Dirty by Debra Webb Page B

considering the picture and its ambiguous warning it felt wrong.  
    “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jackie?” Hobbs prodded.   The man loved juicy gossip but I knew his question was related to the worry I saw in his eyes.   This blast from the past had shaken me.   He’d noticed.   “Is there any reason you know of,” he went on, “that this guy could have some sicko friends who’ve just discovered your connection to him?”
    I shrugged.   “I don’t know the first thing about him.”   Except that he’d been an attentive lover.   Why would anyone do this now?   Ten years was a long time.  
    Hobbs handed the photograph back to me.   “What about the number?   Can we use that to track him down?”
    I stared at the message for a moment.   “That’s a possibility.   If it’s what I think it is.”   I felt reasonably certain it was.   “I’ll check it out.”
    “Before you get into that,” Hobbs said, his tone moving back into his usual perky zone.   “I do have some good news.”
    I considered my assistant, dubious of the idea that anything he could tell me would be good news just now.   Then again maybe he’d found out he’d won the Lottery and wanted to share with his soft-hearted boss.   I might not have a clue as to the guy in the photograph’s name or whether he was dead or alive, but maybe we would be able to pay next month’s operating expenses.
    “Good news?   Really?”
    Hobbs looked immensely proud of himself.   “Two requests for background searches came in, while you were chatting in secret with Alita.”   He tacked on that last part as if he’d been shunned and the pain was far too great to bear.
    I rolled my eyes.   Hobbs was like a jealous girlfriend.   He couldn’t stand the idea that Alita and I discussed something he didn’t know about.   “Great,” I told him, working at a patient smile.   At least those two requests would cover some of next month’s lease payment.
    I really should show more enthusiasm.   Somehow we always managed to get by, this time would prove no exception.   Then again, I wasn’t foolish enough to believe our good fortune was mere luck.   Hobbs hustled.   He’d likely been on the telephone drumming up business while Alita and I talked about Emilio’s father.   I didn’t recall hearing the phone ring with incoming requests.   Considering that the two cases I had to focus on just now were non-profit, anything Hobbs brought in would be extremely helpful toward keeping the agency afloat.
    “And I have a two hundred dollar bid on the shoes,” he tossed out as if he’d just forecast the weather.
    My head came up.   “You didn’t,” I charged.   My toes instantly curled in a protective manner.   These damned shoes were a symbol of my growth as an independent woman.   My badge of sex appeal.   Hey, I worked hard in a man’s profession.   Kicked ass with the best of them.   These shoes made me feel feminine.   No way was he auctioning them on eBay.
    “You insist on taking pro bono cases at every turn (referring to mine and Alita’s conversation no doubt–Hobbs has BESP, Bigass Ears Studiously Panning...he heard everything) and you run off the best thing that could have happened to this agency.”   He plopped his hands on his fashionably clad hips and glared at me.   “Just think how many new paying clients a pretty face like that could draw in.”
    My eyebrows winged upward in a what-the-hell-does-that-mean fashion.   “I think I’m offended,” I let him know.   Christ, it’s not like I’m frickin’ cover model material, but I ain’t exactly ready for an extreme makeover.
    He huffed as if I should get it and didn’t.   “You’re surely aware that female clients prefer a strong, handsome man to attend to their needs.   No offense, but you simply don’t possess the right equipment.”   He stared at my feet.   “However, you do have those shoes.   And that bag.”
    “The shoes