was big enough to accommodate a lobby, a sizable private office, a store room–kitchenette combo and a microscopic bathroom. Unlike her personal life, Randi was fearless when it came to business, and her decision on the location had proven sound. The downtown office got a lot of exposure and was easily accessible—her client list had grown rapidly from the minute she’d opened the door.
Randi had gotten home from her police interview around dawn, had taken a lengthy shower and slept the rest of the day. Having missed the entire Monday of work, she began the morning by shuffling through a stack of pink message slips that had accumulated during her absence.
After two hours of steady work, she had eliminated the stack, RSVP’d a conference called Selling Property in a Down Economy, booked four open houses, and scheduled a myriad of appointments for new client meetings, closings, and showings. It felt good to dive into the work, but the promise she’d made to herself and to the dead woman lingered in her thoughts. She was anxious to discover who the woman was and why someone would want her dead. She just wasn’t sure where to start.
After several hours of sitting, Randi stood to stretch and was rewarded with the satisfying pop of stiff joints. She watched in delighted horror as CJ chose that moment to sashay into the room. It had taken time for CJ’s eccentricities to grow on Randi, and today the middle-aged woman stopped in the doorway to perform some type of bump and grind to an old rock tune that was playing on the office sound system. She wore wide-legged pants in lime green, a lavender knee-length Nehru tunic with a mustard belt and red clogs.
Randi often wondered if CJ might be colorblind.
“What can I do for you, CJ?”
“You’re famous!” CJ spun on one heel and slapped the daily paper down on the desk. There it was, right in front of Randi. Her worst fear. The headline read:
Local PI stumbles on body, compromises police investigation.
She suddenly felt ill. Her head dropped into her hands as she crashed back into her chair. “We’re screwed.”
“Quite the contrary.” CJ soothed. “This is free PR. It’s worth its weight in gold. You know what they say about publicity, don’t you?”
Numb, Randi stared down at the paper and imperceptibly shook her head.
“There’s no such thing as bad press. Just look at Miley Cyrus. Good God, if only you could twerk!”
A second of panic set in when she wondered if Detective Bricksen had seen the paper. Then she was mad that she even cared what he thought.
Seeing that her boss was still in shock, CJ gave her a synopsis of the article, that there had been a murder at the motel and a local private eye conducting a separate investigation had found the victim and unintentionally tainted the crime scene.
Randi gripped the sides of the desk with her hands, pressed her fingers into the wood and growled.
Sensing the winds had changed, CJ tried again to reassure her. “It’s okay. It didn’t mention any names.”
“Really?” Randi shot her a look that sent her cowering. “We are the only local PIs.” She dared CJ to argue the point. CJ slinked back to her desk in the lobby.
Randi had just resolved to let things go and get started on the mystery woman case when she heard the jingle of the tiny bell over the front door and a gasp from CJ. “Well hell, honey, your day’s ruined now,” she hollered. “Shit Stain is here.”
“What?” Randi walked to the doorway and leaned her head out around the corner. There stood said shit stain, smiling at her in the lobby.
Stuart Allen Lassiter.
“Hey, Baby.” She just stood staring at him, too shocked to display any normalcy. Why on Earth would her ex-husband be in her office? Ever. She hadn’t seen the son of a bitch since divorce court.
He looked over at CJ. “Hey there, Nutso.”
“How’s my favorite asswipe?” CJ turned to her file cabinet and resumed work.
Had she lost her mind or did hell just
Randi had gotten home from her police interview around dawn, had taken a lengthy shower and slept the rest of the day. Having missed the entire Monday of work, she began the morning by shuffling through a stack of pink message slips that had accumulated during her absence.
After two hours of steady work, she had eliminated the stack, RSVP’d a conference called Selling Property in a Down Economy, booked four open houses, and scheduled a myriad of appointments for new client meetings, closings, and showings. It felt good to dive into the work, but the promise she’d made to herself and to the dead woman lingered in her thoughts. She was anxious to discover who the woman was and why someone would want her dead. She just wasn’t sure where to start.
After several hours of sitting, Randi stood to stretch and was rewarded with the satisfying pop of stiff joints. She watched in delighted horror as CJ chose that moment to sashay into the room. It had taken time for CJ’s eccentricities to grow on Randi, and today the middle-aged woman stopped in the doorway to perform some type of bump and grind to an old rock tune that was playing on the office sound system. She wore wide-legged pants in lime green, a lavender knee-length Nehru tunic with a mustard belt and red clogs.
Randi often wondered if CJ might be colorblind.
“What can I do for you, CJ?”
“You’re famous!” CJ spun on one heel and slapped the daily paper down on the desk. There it was, right in front of Randi. Her worst fear. The headline read:
Local PI stumbles on body, compromises police investigation.
She suddenly felt ill. Her head dropped into her hands as she crashed back into her chair. “We’re screwed.”
“Quite the contrary.” CJ soothed. “This is free PR. It’s worth its weight in gold. You know what they say about publicity, don’t you?”
Numb, Randi stared down at the paper and imperceptibly shook her head.
“There’s no such thing as bad press. Just look at Miley Cyrus. Good God, if only you could twerk!”
A second of panic set in when she wondered if Detective Bricksen had seen the paper. Then she was mad that she even cared what he thought.
Seeing that her boss was still in shock, CJ gave her a synopsis of the article, that there had been a murder at the motel and a local private eye conducting a separate investigation had found the victim and unintentionally tainted the crime scene.
Randi gripped the sides of the desk with her hands, pressed her fingers into the wood and growled.
Sensing the winds had changed, CJ tried again to reassure her. “It’s okay. It didn’t mention any names.”
“Really?” Randi shot her a look that sent her cowering. “We are the only local PIs.” She dared CJ to argue the point. CJ slinked back to her desk in the lobby.
Randi had just resolved to let things go and get started on the mystery woman case when she heard the jingle of the tiny bell over the front door and a gasp from CJ. “Well hell, honey, your day’s ruined now,” she hollered. “Shit Stain is here.”
“What?” Randi walked to the doorway and leaned her head out around the corner. There stood said shit stain, smiling at her in the lobby.
Stuart Allen Lassiter.
“Hey, Baby.” She just stood staring at him, too shocked to display any normalcy. Why on Earth would her ex-husband be in her office? Ever. She hadn’t seen the son of a bitch since divorce court.
He looked over at CJ. “Hey there, Nutso.”
“How’s my favorite asswipe?” CJ turned to her file cabinet and resumed work.
Had she lost her mind or did hell just
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