Four

I checked the gun locker. The last thing I need is to have some punk or gang banger running around town with my .45. That would require an immediate call to the cops, and I'm not particularly fond of cops. The locker was secure as was the dame's money.

The floor was covered with files. Paper and photos were everywhere. I started picking things up and sorting them to see what might be missing.

It looked as though nothing of real value was taken - cameras, lights, computer. They took a backup hard drive, but since I password protect my files, it won't be of any use unless the scumbag thieves work for the NSA and have years to spend cracking a 256-bit encryption code. All of the files are backed up elsewhere, so I'm not out anything.

Something nagged me as I looked around the room. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk. The powder blue folder - where was it? 

I spent the next twenty minutes searching through the mess. The folder was gone. That's what they were after. It was sitting right on top of my desk. The mess was for show. Or to throw me off, which didn't work. Or maybe it was their cute little way of giving me the finger.

Mrs. Pemberton was probably right. She was being followed, and the creeps had the audacity to break into my place and snatch her file. Douche bags!

I was pissed. I should have locked the folder up with the cash. That was stupid, but I was in a rush to see Manny. 

I was beginning to see Mrs. Pemberton's situation in a different light. If her husband got his hands on that folder, she could be in trouble. I dialed her number. A man's voice answered, so I hung up immediately. Mrs. P claimed that her phone was with her at all times. Why did a man pick it up unless she couldn't get to it?

Okay, so the dame pays me and gives me a folder full of information, which then gets swiped before I can research any of it. Not good. I have to find out as much as I can about this Pemberton character, where he drinks, where he fools around, what kind of dealings he's into.

I grabbed my laptop and looked up the home address. 267 Hazel Lane, Brownewood.

I struggled with what to do next, but I feared that it might be necessary to give the bulls a heads up.

"Detective Jimmy Mazzano, please... Hey, Jimmy, this is Mike Daniel."

"Daniel! How'd you know I'd be working today?"

"Lucky guess, and I didn't really want to talk to Harris."

"Yeah, he probably wouldn't be happy taking your call," Mazzano advised.

"Hey, Jimmy, I won't waste your time..."

"Too late!"

"Okay, I got a client, a dame who claims that her husband is cheating on her and knocking her around."

"Oh, your bread and butter! Have you fucked this one yet?"

"Uh, no, Detective. Are you still screwing that waitress out on 138? Did Cindy ever find out about that?"

"You listen to me, you little fuck! You keep your mouth shut, or I'll break every goddamned bone in your body."

"Relax." I'd forgotten what a hot head this guy could be. "I'm just concerned about my client, and I thought maybe you could keep your ears open in case you hear of a domestic disturbance or something."

"What's the dame's name?"

"Pemberton. From out in Brownewood somewhere."

"Brownewood?" Detective Mazzano sounded irritated. "We don't patrol farmland here, Michael. Call the Brownwood P.D. They're probably busy securing a bake sale or something."

"I don't know anybody in Brownewood."

"Not my problem, Mike."

"Look, just keep your eyes open..."

"And you keep your mouth shut."

Everybody cheats and everybody lies. In every human soul lives a desire that's repugnant to wives and husbands, parents, neighbors, colleagues, and in extreme cases, to all of civilized society. We repress those desires, but they fight back. They bite and kick and howl all night long. Eventually, the pressure eats away at our health and our sanity. If we give in and let the dog run free, we have to do it in the deepest dark spaces lest it destroy everything that we've fought for in a lifetime. We live on the down low. And then the fear of discovery becomes our albatross.

It's a no-win situation. Everybody has a secret, a secret that lurks and schemes and plots to destroy us in one grim way or another. Unless we've already been destroyed.

I was beyond exhaustion, and I had a lot of work ahead of me. I might have to pull this dame out of a sticky situation, and if that happens I'll need to be sharp. The cops have been notified. That's the best I can do for now.

I bolted the broken door, pulled the shades, and stretched out on the mattress. The mess would have to wait, and for the next two hours, Mrs. Pemberton would have to take care of herself.

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