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  Of course, Doc would want to meet afterward and hear the details. He loved post-game quarterbacking.

  Tarrant smiled, not showing his teeth. “All right, Mrs. Pangford. I think I can come up with some kind of agreeable solution to your problem.”

  “Without Amanda finding out my involvement?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll have to get some basic information from you, quite a lot of it.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  The coffee was fragrant and perfectly brewed and accompanied by home-baked cookies, which got past Caitlin’s professional facade. She helped herself to two. He sucked hot caffeine to be sociable, wishing for a Pepsi instead. As soon as the maid left Tarrant began asking questions. Caitlin wrote down the replies.

  He got the names, numbers and addresses he’d need, a general idea of schedules, and photos.

  Neither Amanda or Kyle Deacon worked; Amanda received enough from her trust fund each month to afford a loft in Deep Ellum, utility bills, and groceries. If either or both of them had a regular job they could live very well indeed. Deacon called himself a musician, Amanda was an artist.

  God save us from liberal art degrees, Tarrant thought, wondering what academic idiot ever imagined those to be a good idea.

  According to an earlier inquiry Dolly Pangford had initiated with a legitimate private investigator, the young and carefree couple each had five credit cards, all ten hovering near their maximum limit.

  Amanda frequently demanded loans against her trust to pay them off. Dolly just as frequently refused, suggesting a job search and using scissors on the cards as the obvious solution to debt.

  “I am then called foul names and treated to the sound of the phone slamming down,” she told Tarrant. “After a week, or until the next collection agency calls, she starts all over again. Sometimes it’s tears, other times she’s honey-sweet and apologetic. It worked on Henry, but not on me. I don’t know why her father didn’t teach her how to be responsible about life and money. By the time I came into the picture she was spoiled rotten and out of control. I was the first person who ever said no to her, and it was an ugly shock for her to find out she was no longer the center of the universe. I should have brought in professional help for our family. Too late now. All I want is for her to survive this and live to grow some brains.”

  Tarrant’s own keep-it-simple solution for spoiled kids began with a good spanking followed by a lengthy stay at a boot camp. Perhaps after this was settled, he’d suggest it to Mrs. Pangford. Maybe if she got Amanda declared mentally incompetent. . .there was probably enough cash lying around lost in the mansion’s sofas to buy off all kinds of doctors.

  Not my problem today.

  “I think that should do it,” he said. Caitlin had filled several pages. He’d memorize it, then destroy the notes. He had no worry about Caitlin; hers was a selective memory with a convenient ability for forgetting data when it was no longer needed or too dangerous to recall.

  “What about your fee?” asked Mrs. Pangford.

  Tarrant quoted her a price based on what he’d learned in the last hour, factoring in anticipated difficulties. It was fair, the average rate in the more rarified circles of his trade.

  Mrs. Pangford didn’t blink. Either she deemed it a bargain for what she wanted or Doc had warned her what to expect. “You’ll want that in cash?”

  “If you don’t mind. Small bills, nothing over a hundred. I’ll need half as a retainer, and we can arrange later to pay over the balance when the job is done. All incidental expenses are included, by the way.”

  He’d learned in the course of business that clients didn’t mind forking over a flat fee even if it was huge, but most balked when presented with the chicken-change of an itemized expense account.

  “I can manage that now,” she said. “It will take a few days to get the rest.”

  “I trust you,” he said, and almost meant it. He’d dealt with occasional hold-outs who thought they could get away with not paying the balance. Fortunately those were an infrequent annoyance. Other people were smarter.

  “If you need any other information, just phone,” she added.

  Her hand was cool and dry when he took it. That was good. The lady was no wimp. He thought he could trust her to see things through.

  “You’re absolutely sure about this?” he asked. “Doc mentioned all the possibilities?”

  Her gray eyes reminded him of polished granite. “I am absolutely certain, Mr. Tarrant. Doc told me everything. I will be comfortable with whatever measures you judge necessary to keep Amanda safe from harm.”

  “So long as we’re clear on that.”

  She smiled. “Crystalline.”

  * * *

  “Jeeze-Loueeze,” said Caitlin, once they’d left the driveway. She heaved a huge sigh of relief, resuming her native drawl. “That was one hell of a learning experience. Are they all like that?”

  “Every job’s different.” For instance he’d not expected Mrs. Pangford to have the first half of his fee ready and in the house. The usual thing was to wait however long it took for a client to get hold of the required funds, then make a drop. Doc Jessup must have given her one hell of an earful.

  “You didn’t need me along to take notes.” Caitlin tapped the shoulder bag on her lap, which held the pad and its possibly incriminating information. Mrs. Pangford had supplied an envelope with copies of her private investigator’s detailed report on her stepdaughter’s life. It also held Tarrant’s down payment money and was now quite heavy. He would work out Caitlin’s percentage when they got back to his condo.

  “You put her at ease,” he said. “She glanced at you a few times.”

  “I noticed. I tried to look intelligent and poised.”

  “You did and it worked. It helped having another woman there so I wouldn’t scare her so much. She’s the old-school sorority-sister type.”

  “As in never wears white shoes before Easter?”

  “Bulls-eye.”

  “She didn’t look scared.”

  “No, but it was there. She covered it well, I’ll hand her that. The lady’s also got plenty on the ball in the brains department, so I wonder why she goes in for astrology. You’re a smart chick, why do you go in for Tarot cards?”

  “I use them as psychological tools. Their images spark a response in my sub-conscious that allows me to make decisions or draw conclusions to my own best advantage. Though once in a while they’ve predicted events that I never saw coming. Or maybe I just fit the events to the cards, but that doesn’t always work. Like that guy I went nuts over last summer? No matter how many times I shuffled and asked about my future with him the results were all dismal. Not the answer I wanted to see, so I tried to make things turn out different, but they never did. You remember?”

  “Yup.” He’d kept his mouth diplomatically shut while Caitlin had been in the throes of her brief romance, though he could have told her it was doomed. You didn’t need a deck of cards to see that. He was glad when she’d finally smarted up and broke things off. He’d been ready to kill them both on the distraction factor alone, the guy for making her cry, and Caitlin because he couldn’t stand a crying dame.

  Caitlin shrugged, cocking her head in thought. “Maybe astrology works for Mrs. Pangford in the same way on a psychological level. It allows people to place order and structure into an otherwise chaotic world. One can have a weird sense of security knowing that some life events and personality traits are beyond our best efforts at control and that we’re at the mercy of a pre-determined stellar destiny. If it’s in the stars that something nasty will happen, then we have to shrug and accept it, for what can we do about it? Mrs. Pangford can then excuse her faults and those of others by blaming them on outside forces over which she has no command.”

  “Or maybe it’s a lot of horse hockey.”

  “There’s that,” Caitlin agreed, amiably.

  One long drive later he pulled into his assigned parking space, and they decanted for a short walk
to his condo. The gate to his small walled porch screeched as he pulled it open for her. In the years since he’d moved in he made a point of never greasing the hinges. Their noise was too good a burglar alarm.

  Inside, Caitlin dumped her purse on his long leather couch and rubbed her shoulder. “So—what’s your next move on the case?”

  “Tonight I do a little checking up on Mr. and Mrs. Deacon in their stately Deep Ellum manor. Won’t need you along, it’s scut-work.”

  “And you think slaving over a computer chasing down obscure data for you ain’t?”

  “You’re in a nice, warm indoor environment, free to use the toilet any time you feel the urge and have a supply of drinks and snacks. I shall probably be confined to my mobile prison disguised as wheels for an indeterminate time as I check out the field.”

  “Okay, you win. You’ll change clothes, of course?”

  “Of course.” He made a start, loosening his tie and undoing the collar button. Nothing he had on was right for what lay ahead, especially the Rolex. He retreated to his bedroom to complete the transformation, while Caitlin fired up his computer. He emerged wearing a faded black polo shirt with dark cargo pants stuffed into boots. With a baseball cap and a loose pocket vest to finish things, he expected to go unnoticed in the eclectic atmosphere of Deep Ellum.

  “You’ll need an earring,” said Caitlin, peering at her screen, comparing search engine results with her notes.

  Sometime ago he’d had one ear pierced. “You think?”

  “Oh, yeah. Anyone without metal hanging off them is the exception there, not the rule. That’s why I don’t fit into those artsy-fartsy circles.” Caitlin was so squeamish she’d been known to faint when taking her pets in for their shots. Her earlobes were quite virginal.

  He went back, dug around on his dresser, and found a plain silver earring, fitting it into place.

  “That’s better,” she said, giving him a brief once-over. “You look nice and rakish.”

  “I need to be nice and anonymous.”

  “Okay, rakish in Highland Park, but Mr. Ordinary in Deep Ellum.”

  He looked over her shoulder while she did magic with the computer and its wide range of special search programs. Everything she found confirmed Dolly Pangford’s story. Kyle Deacon had a police record, minor skirmishes for being drunk, and a slap on the wrist for selling pot. His juvenile files were sealed, but that was no hindrance to Caitlin’s hacker talents.

  “My, but wasn’t he Peck’s Bad Boy way back when?” she muttered. “We got us a little joy-riding vandal, some assault, some shop-lifting, some drug dealing, now didn’t he have fun? But it’s still a long jump from murdering your wife.”

  “That’s what I’m checking out later.” Tarrant wished he’d not had the coffee or stared at the computer screen for so long; he felt a headache coming on. Of all the lousy times to get a migraine. “I need to rest until it’s dark. Tell the kids to keep hush.”

  One of his five cats meowed at him, looking innocent. The others sprawled around as though they owned the place and didn’t care much for the fact. He picked up the opinionated one, turned her on her back and rubbed her fat belly.

  “Don’t go bitching at me, you freeloading leech,” he advised her, until she grabbed his hand in both paws and pretended to bite. He ignored the assault, his knuckles could stand it. “Make a funny noise for daddy. Make a funny noise.” She emitted a cross between a muted yowl and an irritated purr, which satisfied him, and he put her back on her resting place, which happened to be atop Caitlin’s purse. Her dogs would just love the smell of outraged cat.

  The distraction didn’t work. His head began pounding. Damn. It would build into a volcano with an attitude if he didn’t nip it in the bud.

  He got a bottle of Stoli from the freezer to wash down a couple prescription pills. An unwise combination, but it would put him out right away and maybe halt the headache before it took too firm a hold. He gave Caitlin a wake-up time and after removing his boots, rolled into bed. As a distraction he flipped through the astrology book, reading up on his own sign, finding amusement at what it got right and wrong about him. It did seem to have nailed it square about his craving for challenge and boredom with achievement.

  Just as he drifted off, he remembered that they’d not divided the money up yet.

  Later.

  * * *

  He had a good four-hour nap, waking when it was full dark, about five minutes before Caitlin was due to come in. His mouth tasted bad, but the pain that had threatened to squeeze his skull to mush was thankfully gone. He was set for the evening, no matter how long it might prove.

  Caitlin was still at the computer. “I was about to give a yell. Did you sleep?”

  “Yup. I just got an accurate body clock. What’s this?” On what had been a clear coffee table newspaper pages were now spread wide over something lumpy. One of the cats lounged on top. He scooped the animal out of the way. The payment money was underneath, neatly stacked and sorted. There was a lot of it.

  “I raided my purse for a candy bar and had to get the cash out of the way,” Caitlin explained. “Then once started I couldn’t stop. Counting that was almost as good as sex. It’s all there. She didn’t short you.”

  “No one does and lives,” he intoned, dropping the papers back. He went to the fridge and pulled out a big bottle of Pepsi, taking hits off it to fully wake up. The cold carbonation burn made him wince, but it felt great. Tarrant did a quick calculation, returned to the money, and set aside a portion. “There’s your percentage, chickadee.”

  “Thanks. I think I earned it.” She slowly stood and stretched, audible popping noises coming from her neck and spine. “My butt’s gone dead. Why don’t you invest in a comfortable chair?”

  He peeled five hundred from his side and put it on her pile. “Go pick out one you like, but no leather or vinyl. Make sure it fits my color scheme.” That wouldn’t be difficult. His condo was dominated by blacks and whites. “What did you find out?”

  “Exactly how much those two owe on their cards and the last time they made payments. But something odd is going on. Last month they brought in enough to catch up on all ten. I couldn’t find a source for the windfall. Maybe Kyle’s band cut a recording contract or Amanda sold a painting to the Met and they paid her in cash.”

  Tarrant frowned. “Or he’s dealing again. Only way to get that kind of money is being lucky in Vegas or selling drugs.”

  “I can believe that. I’ve read through the file Mrs. Pangford got from her investigator—little Amanda has a will. She leaves everything she’s got—including her trust fund—to her beloved husband. He’ll have to wait until she’s twenty-one to get it, though, or it reverts to the estate. That’s less than four months away. It’s like the poor bimbo has a death wish.”

  “Does he have a will?”

  “Yeah. He leaves her all his worldly goods, which at present includes four guitars, an electronic keyboard, and a 1986 Ford Escort.”

  “Good God, and she thinks he loves her?”

  “It’s grounds for divorce for me,” Caitlin sniffed. “Only I’d never have married the loser in the first place.”

  “I’m gonna boogie. Put that in the safe?” He gestured at the money. Despite her predilection for Tarot cards, Caitlin was sensible and prudent on practical matters, like never cheating the boss man, but was also hard-wired with a sense of honor. Funny trait to have in their business, but he understood it and trusted her with the safe combination.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lock everything up. Have fun, but don’t get caught.”

  “Never.”

  * * *

  The drive to Kyle and Amanda’s Deep Ellum loft, which was on the east side of downtown Dallas, took about an hour. Being Saturday night, the streets were jammed with a mixed crowd determined to have fun. Some of the wilder clubs were overflowing, yet still trying to attract more inside. One place had a line of new Harleys out front, each draped with a shapely young thing in leather posing fo
r anyone with a camera. Tarrant considered the pros and cons of making the choice between having the wheels or one of the girls. He concluded that the machine would draw the attention of any number of females to it and thus to himself. If he chose one of the girls, the encounter would last a weekend, if that long.

  He liked women just fine, but enjoyed their company more when they didn’t talk much. He’d long grown bored with the no-win “Do I look fat?” discussion and the disastrous “Why were you looking at her?” salvo. Caitlin was one of the few with whom he could hold a decent conversation, but out of unspoken mutual consent they were each off the other’s menu. Caitlin was too smart to get involved with him and Tarrant’s policy was to never shop at the company store. Too many complications. Women he could get easily enough, but trustworthy hackers for his line of work were rare.

  The outsides of the Deacons’ loft was not as depressed as he expected from the look of the rest of the neighborhood, but far from the level of Bohemian sophistication as seen in countless films and TV shows.

  The Arctic-cool heroes who lived in those fantasies never had trouble finding a parking space, either. Tarrant was a full three blocks from the main action and the curbs were still clogged. At least he was getting paid nearly enough for the annoyance.

  Four blocks down he found a spot and gratefully pried out of the driver’s seat. Without hurry, he locked up and strolled back, eyes raking the dim areas between streetlights. He located one parked cop car and counted three more cruising past, each with two officers inside. That was a lot of muscle even for a party night, but Ellum was long-infamous for problems. The patrol car occupants gave him the hairy eyeball, but he just smiled and sent them a friendly wave. Cops were his friends, after all, there to keep him and other honest citizens safe from the dregs of society.