The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen - A Dix Dodd Mystery

  Chapter 4

  Earlier in the evening, after Dylan had been grilled by Detective Head, I’d told him to go home. By that time, it was already 10 p.m., and since we’d need to be sharp in the days ahead, I ordered him to get some rest.

  “Home. Straight home. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Home, Mr. Foreman.”

  It was well after midnight before I got away myself. Of course, I had no intention of taking my own advice. I stopped by my place just long enough for a power shower (not to mention the first leisurely pee I’d had since I began this case) and a change of clothes before driving to the office.

  When I pulled into the parking lot and saw a light shining from my office window. Dylan. I should have known he’d ignore my instructions.

  Despite myself, I felt a little warm and fuzzy.

  Then I caught the drift of my thoughts and got a grip. Oh, man, it must have been a harder night than I’d thought. Dix Dodd didn’t do warm and fuzzy. I was cynical. Chippy. Tough as shoe leather.

  To underscore my ’tude, I climbed out of my car and slammed the door. Then slammed it again because the freakin’ thing never did close right.

  I spat on the asphalt because that felt about right, squared my shoulders and marched across the moonlit parking lot towards the building. And I mean across the parking lot. I’d parked as far away from the building as I could, a practice I’d started in an effort to work some much-needed exercise into my day, but which had become habit.

  It had rained and the asphalt shone black beneath my feet. The air was fresh, clean and damp. And appreciated. Really appreciated for the first time in... ever. Fear of jail can do that to a person—make them take notice of the finer things.

  Yes, it was true. Dix Dodd, hard-assed PI, was scared this time. Not that I’d cop to it. No siree. I could hide it very well, thank you, under my smart-mouth and fuck you attitude. No one would be the wiser.

  But, dammit, things didn’t look good for me.

  There was no paperwork from Jennifer Weatherby to prove that she’d hired me. And Richard Head would do whatever he could to prove my guilt.

  I dashed moisture from my cheeks. Goddamn rain.

  It was shortly after one in the morning when I let myself into the building and climbed the dimly lit stairway to my office.