Deconstructed(26)

This was why I had come in person—to put eyes on Juke. Had nothing to do with my very slight interest in the bar downstairs owned by my ex-boyfriend.

“Spy on cheaters? Sure I do. All part of the territory when you’re a private investigator. I can get pictures and even get access to his bank accounts with the help of an attorney. She got an attorney yet?”

“I don’t think so, though I’ve made her a short list.”

“Well, usually an attorney recommends me, but business has been slow lately, so I’ve got the time.” He riffled around on his desk, scattering papers and causing pens to fall onto the floor. “I’ve got a form you can take. Just a basic agreement for my services and junk. If I can just . . .” A few slurred curse words escaped him.

I watched him struggle to find what he looked for, remembering how happy he had once been and wishing Loralee had survived. Here was evidence that her breast cancer had taken two lives. But Juke still had a chance if he could get his act together and get sober.

“It’s fine. You can just email it to me,” I said, rising and retrieving a few pieces of paper and one of the pens. Doubt knocked on the door of my sensibilities. Juke might not be able to do much of anything to help Cricket in the shape he was in. “You know, it’s okay if you can’t do it.”

Juke stilled, pressing his large hands on the desk. “I can do it.”

“I’m not sure. You seem a little drunk.” No one had ever needed to baby a Balthazar anyway.

“Fuck you.”

I straightened and started toward the door. “Yeah, that’s what I needed to know.”

“Shit. No, wait.” Juke stood, throwing up his hands. “Stop, Roo. I’m sorry. I . . . I just lost a client today, and I got bills threatening to drown me. I’m only able to keep this place because Dak’s a solid guy. I could use this case. I need the money.”

His admission slowed my advance toward his door. My family didn’t lift a pant leg to show their Achilles. Ever. Secrets were like fleas in my family, and no one bothered to set off a bug bomb. Which is why no one had warned me that Ed Earl was transporting meth in plastic-wrapped frozen feral hog parts.

So Juke admitting to me that he needed the case gave me pause. And he’d used my childhood nickname.

“Okay. I don’t even know if Cricket will hire an attorney right now, but I’ll take your card.” I reached over and grabbed one from the holder on the table near the door. Next to it was a dead plant. The whole place was sad, really.

“I’ll do a good job, and I’m not a drunk.” Juke sounded like he believed himself. Maybe he did. But I had lived in lockup with a lot of people who lied to themselves. My bullshit meter was on point.

“Well, Cousin, you look drunk. You smell drunk. This place is like a lair for a drunk.” Swiping my hand across the cluttered, stale space, I lifted an eyebrow, daring him to tell me differently.

Juke spread his hands. “You’re right. I need to get my shit together.”

I said nothing, just looked around. The office wasn’t big, so the other unseen half of the second story must be another office. A private investigator likely didn’t need a ton of room. The carpet looked as if it might have been nice sometime back in the 1980s, the walls were wood paneled, and the computer wasn’t exactly a sleek Mac but was probably functional. Juke had once worked in cyberinvestigations and knew his way around a hard drive. A shelf held cameras and other things that could be used in surveillance. Maybe. Thing was, it would be a waste of talent for Juke to just give up and become a total drunk. “It’s the end of the day. Why don’t we grab a drink? Um, like some coffee or something? We can talk about the case and how you’ve been.”

“Coffee?” Juke’s face sagged into a grimace. “I guess I could go for a cup. Or a beer.”

I shot him a look.

“A cup of joe it is,” he said.

Honestly, I could have gone for a beer myself, and I hardly drank anything but an occasional glass of wine. I had made an exception the night I did the stakeout with Cricket, but only because I couldn’t afford the kind of wine she’d probably casually taken from her collection. Hey, I’m an opportunist. “Where’s the closest diner?”

“We can go downstairs. Dak always has coffee.”

I wasn’t prepared for that. “Um, you want me to take you to a bar to get sober?”

“Dak makes a helluva cup of coffee.” Juke shoved the form he’d finally located at me as he passed by.

I did not want to see Dak. Not on a good day. Definitely not on a day when I wore my least favorite pair of jeans and had a grape-jelly smudge on the cuff of the vintage blouse I had found in Cricket’s castoff bin. I’m not sure why she’d tossed it. Probably didn’t feel vintage enough for her couture corner. The avocado-green silk was by some designer I had never heard of and hung beautifully, so there was that, but my hair hadn’t been washed that morning. Settling on applying a few bobby pins, I had done a twist thing that was likely super sad at present. I pressed my naked lips together. “Um, I—”

But it was too late, because someone who had obviously had—I eyed the top bottle in the wastebasket—too much Wild Turkey was already out the door.

I smoothed my hair, shoved the form for Cricket into my canvas bag, and followed my cousin down the metal steps. At the bottom, Juke pivoted toward the back door.