Another Side Of Midnight. Mia Zachary

in the room, recharging the pieces of my portable office. Then I collapsed onto my suede desk chair. The best place for my head seemed to be in between my open palms.

      But, I had work to do. I picked up the mail and sorted through it. Credit card applications went into the trash along with dating service invitations. My mother thinks I don’t know she secretly signs me up for that crap. I separated the bills from the few payment checks and thank-you notes then started a letter of my own.

      The last time I was face-to-face with my oldest brother— five years almost to the day—I was only nineteen. Stupid, scared and selfish as only a nineteen-year-old can be. I’ve had to grow up since then. Vince still won’t see me or take my phone calls. I understand, and so respect his wishes.

      If you keep picking at an old wound, it never heals. But I hate the idea of having no contact with him at all. I write once a week without fail and haven’t missed a week in all the time he’s been gone. It’s the very least I owe him. And, no matter what it costs, I’ve always kept my promises.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Sombody’s Got to Do It

      A FEW MINUTES LATER, Jon slid my favorite mug—the one that read I’m Only Here To Annoy You—across the desk.

      “Coffee-coffee-coffee.” I took a sip and moaned out loud. “I made you espresso instead of latte. You look like you could use the extrastrength caffeine.” Tilting his head, he crossed his arms. “Soo, what’s the story with that eye?”

      I swallowed another mouthful before answering him. “One of the customers didn’t take too kindly to her boyfriend gluing his eyes to my chest every time I delivered their drinks. When she said something, he took a poke at her. I swung on him. After that it got a little ugly.”

      “Ugly is not the word for it.” Jon sighed dramatically. “With your looks, you could be a showgirl—”

      “I tried that. Then they asked me to sing.”

      “Or a model—”

      “I thought about that, too. For maybe a minute.”

      “But, no. You have to go around beating up drunks and spying through bedroom windows.”

      “Lucky for you and your sense of job security, huh?”

      He rested a hip on the edge of her desk. “Oh, please. You’ve been lucky to have me these past three months. How many people did you fire before I came to your rescue?”

      “About a dozen,” I mumbled into my coffee mug. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re the only secretary—”

      “Administrative assistant.”

      “Whatever. You’re the only one who didn’t complain about the part-time hours, the salary or the amount of work. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be typing something?”

      He made an exaggerated snap with his fingers and stood up. “Thanks for the reminder. I have to finish writing chapter twelve.”

      Scowling, I waved my hand at the files on my desk. “I meant something business-related.”

      “Oh, right. Because we have so many cases right now. On the other hand, Savannah and Brick are at a critical turning point in their relationship.”

      “The trials and tribulations of a Southern belle and her Yankee lover.” He smiled as I affected a drawl with practiced ease. I even managed the Georgia mountain dialect he tries so hard to repress. “How’s the book coming along?”

      “They were undressed and fixin’ to fall into bed when you walked in. Let me tell you—”

      “Don’t. Just don’t.” I stabbed my index finger in his direction. “I keep you out of my love life. You leave me out of yours.”

      “Sweetcakes, you don’t have a love life.”

      There’s nothing like the truth to end a conversation. And, besides, I hate it when he calls me “sweetcakes.” I scowled at Jon’s back as he swept out, then propped my boot heels on the desktop. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in over five years, not since Bobby died… I didn’t want to think about him.

      And I hadn’t gotten laid in exactly two months, two weeks and four days. But I didn’t want to think about him, either.

      Instead, I turned my attention to the files clogging my inbox. Private investigation is the business of information. Your client needs to know something and your job is to find the facts. People love the idea of Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, Thomas Magnum and Charlie’s Angels.

      Reality is nowhere near that glamorous.

      It’s hours of sheer boredom while you wait and watch and wait some more. It’s days of tedious fact checking and double-checking. And it’s paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. I

      have a system for it, though you’d swear otherwise. It involves nearly illegible notes on yellow legal pads or scraps of paper shoved into my pockets.

      When I’m ready to type up a report, I shuffle the paper around on my desk like an abstract collage until I make some sense of it. Conventional? No. Organized? Hell, no. But I’m not a linear thinker and it’s not pretty when I try to be.

      After dropping my feet to the floor, I drained the last of my espresso and grabbed the first folder to draft a status report. Insert client’s name into document template. Briefly recap case. Inform of progress. Advise how to proceed. Save to hard drive. Repeat as necessary.

      I’d reduced the stack by half when the intercom buzzed. Jon was on the phone, using his business voice. “A Mrs. Cavanaugh is here to see you.”

      Who? I frowned and capped my fountain pen before flipping the page of my calendar. There weren’t any appointments scheduled this morning and I would have been happy to leave it that way. Then I glanced over at the pile of bills. Not enough to bury us, but enough to make me sigh.

      Due to the steady increase of infidelity, bad parenting and civil litigation, there’s a greater than ever demand for private investigators. Just not this one. Jon says it’s because we need a Web site.

      “Okay, Jon, give me a minute to get professional, then send her back.”

      I rummaged through my backpack for a compact. Dab-bing pressed powder onto my eye didn’t help much. Screw it. I pulled my arms out of my T-shirt and turned it around so that the slogan was on the back. Then I yanked the spare navy blazer off the door hook and combed my fingers through my hair. Picking up my legal pad, I tried to project an air of expertise.

      Because of my looks, most people think I only have enough brainpower to keep me breathing. While I have no qualms about using their assumptions against them on a case, it works against me when meeting new clients. But as my visitor walked in, I knew my appearance didn’t matter.

      Her shoulder-length brown hair had expensive-looking gold highlights. She wore a lavender business suit and matching heels. Diamonds flashed at her ears, neck and wrists. She actually wasn’t much smarter than she looked, but I liked her anyway. Always had.

      “Maria DiMarco.” I came from behind the desk to take her hand. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

      “It’s Cavanaugh now. Mrs. Gray Cavanaugh.” Her breathy, childlike voice rushed from between pale pink lips, but her tone had an undercurrent. Something flickered in the back of her eyes. Then she smiled, looking like the girl I remembered, and indicated my shiner. “Still raising hell, huh, Steele?”

      I grinned back at her and shrugged. “Somebody’s got to.” At St. John the Evangelist High School, Maria had been the princess of the popular crowd while I’d been in trouble more often than I’d stayed out of it. Our second year, I’d chosen peer tutoring over detention when the principal caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom.

      At first Maria and I had nothing in common