drop by.
No cars or trucks were parked at the bar, but there was an older van parked beneath the metal staircase leading up to North Star Investigations. I climbed the stairs, balancing the bakery box, and knocked exactly ten times, trying not to be aggravated that I was constantly being stonewalled in my progress. As I knocked, I thought I caught a whiff of whiskey through the crack beneath the door but wasn’t certain. By the time I had turned around to leave, I was irritated. Juke had wasted two weeks of my life with no proof of adultery.
Then the door ripped open.
“What? Goddamn it!”
I turned, set my free hand on my hip, and glared at the bare-chested man standing in the threshold of the office.
“You’re drunk,” I managed to growl between my clenched teeth.
“No shit,” Juke said, looking me over. “Do I even know you?”
“Do you even know me?” I repeated his words, my voice rising as I advanced toward him. “Are you serious? I’m your client, you idiot!”
He stepped back only because I shoved him, entering the office, frowning at the mess. Juke closed the door and rubbed his head, making his hair stick up like porcupine quills. “You are? Which one?”
“I’m Cricket. Ruby’s boss.”
“Oh yeah.” He squinted at me, staggering a little as he journeyed to the desk, which held three Chinese-takeout cartons, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, and a stack of folders that had almost slid off the desk. The place smelled like sweat, booze, and kung pao chicken.
“What are you doing, Mr. Jefferson?” I looked around at the couch that he’d been sleeping on, the sweatshirt crumpled on the floor, and the overflowing trash can. “This place is a disaster, and so are you. You’re drunk at nine in the morning, for heaven’s sake. You don’t need clients. You need rehab. I’d like my money back, please.”
“Hold on, hold on,” he said, pressing the air and half falling into his chair. The resounding squeak was like brakes being applied on the conversation.
I stood and waited, still clutching the cinnamon rolls. I would be danged if he would get the still-warm pastries. Over my dead body . . . which no one would probably find in this pigsty for months.
Finally, after he’d sat looking confused for long enough, I said, “Do you have the pictures of my husband?”
Juke reached behind him, snagged the T-shirt on the back of the chair, and shrugged it on. “Sorry about that. Um, your husband is the banker, right?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, turning toward the door.
“No, no. Wait. I have something.”
I stopped. “What?”
“He’s a busy guy, your husband. Been meeting with all sorts of high-in-the-instep people. Don’t worry—I’ve been watching him for you.”
I turned back toward him. “But do you have pictures of him with Stephanie, the woman he’s screwing?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I parroted, using the sarcasm I kept for special occasions. “Thing is, I needed those yesterday. I have a meeting with my attorney to go over my financials, which at the present moment is very little. I need proof of his infidelity so I don’t have to wait six months, which means I need leverage, Mr. Jefferson. I came here this morning hoping you’d done your job, but it seems you haven’t. And I had more work for you, work that with your background in law enforcement might have intrigued you. I think my husband isn’t just cheating on me. He’s involved in something bigger.”
Juke was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. His ears might as well have twitched. “What do you mean bigger?”
“You know, no. I’m not going over this with you. I’m terminating your services. You can keep the deposit. I’m done with waiting on someone to help me. I can see that I will have to help myself. Good day, Mr. Jefferson.”
He tried to stand too quickly. Throwing his hands onto the desk to steady himself, he called out at me as I opened the door, letting blessed fresh air inside. “Wait. Don’t go.”
“Sorry. These are business hours. You should be sober and working. Not sleeping one off. Done, Mr. Jefferson.” I shut the door and angrily stomped down the metal steps toward my van. This time no Griffin Moon stood near my door. No one seemed to be in the area, and normally, I would have felt in some sort of danger in an area like this, but I didn’t. Mostly because I was fuming. If someone had tried to jerk my Louis Vuitton from my arm, I would have ripped his head off and used it for a kickball.
I nearly dropped the bakery box on the last step. “Stupid son of a—”
“Hey!” Juke called down. “Don’t fire me.”
“Too late.” I jammed the box under my arm, stomped to my van, climbed inside, and cranked it. I said a lot of bad words under my breath while I did it, too. I enjoyed saying every single one because they were justified. I jerked the van into reverse and, with my tires squealing, backed out of the parking lot. Shifting into drive, I left an exasperated and barefoot Juke standing in the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, he threw up his arms and then dropped them.
I pulled my eyes away from my fired private investigator and trained them on the road ahead.
What was I going to do now?
“Screw it,” I said, digging a cinnamon roll from the box and biting into it. I had vowed to resist them, but Juke’s idiocy had me stress eating. “Mother of God, these are amazing.”
I chewed and told myself I would only have half of the pastry, knowing I was a liar. I would eat the whole dang thing. But that didn’t fix my current problem.
Hiring a third investigator seemed ridiculous. I mean, jeez, how did a gal get a good dick in this town? And that thought made me laugh. But it wasn’t the good kind of laugh. It was the “I’m so tired of bull crap, but that’s still sorta funny” laugh. Yep, I was at the end of my rope, and it wasn’t even five hours into the workweek. Time to turn this over to my attorney. Should have done that in the first place.
When I got to Printemps, I dropped the remaining cinnamon rolls with Jade and Ruby and retreated to my office. Plunking down into my swivel chair, I kicked my feet up on my desk. I never do that. It was a novelty. But sometimes a woman needs to feel in charge of something even if it’s merely her desk. My action knocked the small stack of books to the floor, and one fell open.
“Dang it,” I muttered, leaning forward to pick it up.