All or Nothing by Elizabeth Adler Page B

behind him she felt suddenly lost. As though all hope had been abandoned when Giraud left.
    She sank onto the sectional and for the first time, began to cry.

11
    Marla had dressed in what she considered appropriate private detective attire for her meeting with Vickie Mallard. Black turtleneck, short black leather skirt, black suede ankle boots with four–inch heels, an enormous and expensive steel watch that showed the time in three different continents and a large black Prada tote containing a yellow legal pad, a tiny handheld tape recorder, the latest John Grisham novel and a packet of Junior Mints, to both of which she was addicted.
    Her golden–blond hair was piled up and anchored with a black comb, her earrings were gray pearls and her lipstick dark and glossy. Driving her silver Mercedes, she looked, she thought triumphantly, the epitome of the successful P.I. A pity that Giraud, with his plaid and jeans, his scuffed boots and Olympics 95 Swatch watch and in his ancient red Corvette, did not convey the same impression. She hated that car, she knew only too well how many hours he spent working on it, tuning it to a high performance that really came through for him when he needed it. But she had to admit there were times when he had needed it. Dangerous times.
    Marla preferred not to think about that. She knew Giraud’s life was not a piece of cake. Her own work with him would be more cerebral, working out the convoluted stories his client told. Finding out the truth from the feminine angle. She worked on logic. Giraud worked on gut. That was the difference between them, right there.
    The Mallard residence was in a new development of pretty three– and four–bedroom homes on small lots. Each had its neatly tended patch of garden with a new baby tree planted in the middle of the rectangle of front lawn, and each had tall double doors and a Cal–Mediterranean façade. The Mallards’ was no different from the others. Except for the pack of newshounds and paparazzi lounging around outside.
    Marla parked the car down the street and walked to the house. She felt their faces swing her way, heard the click and whir of cameras as she walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell.
    “Who is it?” Vickie Mallard’s voice was muffled.
    “Marla Cwitowitz, Mrs. Mallard. Giraud’s partner.”
    “Come through the side gate, please, around to the kitchen entrance. I don’t want to open the front door.”
    Marla glanced at the windows. All the shades were drawn, like a house in mourning. She took a shortcut across the sliver of lawn and through the gate at the side, feeling the camera lenses breathing down her neck as she slammed it behind her. “The poor woman,” she muttered. “What the hell has she done to deserve all this?”
    Vickie Mallard was wearing white pants and a red shirt that emphasized her pallor. She wore no makeup and her eyes were shadowed, lids pink and swollen.
    “I’m sorry.” The peace offering came out of Marla’s mouth involuntarily. Vickie just looked so bad, so beaten. A woman on the brink.
    “Thank you.” Vickie glanced vaguely around the pretty living room. Marla saw she didn’t even notice the long–dead flowers in the crystal vase.
    “Please, sit down,” Vickie said. “Can I offer you a cold drink? Or maybe some coffee?”
    “Don’t trouble yourself. I won’t keep you long, I can see you’re tired.”
    “Tired?” Vickie laughed, if that short, sharp bark could be called laughter. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”
    She slumped onto a sofa opposite Marla, who sat, legs crossed demurely at the ankle. A puzzled look crossed Vickie’s face as she took her in. “You and Al Giraud––you’re partners?”
    Marla smiled at her astonishment. “Opposites work well together,” she explained smoothly. “I fill in the spaces where Al is reluctant to go. We’re a good team.”
    Vickie nodded. “What do you mean, where he is reluctant to go?”
    “Believe it