McFarland—McFarland just loved it!”
“Sure, he’s bad.”
“Got that right! Arrogant, unprofessional, no principles!”
“And one sexy dude.”
Christy rounded on her traitorous assistant. “What is it with you and the women in this town and that man? That—that bottom-feeder!”
“Guess by that you don’t want to hear what happened here while I was out to lunch. Guess you’re in no mood for it, huh?”
“What?”
“That the answering machine got itself full up with messages, the fax machine is spitting faxes all over the place, the computer is loaded with e-mail and they’re all from your mama in Chicago lookin’ to hear from you.”
“I see. And all this happened while I was gone. Could it be possible, Denise, that you had a longer lunch hour than you planned?”
Denise thought about it. “Could be. Us full-figured gals need to keep up our energy.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything else on one of those machines. Like maybe someone needing to hire a P.I. with money no object?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“In that case…” Christy returned to her desk and reached reluctantly for the phone. She hated having to call her mother, knowing exactly what she was going to hear before she heard it. No way around it.
She dialed home, or what used to be home for her, which was the main office of the Hawke Detective Agency founded by her mother and father back in Chicago.
“Hawke Agency.” The familiar voice was cheerful, efficient. It belonged to her mother, Moura Hawke, the energetic doyenne of both the family and its agency, which had branches throughout the country operated by Christy and her four siblings.
“It’s me, Ma. What’s up?” As if she couldn’t guess.
“A celebration, my darling. I hope. Did you win the Bornowski case?”
“Afraid not, Ma.” Oh, how humiliating it was for Christy to admit her defeat. She was twenty-six years old and still regarded as the baby who had to be protected from the big bad world, still fighting to be recognized by her family as a P.I. in her own right.
“Oh.” The eagerness faded from Moura’s voice. “I suppose it went to McFarland?”
“Looks like it.”
“I’m sorry.” There was a pause, and then Moura’s tone became very gentle. Christy realized what was coming. “The thing is, I’ve been doing all the accounts for the first quarter, and…well, basically, sweetheart, you don’t have a quarter.”
“I know, Ma. Things have been a little slow.”
Slow? They had ground to a halt, and both of them knew it. The other phone in the office rang and Denise answered it. Christy paid no attention. She was too busy being heart-broken. She had done everything but promise her firstborn to convince her parents she was competent enough to open her own branch of the agency, and now she was on the sharp edge of losing it.
Moura had a suggestion. “Eden has a break between cases. What if she came over from Charleston and just sort of helped you to—”
“No!” Christy loved her family, Eden included, but she was damned if she was going to let her sister rush to New Orleans to try to save her agency for her. If she had to go down, she would sink on her own, thank you very much.
“Then what about Devlin?” Moura said, offering Christy’s eldest brother.
It was Denise, bless her, who rescued Christy. She had lowered her own phone and, with a lot of head-bobbing and eye-rolling, was signaling Christy to take the call.
“Absolutely not. Look, Ma, I have to go. There’s a call for me on the other line. I think it may be a new client. Love to Pop.”
“But I haven’t told you yet what your father—”
“Later, Ma.” She hung up and eagerly whispered to Denise, “Is it a potential client? Do I get a miracle?”
“Now how’d I know if he is or isn’t? But you’d better pick up. He sounds serious. Real serious.”
Christy snatched up her phone, stabbed in the other line, greeted the caller with a brisk, “Christy Hawke speaking,” and felt her heart lurch in her breast as the mellow male voice, from a past she thought she had buried, spoke to her earnestly.
“It’s me, Christy. Glenn.”
“How are you, Glenn?” Now how did she manage to sound so cool when her heart was still misbehaving?
“Not so good, actually.” He seemed surprised that she could ask such a thing. “I need to see you, Christy.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Professional,” he said.
Should she resent him for contacting her like this? No, she decided, she had made peace with that particular episode in her past, forgiven him long ago. “Are you in trouble, Glenn?”
He paused. “Maybe.”
“Like to tell me about it?”
“I think we need to get together as soon as possible.”
Christy could appreciate his wish for a meeting. Clients rarely wanted to discuss their problems over the phone. “I’m free right now.” Oh, boy, was she free. “Do you know where my office is?”
“Uh, yes, but my lawyer doesn’t want anyone knowing I’m worried enough to consult a private investigator, and if I’m seen going into your office…”
A lawyer? Just what kind of trouble were they talking about here?
“Look,” he went on, “I’m already downtown. It was…well, necessary for me to be here.” Was there an implication in that she was supposed to understand? “So if we could meet somewhere….”
“Name it.”
“The Café Du Monde?”
“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there.”
“See you then. And, Christy?”
“Yes?”
“The circumstances being what they are, I appreciate your willingness to offer your services.”
Was that something else she was supposed to understand, she wondered as she put down the phone. She didn’t, of course, but in fifteen minutes she hoped to. Denise was ready to pounce as Christy got to her feet.
“We got us a client?”
“I think so.”
Denise
