BETWEEN US GIRLS

by Jan Christensen

After pulling the purple V-neck sweater over her head at the stoplight , and silently thanking the inventor of wig tape, Darlene stomped on the gas when the light changed. She barely managed to avoid a collision with a guy in a white convertible who slid through on the red.

She automatically gave him the finger, then fumbled in her purse for her cell. Better call Hector.

"Yes."

"It's me," Darlene said as she passed a truck on the right and , steering with her knees, lit a cigarette.

"Where the hell are you?" Hector asked.

"Heading your direction. Should be there in about ten minutes."

"This is not working out, Darlene. You're already fifteen minutes late."

"I know, I know. Couldn't be helped. I was, um, having a bit of stomach trouble."

"Oh," Hector said. He was almost phobic about illnesses of any kind. "Don't bring it here."

"No, I think it was something I ate." She took a puff on the cigarette, turned off the parkway and headed to the office.

"Well, don't get into a wreck on the way."

"I never get into wrecks," she said in her loftiest tone.

"Uh - huh."

"See you in a few minutes." After hanging up, she snuffed out the cigarette and turned up the radio.

Seven minutes later, she pulled up in front of the office in a strip mall. A large sign with black letters announced: Saunders & Masters, Private Investigators. Darlene found Sylvie at the reception desk reading Cosmo .

"You're late," Sylvie said, barely glancing up.

"No kidding. You've met Jack?"

Sylvie nodded.

"Well, last night I didn't need any hints from Cosmo ."

Sylvie's eyes widened. Her gaze dropped to the cover which touted another article on how to please a man. "Lucky you," Sylvie said. "But I had no idea Jack was gay. All the good looking ones are, it seems. Hector's furious."

"I'll handle Hector."

"And just how do you plan to do that?" Hector said behind her.

Darlene swung around. How much had he heard? He gave no indication he'd heard what she said about Jack. She was sure if he had, he'd dissolve the partnership on the spot. Jack was a client, after all.

"I plan to charm you, of course," she said, giving him her biggest smile.

She studied him. As handsome as ever in that esthetic way she'd once liked so much. His gray-at-the-temples hair was thinning a bit, but his blue eyes were as piercing as ever, and his sensuous lips made a nice contrast to the rest of his face. Slender, his gray suit fit him perfectly, and the red tie against the snowy French-cuffed shirt added just the right touch.

Frowning at her, he gestured toward his office, and she followed him inside.

"I swear, Darlene, if you weren't good at your job, I don't know what I'd do. You know I cannot stand people being late."

"Hector," she said sweetly, plopping down into the visitor's chair, "I do apologize. But when the porcelain bowl calls, even the best of us have to answer."

Hector paled and glanced away. Then he looked at her hard. "You weren't hung over, were you?"

"Me?" Darlene tried to look insulted. "No, of course not." Unless, she thought, you can be hung over by what I did with Jack last night.

"Well. We have a new client. Her name is Jillian Morrison, and she arranged a ten o'clock appointment. From what she told me on the phone, I want you in on the interview."

"What'd she say?" Darlene asked, perking up.

"Thinks her husband's cheating. But she's also afraid he's into something illegal. She sounded very nervous, so I need you to help calm her down. You think you're up to that?"

"Sure," Darlene said, although she disliked hysterical women as much as the next guy.

"You need a scarf to cover up that big Adam's apple," Hector remarked dryly.

"Oh!" Darlene's hand touched her throat. In her haste, she'd forgotten to wear one of her "signature" scarves. Fortunately, she had several in her desk drawer. She stood up. "Anything else?"

"No, just be in here at ten. Which is about five minutes from now."

"I can read a clock," Darlene said haughtily as she left Hector to stew. Maybe it would make him a bit more tender.

Once it had been great between them. They'd been lovers, then decided to open the business together. They had fun setting up the office, and were totally amused that the initials of their business could be considered appropriate, although neither was into pain of any kind. But along the way, they found their work styles to be so completely different that the quarreling got in the way of business. They could no longer live together, so Darlene moved out. Now Hector frequently talked of dissolving the partnership, but Darlene had come to understand that he never would. They still loved and admired each other, but in a different way from when they'd been lovers. Hector wanted to run everything, and most of the time, Darlene was happy to let him. Most of the time.

She fixed the scarf around her neck and checked herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door—skin-tight black leather mini-skirt with the purple sweater and gold scarf looked great, if she did say so herself, and the gold boots made the outfit. Her blond wig was understated compared to most blond wigs, but she knew it complimented her rather strong, but still feminine-looking, features.

She entered the reception area to find a woman standing at Sylvie's desk. "I'm Mrs. Morrison, and I have an appointment."

Sylvie looked at her appointment book and said, "Yes, Mrs. Morrison, Mr. Saunders will be with you in a few minutes. Won't you have a seat?"

Darlene loved the way Sylvie donned her receptionist's hat. They had chosen her for both her looks and her experience as a corporate receptionist. She always wore demur suits, skirts just below the knees, barely there makeup and plain gold jewelry. She was tall and slender, rather plain - featured but pleasant looking. They paid her as much as most corporate assistants. Hector's trust fund made up any difference from what they pulled in as investigators. Some months were rather lean.

As Darlene walked by Mrs. Morrison on her way to Hector's office, she took note of the woman's age—mid-thirties ; shape—petite with a tiny waist ; her clothing—pressed jeans, camp shirt over t-shirt, running shoes—a bit tired around the eyes. Her blond hair was cut short and fanned around her face in an appealing style Darlene had never seen before.

"Company," Darlene said as she entered Hector's office and closed the door. Hector nodded.

"Send Mrs. Morrison in, Sylvie," he said into the intercom.

Sylvie opened the door and Mrs. Morrison made an entrance but hesitated when she saw Darlene. Darlene knew Hector caught it. Not much flew by Hector. After that slight hesitation, Mrs. Morrison sat in one of the visitor's chairs, smoothing her dress and crossing her legs. She looked around the room, apparently found it satisfactory, and fixed her gaze on Hector.

Hector had stood as she entered. Now he sat down and said, "Mrs. Morrison."

She nodded.

"What can we do for you?"

Mrs. Morrison glanced again at Darlene, then did an almost comic double take. "You're a man," she blurted out, then covered her mouth with her hand.

Hector looked at Darlene, surprised. Hardly anyone ever caught on.

"How'd you know?" Darlene asked.

Mrs. Morrison shrugged. She cocked her head and really looked at Darlene for a minute. "Feet and hands, I think. You also have a strong jaw."

Darlene rubbed her chin. She'd thought of plastic surgery but ruled it out. She really didn't like pain.

Hector cleared his throat. "You don't mind . . .?"

"No," Mrs. Morrison said. "It's all right. I can see how it would have its advantages." She studied Darlene some more.

"Well," Hector said, drawing her attention away from his partner. "What can we do for you, Mrs. Morrison?"

"Call me Jillian, please. As I told you on the phone, I'm pretty sure my husband is cheating on me. Or else he's into something he shouldn't be. Or both. I'd like you to investigate." Her gaze returned to Darlene. "Perhaps you can find out what's going on."

Darlene looked at Hector. She couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not. "We'll do our best," Hector said.

Jillian fidgeted with her purse strap. "How much?" she asked.

Hector explained their rates. Jillian hesitated, then drew out her wallet and counted out the retainer in cash.

Hector took the money, slid it into his middle desk drawer and leaned back in his chair. "What does your husband do for a living, Mrs. Morrison?"

"Jillian, please. He's a Karaoke disk jockey."

Darlene and Hector both blinked. "Don't think I've ever met one of those before," Darlene said.

Jillian smiled. "It is a bit unusual. And it's what drew us together. We both love music—all kinds of music. I was a singer for awhile before we got married. Evan saw me performing in Vegas one night about four years ago and introduced himself. We clicked right away, and we got married about a year later. My voice was never very strong, and after about another year, I found out I'd damaged my throat too much to ever sing again like I had before."

"That's a shame," Darlene murmured.

Jillian didn't acknowledge the comment. "We decided to start a family, but that hasn't happened yet." She drew in a large breath, making her chest rise provocatively. Times like this, Darlene wished she swung the other way, but all she felt was envy instead of lust.

Hector cleared his throat. He didn't like personal details, which Darlene found amusing in a gay man. "What makes you suspicious of Mr. Morrison now?"

"He works nights, of course, usually Friday and Saturday. Sometimes he gets an odd weekday gig. For a party. Lately, though, he's claimed he's getting more of those, and he's often gone on Tuesday night for some reason. He just doesn't talk as much as he used to. Evan loves to talk, but now . . . well, now he's just polite to me. Drives me crazy."

"Have you asked him about that?" Darlene asked.

"Yes. He denies that anything's changed. He swears he still loves me. In a way, I believe him. But he's changed, and I don't know why. It's making me nuts."

For the first time, Darlene saw some real emotion behind Jillian's cool exterior. In her experience as a private investigator, wives who suspected something were always right. This case would probably end up a heartbreaker for both wife and husband.

Hector asked for a few more details and found out where Evan was working next, then stood up. Jillian stood as well, and everyone shook hands.

They watched her leave, then Hector sat down again and looked at Darlene. "What do you think?"

"I think she's going to end up like most country songs. Sad and broken."

"Yes. I want you to attend his next gig, talk to him, then follow him around for awhile. Do you know if Roger's free this week?"

Roger was the freelancer they used the most. He was the least spooked by Darlene of anyone they hired. More amused than wary. Of course, Darlene never came onto the hired help. Well, so far. She'd never come on to a client before, either, until Jack. "I'll check," Darlene said.

Friday night Darlene and Roger entered the Grand Hotel lobby. Darlene walked to the front desk and asked where the reception for the Marlys was being held. When they arrived in the Grand Ballroom, they found the party in full swing. The bride and groom were doing a jitterbug while the rest of the party stood in a circle around them, singing and clapping. The groom's face was flushed and sweaty. The bride was having great difficulty keeping her new husband from stomping all over her billowing white skirt.

Darlene and Roger joined the crowd, but Darlene kept her eye on the disk jockey instead of the newly - married couple. Evan Morrison was fat and bald. He had a pleasant enough face, but certainly would not be classified as handsome. Darlene was surprised. She had figured a woman with Jillian's looks would have found someone dashing to marry. She realized Hector had not asked for a picture, figuring Evan would be easy to find at his next gig.

As they worked their way nearer to the spot where Evan was flipping through a huge CD album, Darlene and Roger both turned in time to see one of the busboys fumbling in a purse at one of the tables. Since all the people were facing the bride and groom, he had little chance of being caught. But caught he was. In three long strides, Darlene was near enough to clamp her large hand onto the thief's smaller one. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing. Nothing. It fell to the floor, and I just picked it up." Small and slender, he looked frightened and almost ill.

"Sure," Darlene said, tightening her grip. The purse fell from the man's hand, and Darlene led him away. Roger followed, looking amused. Roger often looked amused. He wasn't huge, only six feet and about two hundred pounds, so he could blend into a crowd and seem invisible on the street when tailing someone, but he was pure muscle. He had brown hair cut short, brown eyes, and even features, marred only by a thin scar which ran from left ear to his lip. Darlene had often wanted to ask him about that scar, or even trace it with her finger, but she didn't quite dare.

In a corner of the room, they boxed the guy in, and Darlene said, "Tell me all you know about the disk jockey."

Roger did his ferocious scowl, and Darlene did her most condescending smile.

"What?"

"You heard me. Tell me something interesting, and I'll let you go. But you're done thieving for tonight."

The young man held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. What do you want to know?"

"How well do you know him?"

"Hardly at all. I hardly know him."

"You're lying," Darlene said. "Do you know what Roger here and I do to liars?"

"No, no—oh, God."

"We eat them for dinner. Now tell me all about the disk jockey!"

The man's hands began to shake, and his lips trembled. "Well, he always works it so the crowd gets up from their tables and get s distracted so we can go through the purses. We only take cash, and never all of it. Most people don't really know how much they're carrying, so the police are hardly ever called. Most people don't tell anyone else, either. We split forty-sixty. He gets forty, I get sixty because the risk is higher." The guy was trembling all over now, and sweat lined his upper lip and hairline.

"How long you been doing this?" Darlene asked.

"About . . . about eight months."

"You're an asshole. You know that, right?"

The guy nodded, his movements jerky. Darlene gave him a good shove in the chest, turned around and walked away.

"Hate it when people act stupid," she muttered. Roger didn't answer.

They made their way to the area where the disk jockey sat. He told the audience the name of the next number, and the music began again. The words appeared on a large TV screen, and some people began to sing. Most still stood around the dance floor, but others headed back to their tables.

"Evan Morrison?" Darlene asked, raising her voice over the noise.

The disk jockey looked up, frowned, and said, "He's not here."

"What?" Darlene said, cursing under her breath. "Where is he then? I thought this was his gig."

"He didn't feel good. I took over for him."

"You do that often?"

The DJ shrugged. "Quite a bit lately."

Darlene turned around, scanning the crowd for the busboy. Of course, he was gone. And probably impossible to find again.

Cursing some more, Darlene swung back around to confront the DJ. But his face had shut down. Darlene tried anyway. "You happen to know where Mr. Marshall is tonight?"

The guy shrugged. "Haven't a clue. And if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Well, great," Darlene said , stomping away the best she could in her high, high heels, Roger trailing. "Just great."

They walked briskly back to the nondescript car the firm always used for tailing people, and Darlene climbed into the driver's seat, still fuming. After both she and Roger were buckled in and Darlene had backed out of her parking space, she said, "I don't believe this. Now we'll have to call the client and admit we couldn't find her husband tonight. We'll look like incompetent idiots." She banged her fists on the steering wheel.

Roger grunted.

Darlene flipped open her cell and called Hector. She told him what had happened.

"Did you get the busboy's name and address?" Hector asked.

"What good would that do? You know he's long gone. And the hotel wouldn't give out his address. It's night. Personnel is closed until Monday. Shit."

"Calm down," Hector said. "It was reasonable to assume that the DJ was Morrison. Even his wife thought that's where he'd be tonight. I'll give her a call. Meantime, you head to her house so you can pick up a photo."

"Okay." Darlene sighed and clicked the cell closed.

"Shit," she said again.

Roger grunted again.

By the time they were almost to the Morrisons' address, Hector called back. "She's as shocked as we are. Not blaming us. She says she'll see you when you arrive."

"Okay." Darlene pulled into Jillian's street, found the address and parked. "Wait here," she told Roger.

Jillian answered the door almost immediately.

"Sorry about this," Darlene said. "We should have gotten a picture."

Jillian shrugged. "We all figured he'd be at the reception tonight." She turned, and Darlene followed her into the house, thankful not to have an angry client on her hands.

It was a medium-sized home, probably three bedrooms, and either Jillian had hired a decorator or she was an expert at it herself. They entered the living room where not a knickknack was out of place. The scent of potpourri tickled Darlene's nose. The drapes, which picked up a particular shade of green from the print on the couch and loveseat, puddled on the floor.

Jillian chose a photo album from a small bookcase, sat on the loveseat , and leafed through the album until she came to a photo she liked. She stood up and handed it to Darlene.

"So … how's the money situation?" Darlene asked. "Do you seem to have more or less lately?"

Jillian looked surprised. "I . . .I don't know. Maybe a bit less."

"I noticed you paid us in cash."

"I couldn't write a check, could I?"

"How'd you get that much cash?"

"I saved it from what Evan gives me."

"Why do you look so uncomfortable telling me this?" Darlene asked.

"I don't know. I'm not used to answering such personal questions." She frowned.

"Okay. Any idea where your husband might be since he's not at work?"

Jillian's shoulders slumped. "No. I'm afraid to think about it."

Darlene nodded. She hated these awkward moments. If she were really a woman, she'd hug Jillian. Patting her on the shoulder would feel oafish. So she turned to leave.

"We'll be in touch," she said.

"Thanks," Jillian whispered.

Back in the car, Darlene handed Evan's picture to Roger. He looked at it and shook his head.

"We'll have to pick him up here tomorrow," Darlene said.

Roger nodded. They returned to the office and picked up their own cars and drove home.

Early the next morning, they met again and climbed into the company car. Darlene had bought donuts. They had their own travel cups filled with coffee. Darlene also brought along Architectural Digest , Anthropology Today, Smithsonian Magazine , and one of the hairstyle magazines. Roger had an old Mike Hammer paperback. They would trade off reading and watching the house.

But they hardly got settled when the garage door opened and Evan drove out in a white Ford Explorer.

Darlene followed at a safe distance. They arrived at an apartment complex on the outskirts of town. It was one of those two-story jobs which looked like a row of townhouses, each painted a different color and with different features. Evan drove into the lot and parked in a spot in front of one of the doors. Darlene followed and found a place for visitors and backed in so they had a view of the door. They watched Evan exit his car and walk up to the door, take out a key, and enter the apartment.

"Huh," Darlene said. For some reason, she felt disappointment. Of course, Evan had a girlfriend in there. So trite. So expected. And so sad for Jillian.

They took turns watching. About an hour later, Evan opened the door and stepped out. Darlene could barely see a slim shape behind him. The door closed. No kiss goodbye. Evan's shoulders slumped as he walked down the path to his car. He did not look like a man in love.

They followed him to a store where he bought several music CDs, to the liquor store where he bought a six-pack of Coors and a bottle of whiskey, to the dry cleaners where he picked up some suits, and back to his house.

By then, the donuts and coffee were long gone, and Darlene was starving.

"Let's get some lunch and then go visit the girlfriend," she suggested.

Roger nodded.

After hamburgers at Wendy's, they drove back to the townhouse. Darlene grabbed the magazines she'd brought with her and a slim catalog of magazine subscriptions. They walked to the door and rang the bell.

After a short wait, the door opened a crack. A blue eye stared out at them. Roger put his foot against the door.

"Good afternoon, ma'am!" Darlene said in her cheeriest voice. "We're here to make you an offer on magazine subscriptions that is so unbelievable, you won't believe it!"

The door, to Darlene's surprise, opened a bit wider. Usually the ploy only worked with older people.

"We have magazines about fashion, about hair styles, about relationships. If you're the more serious type, we have magazines about history and science. There are ones about decorating and cooking as well. What do you like to read?"

"Mostly fiction," the woman said. She had such a soft voice, Darlene could barely hear her.

"Oh!" Darlene said. "We have several short fiction magazines available. Do you like mystery, science fiction, women's fiction, literary fiction?"

"Mystery, mostly."

"May we come in? I can show you several magazines you might enjoy."

The door opened all the way, and Darlene saw the woman fully now. She was tiny, under five feet, and so thin, Darlene thought she could circle her waist with her hands and her thumbs would overlap. Thin blonde hair, huge blue eyes, a narrow face, thin lips, and bones sticking out everywhere. Darlene would be afraid to touch her, let alone hug her, have sex with her. She felt slightly ill, imagining Evan Morrison and this waif in bed together.

Keeping the smile plastered on her face, she let the girl show them into the living room where everyone sat down.

"I'm Darlene, and this is Roger."

"I'm Carol. Can I get you a Coke or something?"

"How nice!" Darlene said. "Cokes would be great."

The girl rose and left the room. Darlene looked around. The place was furnished much like Evan and Jillian's. Potpourri, knickknacks and furniture that picked up one color in the drapes. No bookshelf with photo albums, though, and the drapes didn't puddle onto the floor.

Carol brought in the drinks and set them down. Darlene noticed she hadn't gotten one for herself. "You have a nice place here," Darlene said.

"Thank you." Carol seemed to wait expectantly.

Darlene extracted the catalog from between the magazines and leafed through it, showing Carol the section with fiction titles. Carol picked out five—there was a special offer with five—and Darlene filled out all the information. This rarely worked anymore because people didn't usually buy from door-to-door salespeople. But when it did work, it gave her a goldmine of information. Full name, address, telephone number, name of bank if paying by check. Plus she often found out stuff about the person by just chatting.

With Carol she acted as older sister. Carol took everything Darlene said at face value—the most outrageous lie of all being that Darlene was a woman.

"So how long have you lived here?" Darlene asked after she'd filled out the order form and taken Carol's check. She had been careful not to finish her drink so she had reason to linger.

"Just a few months," Carol said.

"I detect an accent. Where are you from originally?

"I grew up in Las Vegas."

"Oh, do you miss the desert?"

"Sometimes. But most of the time I'm glad to be here."

"Why is that?"

Carol looked uncomfortable for a minute. "Well, I have relatives here. And a new life."

"Ah, that sounds nice. Have you been ill? You're so thin."

Carol shifted in her chair. Darlene gave her her most sympathetic look.

"You could say that. It's not something I talk about, though."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to get so personal." Darlene tried to look embarrassed.

"That's okay. I'm . . . well, I'm anorexic. You probably guessed. Not something easy to hide. And I'm supposed to acknowledge it, my therapist tells me."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I understand it's very, very difficult to overcome."

"It is. But I'm trying hard."

"There you go! Well, I sure hope you enjoy those magazines. If you have any problems—if they don't start arriving in six weeks or so — let me know." Darlene handed her a card which she used for her "subscription business."

After saying goodbye and climbing into the car, Darlene drove toward the office. "Did you find her attractive ? S exually, I mean , " she asked Roger, really curious.

Roger shook his head.

"I wouldn't think so. I'm gonna check on her on the computer this afternoon and do more computer snooping. I'll find out from Jillian where she expects Evan to be tonight, and we can pick us his trail. I'll call you."

At work, she greeted Sylvie, poked her head into Hector's office and said hello, then walked down the hall to her own office. She booted up the computer, kicked off her high heels, and clicked on one of the search programs they subscribed to and entered the information for both Evan and Carol. As an afterthought, she put in Jillian's info as well.

And whistled softly when she found out Carol was divorced and her maiden name was Morrison. Evan's sister, she bet. That explained a lot. But it didn't explain everything. Why hadn't Evan told Jillian about his sister? Was he supporting her? Was that why he needed extra money? It would explain Jillian's feeling that Evan was doing something illegal. It would explain her believing in another woman. But it didn't explain Evan's secrecy.

Darlene decided she would try to find out more before reporting anything to Jillian. She gave her a call and learned that Evan had a gig at a local bar that evening. Jillian asked if she'd found out anything, and Darlene hedged.

That evening Darlene and Roger found Evan at the lounge, spinning CDs, and looking somber. When he called for a break and took a stool at the bar, Darlene approached him.

"You play some really good songs," she said.

Evan glanced at her, then away. Unusual. Most men stared a bit. Not that she was beautiful, just striking. Maybe he loved Jillian so much that he really had no interest in other women.

"Thanks," Evan said and took a sip of his drink.

"How'd you get into this business, anyway?" Darlene asked.

"Sort of fell into it. Lived in Las Vegas, and a friend of mine was doing it. He found out he hated it. I took over for him a few times, realized I enjoyed it and had a knack, so bought out his equipment."

"Fascinating," Darlene said, twirling the olive in her martini with her forefinger.

Evan glanced over at Roger. "Won't your boyfriend get upset if you spend much time with another man?"

Darlene looked at Roger and laughed. "He's not my boyfriend. Can you believe I couldn't get a date tonight so I hauled my brother in here?"

Evan laughed back. "Yeah, I can believe that. I have a sister . . ." His face lost all expression and he stared at the bottles at the back of the bar.

"Oh, sounds as if she's not into bars," Darlene said lightly.

"No. No, she's not. Into other things." Evan stood up. "Back to work."

Other things ? Darlene wondered as she rejoined Roger. Could mean drugs. Could mean bad, bad people. Could be why Jillian didn't know her sister-in-law was in town. Perhaps Evan was protecting her.

So that brought up the question—how much, if anything, to tell Jillian? Darlene decided a meeting with Hector was in order.

The next morning Darlene arrived at work early. Naturally, Hector was already seated at his desk, and he showed no surprise at seeing Darlene in his doorway.

"You get a break in the case?" he asked.

Darlene smiled and sat down in the visitor's chair. "Sometimes you're too smart for your own good."

"Can't be too smart," Hector said, not smiling.

"Well, that's why I'm here. For your sage advice."

"Go on."

"It appears that Evan Morrison is helping his sister out, setting her up, perhaps getting her dried out. She appears anorexic; probably on drugs. And he hasn't told his wife about this. Possibly trying to protect her from whoever's supplying Carol Morrison with drugs.'

"How much proof do you have?"

"Very little. But if I give this information to Jillian, it should end our involvement in the case. She can confront Evan, and he would probably tell her the truth. If we do that, though, we have perhaps defeated Evan's goal of protecting his wife."

Hector steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin. "It's possible you don't have the full story as yet. I prefer that you keep on the case for a few more days."

"All right." Darlene stood up, looked down, and smoothed her skirt. Today she wore a bright red sweater and another leather skirt, this one silver. When she glanced at Hector again, she saw the hungry look in his eyes. A deep longing started in her heart and traveled to her groin. She almost moaned. They both looked away at the same time, and Darlene made for the door. "I'll get back to you," she said and shut the door softly behind her.

In her own office, she did some deep breathing exercises while the computer booted up. She wrote up her report, called Roger and told him to meet her as soon as he could, and went out to the front office to wait for him.

Sylvie was reading a hairstyle magazine, but looked up and smiled when she saw Darlene. There was little for Sylvie to do since both Hector and Darlene did their own reports on the computer. She filed the printouts and answered the phone, and that was about it. But both partners believed in having a receptionist—it appeared more professional. Some people would not go through the hoops of an automatic phone system, and others would not leave a message unless it was given to a real person. Many clients had second and third thoughts about hiring a private investigator. Hector and Darlene knew Sylvie's job was boring, so they let her read her magazines and even file her nails. She had a way of quickly hiding reading material and nail file when someone entered the front office.

"What's the latest?" Darlene asked.

They pored over the hairstyles until Roger arrived. He nodded at their hellos and turned to leave.

"Nice chatting with you, Roger," Sylvie said sweetly.

Roger said nothing.

After they were buckled into Darlene's car and on their way, Darlene said, "We're going to tail Carol for a while."

As they pulled up in front of Carol's place, they saw her getting into an old Volkswagen bug. It looked like Herbie on a bad day. Darlene followed Carol to a neighborhood where cars like Carol's blended in perfectly. Carol stopped near a house that should have been torn down, but didn't get out of the car. She rolled down her window. In a few minutes, a dude in a shiny suit and gold jewelry everywhere approached and leaned on the car to talk to her. Something familiar about him.

"Do we know him?" Darlene asked Roger.

Roger shook his head.

After awhile, the dude began to shake his head. And suddenly, he looked up and caught Darlene's eye. Did a double-take, then started off running.

"He's the busboy!" Darlene yelled. With all the jewelry she hadn't recognized him.

She followed him easily in the car until he sprinted into an alley which had a dumpster blocking most of the entry. Both Darlene and Roger jumped out of the car and took off after him. Darlene had to kick off her shoes and watch for broken glass, which slowed her down. Hector was always after her about wearing more appropriate clothes while on the job, but she just couldn't give up the sweaters, leather skirts , and high heels. It was part of who she was. She cursed as the dude and Roger pulled away from her. The short skirt hobbled her, and she was sweating under her sweater. She decided to give it up and let Roger handle it. He was extremely good at things like this.

On her way out of the alley, Darlene picked up her shoes and put them on. When she got back to the street, she saw her Carol's bug still sitting there. Darlene approached on foot. Carol was frantically trying to start the engine.

"Having trouble?" Darlene asked, leaning on the car just as the dude had.

"Who are you really?" Carol asked, giving up on the starter.

"A friend," Darlene said.

"I don't think so," Carol said and pounded her fists on the steering wheel. "You've been following me."

There was a thin sheen of sweat on her upper lip, and her eyes were enormous, pupils dilated so much that very little iris showed.

"You need to be in rehab," Darlene said.

"No! Never, ever again," Carol sobbed. "I can do it on my own."

"Look around, girl. This is how it ends up when you do it on your own. And you're hurting your brother and his marriage."

"What do you know about it?" Carol said. "You're just a magazine salesgirl."

Darlene wished that was all she was right now. "Have you ever met Jillian? Does she even know you exist, or does your brother have to hide you away like they used to do with the crazy aunt in the attic?"

Carol continued to cry, but more softly now. Darlene glanced around and saw Roger, grasping the busboy tightly by the elbow, bringing him to the mouth of the alley.

"Wait here and we'll try to help you in a bit," Darlene said.

She met Roger and the busboy at the car. "What's the real story?" she asked the guy.

The busboy/drug dealer didn't say anything. Roger shoved the guy's arm farther up his back.

"Again," Darlene said. "What's the real story?"

"All right. All right! Morrison used to pimp his sister in Vegas. But she got too sick to work."

Shock ripped through Darlene. She'd thought she'd heard it all. But pimping your sister?

"How'd she end up here?" she asked.

"He left her in Vegas with a friend, but somehow she got the money together to follow him here. Morrison set her up in an apartment and paid me to not sell drugs to her. He had me watch her when she first came to town, make contact when she began looking for stuff, sold her just a bit so she'd trust me, then refuse to sell her anymore and report to Morrison. Let me go!" He was out of breath and sweating profusely.

Darlene glanced at Roger. Somehow she believed the guy. Roger nodded. Darlene nodded back, and Roger loosened his grip. The busboy twisted away and began to run.

Darlene turned back to look at Carol in the Volkswagen. She sat staring out the window at them, her face expressionless.

They walked over to the car. "Your brother's scum, you know that?" Darlene asked softly.

Carol's head jerked up.

"Maybe he persuaded you that he was helping you, but all along he's used you and abused you. As soon as you realize that, you have a chance to get clean and lead a decent life."

"He loves me," Carol said.

"No. No, he doesn't. People who love other people don't hurt them like you've been hurt. You're trying to punish yourself because you feel worthless. And you feel worthless because of what Evan has done to you. How old were you when he persuaded you to take your first trick?"

"Fifteen," she whispered.

"And what would you say to another woman who told you this story?"

Carol was silent for a minute or so. "I'd tell her her brother was a bastard," she said slowly. She looked up at Darlene. "Who are you really?"

"I'm a private detective. Evan's wife hired me to find out what he was up to. She suspected another woman was involved. But not his sister."

"She doesn't know I exist," Carol said.

"Another sign of Evan's deep devotion to you," Darlene said, letting the sarcasm show.

Carol began to cry again, softly.

"Let's see if we can get this car started," Darlene said, "and then we'll follow you home, make sure you're safe."

Roger opened the hood, found a loose wire, and the car started on the second try.

The next morning, wearing an orange sweater and black leather jeans, in case she had to chase someone again, Darlene once more showed up early for work, wondering if this was a trend. She entered Hector's office to find him studying a book about guns. "What's the occasion?" Hector asked when he saw her in the doorway.

"Report." Darlene told him what she and Roger had learned the night before. When she finished, she asked, "What do you think we should tell Jillian?"

Hector sighed. "The truth. We always tell our clients the truth."

"Well, usually. Sometimes we gloss things over."

"I don't see how we can do that here. She needs to know, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Darlene said, sighing. "But I dread it."

"We'll do it together," Hector said, which was why Darlene still loved him. He seemed austere, but under that façade was a man with a heart.

Sylvie made an appointment for them with Jillian that afternoon. Hector sat behind his desk, explaining as diplomatically as he could.

First Jillian was shocked, then she cried, then she said, "I don't know what to do."

"How about meeting your sister-in-law?" Darlene said. "She could use a friend, and you probably could, too, about now."

The tears stopped as she looked at Darlene with wonder. "You're right. Will you introduce us?"

The idea gave Darlene pause, but then she said, "Of course. When would you like to meet her?"

"What about now, while I still have my courage?"

Darlene glanced at Hector. He nodded his head and made a shooing motion with his hands.

"All right," Darlene said. She stood up and smoothed her skirt, then realized she was wearing pants.

She drove her own car, leading the way to Carol's apartment.

There were an awkward few minutes when the two women were introduced to each other, but soon they settled in the living room, where Carol and Jillian compared notes about Evan. Both were surprised about the differences between the Evan they knew. Jillian swore he always treated her well. Carol was less forthcoming, but Darlene and Jillian didn't push her.

After awhile, Carol brought out Cokes, even one for herself. Jillian proposed a toast. "To us gals."

"I'll drink to that," Darlene said, and grinned.