All or Nothing by Elizabeth Adler Page A

old rocker that was Steve’s favorite chair, taking each other in.
    Giraud was polite, soft–spoken, attractive even, but Vickie thought nervously there was an air of menace about him. Perhaps that was what you needed in a P.I., she tried to reassure herself.
    “Coffee?” she suggested, suddenly remembering her hostess manners. “Or a cold drink? Coke? A beer?”
    Al shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, but no thanks. What do you want to tell me about your husband?”
    She took a deep breath. She had expected to ask
him
the questions, tell
him
what she wanted. After all, she was paying him. “There’s not much to tell,” she said grimly. “Except what you already know.”
    Al stroked his bluish bristled chin, looking at her. Marla had been right, she wasn’t going to open up to him about her husband. “So, tell me what you want from me, Mrs. Mallard.”
    “I don’t know anything about the detective business,” she said nervously. “I mean I don’t know how it all works, what we need to do. I don’t even know who you are,” she added earnestly, leaning forward, hands clasped tightly.
    “Okay, so why don’t I tell you about myself.” Al was easy, relaxed, doing his best to put her at ease. He described his background, then his business, though he never named names.
    “Confidentiality is a given in my business, Mrs. Mallard,” he added, “so you’ve no worries on that score. You are the one paying me, and you are the one I account to. No one else.” She heaved a relieved sigh and he said, “I’m proud of the fact that my business boasts a ninety percent success rate.”
    Her eyes flashed suddenly into his. “What happened to the other ten percent?”
    “They were guilty.”
    Vickie wished she had never asked.
    “Okay, so Laurie Martin has disappeared––who knows where?” Al spread his arms wide to embrace the possibility that she might be anywhere in the world by now. “Was she killed? We don’t know that yet. Still, we have to admit the odds are she was. And if so, by whom?”
    “That’s exactly what I want you to find out,” Vickie said tersely. He was irritating the hell out of her now and she wished she had never started this. Why didn’t he just get on with the investigation?
    What Al wasn’t telling her was that if her husband was guilty there would be no hiding the facts. He would find out the truth about Steve Mallard, the man. As well as about Laurie Martin. Right now he wanted to know about Steve’s past. Marla would take care of the present.
    “I need to talk to your husband,” he said. She had expected that and told him he was in Arrowhead to escape the media.
    “As well as escape from himself,” she added grimly. “Steve can’t live with himself anymore, Mr. Giraud.”
    Al nodded sympathetically as he made a note of the address and she gave him directions. “He’s in a tough position right now. You can bet he can’t wait for it to be over.” One way or the other, he thought, putting away his notebook. Killers were like that. Confession was a catharsis; he had even known it to bring a smile back to a killer’s face. . . .
    He discussed fees with her, then hitched up his jeans and offered his hand in farewell. Vickie shook it. It was surprisingly warm––and firm too. A strong handshake. Did that mean anything? she wondered hopefully.
    Al said, “My assistant, Marla Cwitowitz, will be calling on you. She’ll want to ask you some questions. Of a more personal nature,” he added as he saw the surprise on her face.
    “I’ve nothing to hide.”
    Al read the panic in her eyes; she was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He felt sorry for her, it was a hell of a position to be in, wondering if your husband was a killer. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Excuse me,” he corrected himself quickly. “I mean, Mrs. Mallard. I’m a Southerner, I call everybody “hon,’ no disrespect intended.”
    But Vickie had not even noticed. As she closed the door