Deconstructed(43)

“Later,” I called, checking the time on my phone. It was 10:27 a.m. Close enough to the meeting time, so I climbed the metal stairs up to the office of Juke Jefferson, private investigator. The stairs were a bit rusty, but I felt optimistic. Not because of Griffin, who I was certain still thought me a blonde piece of fluff, but because . . . I wasn’t certain. Because last night my husband had caught me trying to catch him cheating. And then he tried to have sex with me like I would want him to even touch me. And then I had to clean up two piles of dog vomit. So why I felt better, I hadn’t a clue. But I did.

I knocked on the door, and someone hollered for me to “come on in.”

I pushed inside, and my immediate impression of Juke and his office made me wince. Not merely because it was decorated in early-eighties shag carpet and wood paneling or because Juke looked a bit rumpled with a swatch of shaving cream on his chin, but because the overall aura (if one believed in such) was of despair. My hopefulness darted behind reality and hunkered there.

“Hello,” I said, saying a prayer that my first impression was dead wrong.

Juke didn’t rise but waved toward a chair that had seen better days twenty years ago. “Hey, take a seat.”

The closer I got to him, the more he smelled of Barbasol shaving cream and mint toothpaste. I glanced at the lone tweed couch and noted a neatly folded blanket, an empty tumbler, and a television monitor angled toward the sofa. I didn’t need a private eye to tell me that Juke had likely been sleeping one off when I phoned.

I sank down a bit too prissily on his chair and crossed my legs in the ladylike manner my mother had insisted upon. “I’m Catherine Crosby, but you can call me Cricket. I’m here about my husband. I need photographic proof that he’s screwing my daughter’s tennis coach. Only problem is that he now knows that I know, so he might be harder to catch.”

Juke arched an inquisitive brow—one that could stand a bit of grooming.

“You see, I hired Patrick Vitt because he was recommended but—”

“He’s an asshole,” Juke interrupted.

“Yes. He is. But I didn’t know that when I hired him. At any rate, he allowed himself to be paid off by my husband while he was sitting outside her house, and—”

“Wait,” Juke interrupted again, holding up a hand and leaning forward. “You’re telling me that Pat took money from your husband while he was on the job?”

“Yes, and he didn’t even try to deny it. I saw it with these two eyes.” I jabbed my fingers toward my eyes.

“How’d you do that?” Juke leaned forward, crossing his arms on the cluttered desk. At that moment, I allowed hope to emerge from where it had been hiding. Juke looked pissed, if not still a bit slovenly. With some grooming and maybe less booze, he could clean up nicely. He had pretty eyes and a full head of hair, and his shirt looked clean. Not to mention, he was outraged by a fellow PI’s abuse of power. He’d earned a bit more favor with me.

“I was just making sure he was watching the house,” I said.

Juke narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, okay, I get it.”

And I knew he did. I couldn’t help torturing myself, and I didn’t know why I kept driving by that stupid woman’s house. Probably needed to get a therapist on my payroll, too. But in actuality my weird obsession with seeing my husband parked in front of Stephanie’s house had proven fortuitous. If I hadn’t spied, then I wouldn’t have seen the transaction. Patrick probably would have told me that he had nothing and would have strung me along until Scott made the first move and left me.

“So your old man knows you’re trying to bust him?”

“Well, not necessarily me. Scott just knows someone is watching him. Because Patrick refused to tell him who had hired him. He just agreed to taking the money and leaving him alone.”

Juke snorted. “Honor among thieves.”

“Yeah, I guess, but Scott knows it’s probably me. Who else would it be? And he didn’t confront me last night, but the game is afoot. Trust me.”

Juke leaned back in his chair, the squeak making me wince, and tented his hands over his stomach. “Well, that will make it difficult. We’re going to have to be smarter than—what’s his name again?”

“Scott.”

“So tell me about Scott.”

I spent the next ten minutes going over everything I could think of that would help Juke—Scott’s personality, his friends, his habits, his job—and then I paid the retainer that Patrick Vitt had refunded me through Venmo minutes ago. Which made me wonder just how much my ass of a husband had paid him out on the street. After I finished, I rose and extended my hand.

Finally, Juke stood, and I saw that he, too, was tall like Griffin, but not nearly as muscled. Juke looked like someone had backed over him a few times, and his eyes looked haunted. I wondered about his story but not enough to pursue it. He took my hand. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you. I expect to hear from you in a few days.”

“May take a week or so.”

“The sooner the better. I have an attorney, and she’s proceeding with typing up the petition. She’ll file as soon as you get the proof we need. We want to strike first.”

He dropped my hand. “Okay, then.”

I started for the door.