All or Nothing by Elizabeth Adler

his half of the conversation.
    Her eyes swung his way, though, when he said, “Oh, good evening, Mrs. Mallard. Yeah, you’ve reached the right guy. I’m Al Giraud. How can I help you?”
    Marla’s eyes were fastened on him now and they were open wide in astonishment.
    Al sat, naked, on the edge of the bed. His face was serious as he listened to Vickie Mallard.
    “Mr. Giraud,” she said in a quavery voice and Al could tell she was close to the breaking point. “I would like you to investigate my husband––it’s about this woman, Laurie Martin.”
    “I know it.” Al turned his head, frowning at Marla. Vickie Mallard could have gotten his phone number only from her.
    Marla’s eyes were still fixed on him as he made arrangements to meet Vickie Mallard at her home the next day. When he put down the phone, she sat up and grabbed his arm.
    “Tell me what she said,” she demanded urgently. “Is she turning her husband in? Why are you going there . . . ?”
    “She wants me to find out if her husband is innocent. Or guilty.”
    Marla drew in a shocked breath. “You mean she thinks he did it? Killed Laurie Martin?”
    Al paced naked to the window. He pulled back the curtain, gazing at the fountain that the birds would persist in using as a birdbath, so he was constantly cleaning off bird crap. “I don’t think she knows what to think. The media have gotten to her is my guess . . . the pressure . . . after all, it’s not easy when your husband is suspected of murder.”
    Marla was out of bed now, standing next to him at the window. Opportunity was knocking and she was about to seize it. “Okay, I was the one who called the Mallards’ lawyer and told him we had seen them together. I gave him your number. I was with you that night in the Ritz bar, Giraud. I know as much about this case as you do. Legally that qualifies me to be your partner.”
    “Legally?” She was bluffing her way in and he knew it. “Not even
you
could convince a judge of that.”
    Marla’s mouth was set in the stubborn line he knew only too well. “Aw, come on, Giraud. Give me a break, won’t you? I can really help you on this. I’m good with women. Let me talk to Vickie Mallard, I’ll bet she’ll tell me things she’ll never open up to you about.”
    “No chance, Marla. I already told you I don’t need a partner.”
    She glared at him, mad as a green–eyed cat, then she flung away from him, stalked back over to the bed and dropped the gray flannel robe.
    Al grinned. “I told you before, you don’t have to sleep with a guy to get the job.”
    But Marla ignored him, climbing into her clothes with a speed and an economy of movement that stunned him. In minutes, she was fully dressed. She turned and looked contemptuously at him.
    She was wearing a black skirt, white linen shirt and shiny black loafers, and now she knotted a black cashmere cardigan around her shoulders. Pulling her long blond hair back with a black ribbon, she did not take her eyes off him. “Chauvinist pig,” she said in a polite tone.
    Al thought maybe she had a point. And Vickie Mallard might prefer to talk to a woman, especially when Marla looked like this . . . kind of preppy, well–bred, neat.
    “Okay,” he said grudgingly. “You’re in.”
    It was Marla’s turn to grin. “You don’t have to sleep with a guy to get the job, Giraud,” she said triumphantly, already stepping out of her skirt. “But it helps.”

10
    When Vickie opened the door to Al Giraud the following morning, her first thought was that he was like no one she knew. She had never met a man like this. Offbeat in jeans and a T–shirt, he looked more like an over–the–hill rock ’n’ roll star than the successful P.I. she had expected.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Mallard.” He held out his hand and she took it reluctantly. As though, Al thought, hiding a smile, she thought he might contaminate her.
    They sat in the family room, she on the denim–blue sectional, he on the big