Chapter 1

The name’s Jackie Jones. I’m part of the breed of licensed private investigators who live by their wits, survive on instincts, and take each case as though it may be their last. I also happen to be an African American woman, which works just fine for me but scares the hell out of others, namely the predominantly white male P.I. establishment, who are not accustomed to seeing African American women making a damned good living (well let’s just say I manage to pay the bills and have some left over for myself, most of the time) in the business of private investigations.

I live in and work out of Detroit, Michigan—a place where I grew up and survived the mean streets that seem to be getting meaner. I used to be a homicide cop for the Detroit Police Department. Stress, burnout, and a real problem with think-they-know-it-all authority figures who really didn’t know a damned thing about crime, justice, and the Detroit way of dealing with either convinced me it was time to turn in my badge and find a new way to make a living.

During my days on the force, I spent my nights earning a Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice at the University of Detroit. I’m still working on my Ph.D. in private detectiveology, where every day is a learning experience. I pack a .40 or a 9mm pistol—both made by Smith & Wesson—depending on my mood. And I’m not afraid to use either.

I consider myself somewhat of a feminist. Only I don’t see men as enemies but equals, and sometimes very necessary, if you know what I mean. If I were to describe myself character-wise, the adjectives that come to mind are very much feminine, adventurous yet conservative, streetwise but often relying on intellect to get me over the hump, tough when I have to be, and romantic when I want to be. I also happen to be divorced, which can have a prolonged negative effect on anyone’s romantic pulse, much less libido.

I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’m attractive. I’m confident enough to believe it. I have an enviable complexion that falls somewhere between mahogany and oak. My naturally curly black hair (aided and abetted by some blondish highlights) perfectly frames a face with high cheekbones. I am blessed with large brown eyes and a cleft in my chin, courtesy of my father and his father. Standing 5’ 8” in my bare feet, I tip the scales at around 128 pounds.

I recently celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday. In truth, it wasn’t much of a celebration. I spent the entire day holed up in my house with my dog, Leroy, wondering what the future was likely to bring and glad to put much of the past behind me. That included my ex, Frank Jones, whose greatest contribution to my life and times was making me realize that no man was worth sacrificing one’s own identity and integrity, even if it meant losing him.

I did lose him five years ago, after deciding I had no desire to share him with his mistress. It was a decision I firmly stand by today and am definitely the better for.

At least I convinced myself that was the case even as I came face to face with the subject in question on a hot, muggy afternoon at the end of July. I had just filed away some papers when he walked into my office out of the blue. It was his first visit since I joined the ranks of the private dicks. The tremulous half little smile that played on his lips told me that he was not entirely comfortable being there. I felt just as awkward for probably the same reason, other than that he was every bit the physical specimen I had fallen in love with another lifetime ago. Tall, dark, and handsome, he almost looked as if he had just stepped off a college campus (had his prematurely graying black hair cropped closely to his head not given him away) rather than being the city’s first African American district attorney at the relatively young age of thirty-eight. A tailored navy suit fit smartly on his svelte frame.

We had managed to avoid bumping into each other for over a year now, so quite naturally my curiosity was piqued as to why he was here now. Rather than appear too overeager, I decided to wait and let him take the lead.

“Hi,” I muttered as I eased my way back to my desk and shuffled some papers to at least give the guise of being busy. In fact, I was between cases, having just successfully rescued a runaway daughter from a pimp who was unwilling to give her up without one helluva fight. He got one, and some. Whether or not the daughter would stay put or stray again was anyone’s guess.

“Nice office,” the words of dishonesty squeezed from Frank’s mouth. He made a feeble attempt to shift his deep brown eyes this way and that. What he saw was a cramped but affordable office with second-hand furnishings, a single four-drawer file cabinet, and a crowded desktop that included a notebook PC and portable printer. A fan stuck in the window blew in hot air.

I gave him a proud look and said: “At least I own everything in it.”

He tried to stretch that half smile but failed miserably. “I’ve been meaning to stop by, see how things were going, but between work and—”

I was only too happy to bail him out in this instance, though I had the feeling he was stalling. “Don’t torture yourself, Frank. It’s a little late for a guilt trip. Or have you forgotten that we’re not married anymore...?”

At least not to each other, I told myself resentfully. Six months after our divorce was finalized, he and the mistress tied the knot. Rumor had it she was pregnant at the time. Rarely did I take rumors as gospel, but the newlyweds did produce a baby girl shortly thereafter. I never wanted kids; Frank did.

To this day we’ve never discussed whether that was the beginning of the end or just the beginning of his wandering eyes. Either way, it did little to erase the self-doubts, what might have beens, or what had transpired since.

“Like it or not, a part of us will always be married, Jackie,” he declared, “at least in spirit.”

“If you say so.” I curled my lip at him.

He seemed pleased with himself in that moment. I didn’t share the feeling.

“Do you plan to tell me why the hell you’re here, Frank?” I decided to go for it since he seemed willing to take his own sweet time. “Or am I supposed to guess what reason my ex-husband might have for paying me an office visit...?” I honestly couldn’t think of any.

His smile faded. “Still as impatient as ever, I see—”

I frowned. “Guess some things never change...”

We eyeballed each other for a moment or two of reflection. Finally he asked coolly: “Mind if I sit?”

I indicated either of the frumpy wooden chairs opposite my desk. He took one and stared blankly at me. I stared back and waited with curiosity. I suddenly felt compelled to ask: “How’s your wife and…?” At about the same time he was saying:

“I’d like to hire you, Jackie...”

My question could wait. If I hadn’t known better, I thought I just heard Frank Jones actually say he wanted to hire me! If the thought wasn’t so absurd, I might have burst into laughter at that moment. Instead, I forced myself to give him an even voiced, “I’m listening—”

He shifted in the chair unsteadily. “I think Candi is cheating on me...”

He was referring to wife number two. I’d always detested the idea that someone named Candi took my place. It was as if that somehow made her more sweet or appetizing. Apparently a certain someone must have concurred.

I resisted the urge to say what goes around comes around. Oh, what the hell, I thought. “Now isn’t that just too damn bad—” I smiled when I said it.

Frank peered at me, clearly annoyed and perhaps embarrassed. “I’m not looking for sympathy or amusement.”

I got serious again. “Could’ve fooled me.” A well-timed sigh. “Exactly what is it you want from me, Frank?” I dared ask, almost afraid of his answer.

He recomposed himself, and after a moment or two said: “I’d like you to follow her around, see where she goes, who she talks to...”

I suddenly found myself laughing, probably to keep from crying. When I finally stopped, I asked what was going through my mind: “You aren’t serious?” though something told me he was. “You don’t really expect me, of all people, to spy on the very bitch-slash-bimbo you left me for...?”

His thick brows bridged. “Can you lay off the name calling? I was hoping this would be a bit more civilized—”

I was almost enjoying this. Almost. “Get real, Frank. You didn’t come here for civility. That ended between us the day you decided I wasn’t enough for you.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “Remember who kicked out who? It’s not like I’m asking you to do something illegal. Isn’t this the sort of work a private investigator does? Or is my money not green enough for you—?”

I leaned at him, anger building up that I’d thought was buried for good. “Don’t patronize me, Frank! It’s not about money. It’s about respect! You’ve got a helluva lot of nerve coming into my office and asking me to snoop on your wife. I’m afraid I don’t come that cheap—” I took satisfaction in making that abundantly clear to him.

He actually seemed shocked by my reaction, and maybe even hurt. “I didn’t come here to insult you, Jackie. I came, dammit, because I need your help...” He batted his eyes at me emotionally. “You think it was easy for me to come to you with my, uh, problem? Hell no, it wasn’t, but I did because I thought you’d understand—”

“Sure I understand all right,” came a sardonic but thoughtful reply. “You’re feeling betrayed, humiliated, and agony with your suspicions. Am I right?” I was sounding like a still bitter ex-wife and found it to be oddly refreshing.

Frank sighed, almost exhausted. “You’re never gonna give it up, are you? The spiteful wife routine? What happened between us is history, Jackie. Right or wrong, I can’t do a damned thing about it now.” He hoisted to his feet. “I guess it was a mistake coming here. I thought you were professional enough to take on any case without letting your personal feelings get in the way. Obviously I was wrong...”

Frank always had an incredible way of being able to manipulate people—especially me—into seeing things his way. Not this time! I was not about to be conned into feeling guilty or unprofessional because I refused to take a case that was far too personal and could only stir up feelings that I would just as soon forget, if that was possible.

I got to my feet and said to his back what I felt at the time to be a legitimate question under the circumstances: “Why me, Frank? Surely you could find some other private eye in all of Detroit to follow your wife around—one who didn’t happen to be your ex-wife.”

He turned on me and made me think the answer should have been as obvious to me as it was to him. “Do you even have to ask why?” he said. “I’m the damned D.A. The last thing I want or need is to make public the fact that I think my wife—the mother of my three-year-old little girl—is cheating on me. You’re the only private detective I could count on for a discreet investigation that wouldn’t come back to haunt me.” He rubbed his nose with some misgiving. “I guess in some ways it already has—”

I suppose I took it to heart that he trusted me enough to feel I would handle such an investigation with the utmost discretion. I was not sure, all things considered, that I could trust myself as much.

“I can recommend someone—” I offered as a goodwill gesture.

“Don’t do me any favors,” he muttered irritably, then left me standing there as he walked to the door, glared back once more, and vanished.

I slumped back into my chair, angry that he had put us both in an unenviable position. In truth, things had not been all that great for us even before the other woman entered the picture. Frank’s obsession with getting ahead at all costs and insistence on meticulousness in every aspect of our lives clashed heavily with my decidedly lower aspirations and lack of order in my life. Our differences on the issue of children hadn’t helped matters either.

The final straw came when I learned of his affair and he didn’t really seem to give a damn. Or at least he was not prepared at the time to make what I believed to be the intelligent choice between her and me.

I played solitaire on the PC as I sought to hold my ground where it concerned my ex. It had been over between us for a long time. I owed him nothing but the memories of days gone by. Neither of us had even pretended to be friends once our relationship had officially ceased. What was the point when we had gone too far beyond friendship to go back? As far as I was concerned that overused cliché applied perfectly when I thought of Frank: He had made his own damned bed and now had to lay in it—but not with me!

***

The privilege of sharing bed space with me in the post Frank Jones era currently belonged to Sam Gregory Taylor. A homicide detective for the Detroit P.D., Sam had transferred to the department from Seattle just after I had gone into early retirement. He was forty-two, divorced, and handsome in his own rough-hewn way with crafty blue eyes, thinning blonde hair, a bushy moustache, and six foot two inches of solid frame.

Yes, it is an interracial relationship and, yes, we have received our share of flak from those who refuse to accept the fact that we live in the 2000s, not the 1800s. If it bothered Sam, he wasn’t saying. For my part, I decided it just came with the territory. After a life where I had already broken down more than my share of barriers, this was just another one. I was not about to let anyone tell me how to run my life and who with.

Sam and I had been dating for just over a year when Frank reintroduced himself to me that day. By then I had become extremely possessive of my privacy and was in no hurry to share my space with anyone on a permanent basis. Sam seemed to understand and accept this, which probably accounted for half of why we’ve managed to make it work. The other half was that he tolerated my mood swings, knew when to leave me alone, was a great cook, and an even better lover. A fringe benefit of having Sam around was that he came in handy during those not so rare occasions when I needed official snooping or able-bodied assistance.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the lady,” hummed Sam in bed, his arm holding me close to his body, “but from what I’ve heard, the D.A.’s wife is a real beaut—”

I placed an elbow in his side and watched him wince. “I wouldn’t know about that,” I said tartly. “And now is definitely not the time for you to fantasize about her—” The afterglow was dimming quickly.

Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. She’s not my type—” He kissed me on the cheek. “I only go for the tanned ones...”

I took that as a compliment, particularly when I knew that interracial dating was as new to him as it was for me.

Sam sat up and reached for his cigarettes on the nightstand. After lighting up, he asked nonchalantly: “Are you going to take the case?”

I favored him dumbfounded while covering myself with the sheet. “What case?”

“Jones versus Jones,” he said cutely. “Sounds like pretty routine stuff to me...” Smoke billowed from his nostrils. “Let’s face it, it took guts for Frank Jones to come to you for help.”

My eyes narrowed at him. “Gimme a break, Sam! Guts or not, why the hell would I want to find out for poor Frank if his wife is fooling around on him?”

“What are you afraid of?” Sam asked.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I insisted. Except maybe of not being in full control of my own life at all times. It didn’t work that way in the real world. We were all victims of circumstances for which we often had little to no control.

Sam inhaled the cigarette while eyeing me suspiciously. “You don’t still have the hots for your ex, do you?”

I stared at his broad, hairy chest, then into his eyes, and said sarcastically: “What do you think?” He gave me that look all men have—the one that says they need to hear the words of reassurance. “No, I’m not still hung up on Frank,” I said with an edge to my voice, and locked my eyes onto a dime sized mole on his shoulder. “You of all people should know that, Sam. I don’t make a habit of sleeping with one person while fantasizing about another—” I hoped that would erase all doubts.

It didn’t. “Prove it,” Sam challenged me, “if only to yourself, and maybe to Frank Jones. Take his case just as you would any other client. After all, it’s just business, right?” He twisted his lips at me, and added: “Who knows, you might even find it therapeutic—”

I sneered at him. “Thanks for the advice.”

He grinned and took one final drag on the cigarette. “Just wait till you get my bill.”

I climbed out of his bed and went for my clothes that were scattered about the floor.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked with a furrowed brow.

“I’m going home.”

“Why?”

I slid into my jeans. “I have to feed my dog—”

He stood. “Can’t that wait?”

“No. He starts to get antsy when he goes all day without eating.” I couldn’t find my blouse, which seemed to work to Sam’s advantage.

He came up behind me and wrapped massive arms around my waist. “Sure you aren’t pissed at me?”

I wiggled out of his arms and gave him a doubtful look. “There’s nothing to be pissed about—”

He looked relieved. “Good. Just didn’t want to see you throw away the D.A.’s money for the wrong reasons.”

He was beginning to press his luck and my patience. I sighed and told him: “This may come as a surprise to you, Sam, but what’s wrong for one person may be right for another—”

I admit I was a little pissed at Sam for seeming to represent the typical male in sizing up the situation. It was as if there was no room in the scheme of things for emotional baggage or ethical principles. I was not sure I bought into that or if he really did.

I found my blouse, which had somehow ended up underneath Sam’s slacks. He gathered his clothing. “Any chance we can start the night over?” he asked lamely.

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “Don’t ask more of yourself then you’re capable of delivering—”

“Try me,” he dared.

Tempting, I thought, but said: “Isn’t that what I just did?” and peeked furtively at the bed that betrayed the activity that had taken place there tonight.

“At least let me drive you home,” Sam offered seemingly almost out of desperation.

“My car will get me there just as quickly,” I responded. He was silent. I kissed him lightly on the mouth and said: “You can walk me to the door though.”

I could never be upset with Sam for very long. His intentions were usually anything but self-serving. I couldn’t help but wonder if in pushing me into this case, he was more motivated by his own insecurities than any self-doubts I may have had.

My instincts told me that both were likely to be tested before this thing was over.

Chapter 2

I left Sam’s house at eight-thirty. It was the time of year when the days were long, the nights restless, and the mosquitoes insatiable. I popped a Whitney Houston CD in for the twenty minute drive home on a day that had begun with Frank and ended with Sam.

I drove a Ford Taurus that I neither loved nor hated, but managed to fit into my current monthly payment budget. However, it was currently acting up—the air conditioner insisted on blowing out nothing but hot air. Given that my warranty had recently expired, I’d put having it serviced on hold until I got a few more pressing financial matters out of the way. I only hoped nothing else would stop working on it.

I lived on the northwest side of the Motor City in the house I grew up in. As fortune would have it, I bought it from the people who bought it from my parents four years ago. My parents had purchased the house thirty years earlier when brand new houses were still affordable for blue collar families. But when my dad retired from Ford, he and my mother did what others could only dream of—they took their life savings and went to live in the Bahamas. It gave me a place to visit whenever I needed some R & R from the urban jungle.

The house I bought was a far cry from the one I remembered from years gone by. On the verge of being condemned due to deterioration and leaking pipes, I got it for next to nothing. After two years of hard work and lost sleep, I was finally beginning to feel it was a home again.

I lived on a dead end street in the last house on the block. The neighborhood itself had gone through some major changes since we first moved there in the late sixties. Then it was predominantly Jewish. By the time I went to college it was predominantly African American. Now it had become a strange mixture of young, middle class African American, Hispanic, and white families, with a sprinkle of gay couples and single parents.

I could hear my dog barking as I pulled into my driveway. He was a five-year-old German Shepherd named Leroy, after my late uncle who was as mean as a junkyard dog and ornery as ever. In fact, more often than not, Leroy was just the opposite—sweet and gentle, as long as he was not provoked.

My opening the front door was all he needed to make me eat my thoughts as he literally attacked me. Okay, so it was just his way of playing and asking me, where the hell have you been all day? We wrestled for a few minutes before I fed him, then myself.

While Leroy ran around the backyard, I picked some of the vegetables I took pride in growing: peas, turnip greens, and carrots. Back inside, I watered the plants I kept throughout the house, giving it an almost botanical gardens type look.

By the time I was ready for bed, I had tucked Leroy in his basement mattress, read a couple of chapters of a novel, watched the news, showered, and fallen asleep while listening to a CD of the Temptations’ greatest hits. Before drifting off to dreamland, I had more or less decided that, for better or worse, I would take on the task of spying on Frank’s wife. Business was business, I convinced myself, even if it happened to involve your ex-husband and his ex-mistress. I still hadn’t decided if I wanted his suspicions to prove false or right on the money.

Only time would tell...

***

Every morning at five o’clock, Leroy and I took to the streets and sidewalks for an hour or so of jogging. Staying in shape these days was becoming more and more difficult as gravity and age became natural obstacles. Fortunately for me I had determination and powerful lower legs on my side.

It was seven o’clock when I looked up Frank’s number in the phone book. As expected, it was unlisted. Somehow I felt as if I had been given a reprieve. I called the district attorney’s office and left a message for him. No sooner had I hung up, when the phone rang. It was Frank.

“I just got in,” he said, sounding out of breath.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Do you still need a private investigator?” I asked after a long pause.

He made a funny noise. “Are you offering your services?”

“At three hundred fifty bucks a day, plus expenses,” I said succinctly.

“When can you start?” he asked anxiously.

Was he that desperate to see if his wife was sleeping around on him? “If you can stop by the office this afternoon to go over some details,” I told him, “I’ll be happy to begin right away.”

“How about eleven?”

“I’ll see you then.”

I sat on the couch for several minutes after hanging up, wondering if I was doing the right thing in getting involved in my ex-husband’s marital problems. I had to admit, there was a certain amount of irony and a lesser degree of curiosity in taking this case. My wish was that it was over and done with as soon as possible, with minimal casualties along the way.

“Where do I begin—?” Frank looked at my desk reflectively.

I found myself doing the same thing. When we first met I was a rookie cop and he was a rookie prosecutor. In effect, we were still rookies at communicating with each other in our post marriage era. And it wasn’t going to get any easier.

“Why don’t you start off by telling me what makes you think your wife is cheating on you?” I suggested.

Frank reverse-crossed his legs clumsily. “There are any number of reasons. She’s never home and when she is, she’s usually bitchy, lies about where she’s been, and who with, and—” he forced himself to look at me—“we haven’t made love in weeks...”

I colored a little in that moment where it seemed as if our intimate past had come back to haunt us. He had certainly given what seemed to be legitimate reasons for his suspicions, I thought, while taking notes and attempting to treat his case as I would any other client’s. That—I tossed him a straight gaze—seemed to be asking the impossible.

“I take it she doesn’t work?” I’d heard that through the grapevine.

“Not on this planet,” he moaned. “The word work is not even in her vocabulary—”

Strangely enough, one of Frank’s pet peeves in our relationship was that I did work. It had something to do with the balance of power most men prefer to have in their favor. Had he changed his tune over time...?

Another one of those awkward moments. “What about your child?” I asked. “Most mothers”—or so I’d been told—“have their hands full just getting through the day.”

Frank furrowed his brow. “One of the advantages of being D.A. is that you can afford hired help. Candi has probably made an art form out of it. Usually the only time I can get her to live up to her responsibilities of being a mother is when she wants something—”

A sad statement, I thought, if true. “Have you confronted her about your suspicions?”

He paused. “Yes—”

“And?”

“She denies it.” He curled one side of his mouth upward. “She says I’m jealous and paranoid but way off base.”

I had never known Frank to be jealous or paranoid, probably because I gave him no reason to be. On the other hand, the word possessiveness did come to mind. I asked: “Where does she claim she’s been when she goes out?”

“Shopping or at a girlfriend’s.”

“What makes you think she’s lying?”

He made a contorted face. “She never shows me anything she bought during the times in question, which she never has trouble doing the rest of the time she decides she wants to run up the charge cards.” A sigh. “As for friends, I’ve never known Candi to have any female—”

We were interrupted by the untimely, irritating presence of a hornet that seemed to take delight in watching us squirm. It finally had the decency to land in a most appropriate spot. I kept an insect swatter in my desk for such routine occasions and didn’t hesitate to use it.

“Don’t move!” I ordered Frank, who had apparently lost sight of the critter. I raised the swatter, took two looping steps, and lowered the boom right between Frank’s legs. Bull’s-eye! Frank buckled, more from embarrassment than anything else.

“Sorry,” I claimed, and managed to suppress a giggle. It felt better than I could have expected. “Let me clean that off you...” I yanked a couple of Kleenex from the box I kept on the desk and scooped up the victim.

Frank grimaced. “Dammit, Jackie! Couldn’t you have waited for it to land somewhere else? I just had these pants cleaned.” He grabbed two Kleenex to finish off the wiping—which turned into smearing more than anything else—as best as possible.

“Have them cleaned again,” I offered half sympathetically, “and send me the bill.” I made a feeble attempt at justification. “Sometimes they fly around for hours. When it landed, I didn’t want to blow my opportunity.”

“And I’ll just bet you loved every moment of it,” he grumbled, and now seemed to find humor in it himself. “I suppose I had that one coming—long overdue.” He gave a terse chuckle. I smiled but kept my mouth shut. “At least it was that poor bastard”—he glanced into the wastebasket—“who got the worst of it!”

The incident appeared to break the tension in the air that had been thick as syrup. A moment later it was back to the business at hand. I asked: “Do you have a picture of your wife?” I had never had the pleasure (or lack of, was probably more like it) of meeting or laying eyes on his former mistress, having chosen to spare myself the indignity.

Frank removed a five-by-seven picture from inside his suit coat pocket, and handed it to me. It was a wedding photo of him and his bride.

“It was all I could find,” he said guiltily. “We haven’t taken many pictures—”

Frank’s former mistress and current wife was a white woman, which did not come as a total shock to me. Once when we got into a verbal fight, he had thrown that in my face, telling me he was tired of bitchy black women and had met a white woman who knew how to treat a man right. I took it for what it was worth and let him know it.

She was probably ten years Frank’s junior, blonde, green-eyed, and shapely in what looked to be a very expensive gown, or certainly more than we could afford to pay for mine. Whether I cared to admit it or not, Frank could have chosen a worse looking woman to be his mistress and bride. I unwittingly found myself sneering.

“This one will do,” I said evenly, putting the photo on my desk. “I’ll also need your address, the type of car she drives, and some idea of what time she likes to go out—”

“No problem.” muttered Frank. He dug into his wallet and pulled out a snapshot. Sporting a weak smile, he said: “Thought you might like to see what my daughter looks like—”

Silently I took the picture. It showed a light skinned baby not more than a year old, with beautiful brown eyes like her father’s, and curly black hair. “Her name is Amanda,” Frank said proudly, “named after my mother...” in case I’d forgotten.

I tried to imagine her as my own—ours. That thought quickly gave way to reality. I bit the inside of my lip, but managed a smile while handing him back the photo. “She’s cute,” I had to admit.

He beamed. “You should see her now—”

It was something I was understandably in no hurry to do. I changed the subject by sliding him a yellow pad to write on. Apparently he got the message.

“So what happens if your wife is cheating on you?” I asked more out of curiosity than anything else.

Frank shrugged. “Probably a divorce...” Our eyes locked, and he said: “Guess I really never knew what I had with you, until it was too late—”

“Don’t, Frank—” I said quickly for both our sakes. “Let’s just keep this strictly professional—”

He seemed to contemplate it for a long moment before saying acquiescently: “What made you change your mind about taking my case? Or is that privileged information?”

I wet my lips and said levelly: “There is no hidden agenda here, Frank. I felt there was no reason why I couldn’t work for you just as I would anyone who came into this office and requested my services. It’s as simple as that!” To suggest anything else would only complicate matters.

My response seemed to irk Frank but he tried hard not to show it. “So how much of an advance do you want?” He dug his wallet out.

Although I was sorely in need of money with bills coming due, in this instance of perhaps personal pride or financial foolishness, I said evenly: “You’ll get my bill in full once I’ve completed the investigation—”

He nodded. “You make the rules...”

I stood. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something one way or the other—”

Frank rose almost reluctantly, and favored me with a grim look. “Thanks for your help, Jackie. If you run into any roadblocks, don’t hesitate to let me know. Candi may be giving it up to someone other than me, but she sure as hell is not gonna spread her legs for you without one helluva fight to hold on to what she thinks is rightfully hers—”

***

I was still pondering Frank’s parting words as I sat in my car outside his house. By the looks of it, I could see what Candi wanted to hold onto. The house was located in one of Detroit’s most exclusive sections and boasted magnificent angles, windows at every turn, an entry blocked from the street by an electronic gate, and expense with a capital E! A bit of envy overcame me as I remembered the cramped, one bedroom apartment Frank and I had called home when money was obviously a lot harder to come by, even with two incomes.

The thought subsided when at ten a.m. precisely, Candi Jones emerged from the house with her daughter. Amanda was wearing a pink dress. She held her mother’s hand seemingly under protest.

Candi looked relaxed in a purplish jumpsuit that clung to her body and accentuated an ample chest. She wore high heels. Permed, feathered blonde hair hung thickly across her shoulders. She removed sunglasses from an oversized purse and covered her eyes before heading toward a bright red BMW.

I disappeared from view as the BMW sped by me. Was she in a hurry or what? I wondered sardonically while starting my car. Or was this just her normal reckless way of driving? I had to put on the burners just to keep up!

During my surveillance, I considered the irony that Frank and I had both ended up in interracial relationships. I wondered what he would think of Sam? What would Sam think of him?

These musings drifted away as I followed Candi to a day care center, where she literally dropped Amanda off before going it alone to some unknown destination. For a time she seemed to be driving just for the sake of driving. This exercise in tire wear came to a head when she turned into the parking lot of the area’s biggest indoor shopping mall: Fairlane Town Center.

I parked not far from her and waited while she took extraordinary pains to redo her face and hair. Normally I had a feel for whether or not a spouse was having an affair. But in this case my instincts were flawed. Spying on an ex-husband’s current wife probably took away any edge in objectivity. But there was more to it than that, I thought. Judging by Frank’s complaints about Candi, the marriage seemed more or less doomed whether she was having an affair or not. Or was that somehow wishful thinking on my part?

Why on earth would Frank want to stay married to someone who mistreated him and apparently neglected their daughter...? On the other hand, my mind wandered, if Candi was willing to give me one “helluva fight” to keep the life and luxuries she had, why would she risk it all by having an affair that she seemingly did not give a damn if her husband was privy to or not—?

Somehow it didn’t add up, I told myself, while knowing from firsthand experience that marital triangles rarely did to everyone’s satisfaction.

Candi left her car and headed towards the mall. I followed from a safe distance. An unlikely place to meet a lover, I thought, but not impossible. Maybe she would surprise me.

If that was to be, she certainly was taking her own good time about it. Candi spent four exhausting hours at the mall. This was one time in which she did take full advantage of her credit cards. She left with several bags, but no lover.

Her next stop was a manicurist. She was given the full fingers and toes treatment by a handsome man in his forties. Seemed innocent enough, I thought. No sign of any hanky panky between them outside of some flirting, mostly by her. I took pictures just for the hell of it.

Things finally began to get interesting when I tailed Candi to a park and she met with a man near an African American cultural exhibit. He was dark skinned, late thirties, bald, and on the heavy side. They exchanged a few words before Candi handed him an envelope. I captured it on film and watched through the telephoto lens as he riffled through what could only have been money. More words were exchanged before he reached into his pocket and quickly—his eyes darting left and right—placed a small plastic bag into Candi’s palm, and curled her fingers around it.

My guess was that I’d just witnessed a drug transaction between a dealer and the wife of the district attorney. Suddenly this case took on far greater implications than a wife having an affair. I found myself almost wishing it had been something as simple and non-criminal as adultery. Was this the essence of Candi’s “affair”—drug abuse? Did Frank even have a clue?