Smash Cut by Sandra Brown Page B

appreciate you coming in.”

    Dodge Hanley plopped down in one of the chairs facing Derek’s desk and slid a folder across to him. “That’s what I’ve got so far.”
Derek opened the folder, scanned several sheets of printed material. “In a nutshell?”
Dodge exuded the odor of stale cigarette smoke. Despite all the warnings about the life-threatening effects of tobacco use, he hadn’t even tried to break the habit and harbored a resentment bordering on scorn toward all smokers who did, calling them cowards. His nicotine-stained fingers drummed the arms of the chair, and he shifted in search of a more comfortable position, which was in vain, because he was never entirely comfortable unless a cigarette was in his hand.
“In a nutshell, she’s clean. No arrests, not even a misdemeanor.”
“Childhood?”
“Grew up in Aiken. Mom and Dad worked for the public school system. He was a teacher, she worked in the administration building. Churchgoing, tax-paying, solid citizens. No brothers or sisters. Parents now deceased.”
Before going on, he took a wheezing breath. “Your girl there is smart. Got a full academic scholarship to Vanderbilt, and then four years later was awarded a fellowship to further her art studies in France. Met and married some Frog artist. Can’t remember his name, but it’s in there.”
Derek didn’t tell Dodge he already knew about her marriage and divorce. “What about him?”
“Nothing about him. No fame, no fortune, apparently no talent. He and she divorced after three years, but by that time Paul Wheeler had entered her life. Lucky break for her.”
Derek raised his head and looked across his desk at Dodge, whose face, seamed and jaundiced from years of smoking, remained impassive despite his editorial comment. He was unflappable, cynical, and nothing much surprised him, because in the forty-plus years he’d been tracking down villains, he claimed to have seen it all. He ranked most human beings lower than animals.
He’d been a detective for the sheriff’s department when he came up against Derek in the courtroom. Dodge was testifying for the prosecution, but his total recall and attention to detail made an impression on Derek during cross-examination. Following the trial, which Derek had won, he’d sought out the curmudgeonly Dodge and asked if he’d be interested in working full-time for his firm.
Dodge had scoffed. “And go over to the dark side? No thank you, Counselor.”
“I’ll double your salary.”
“When do I start?”
Actually, Dodge had been happy to leave the sheriff’s department, where stringent rules of investigation and interrogation were enforced. As he and Derek sealed their deal over beers, Dodge had asked, “Are you persnickety about how I obtain information?”
“No. But if you’re caught doing something unethical or illegal, you’re on your own.”
“No problem.” Dodge had slurped his beer. “I won’t get caught.”
Which didn’t exactly assure Derek that his methods were aboveboard, but he never asked how or where or through whom Dodge secured his information, feeling he was better off not knowing.
Because of the smoking ban in public buildings, and Marlene’s ill-concealed dislike for his ashtray bouquet, Dodge worked out of his home—wherever that was. Derek had no idea. Dodge had given him a cell telephone number and a post office box, to which Derek sent his paychecks. Otherwise, Dodge didn’t advertise his where abouts or what he did between assignments. But he responded quickly whenever Derek issued a request.
Last night, after seeing Julie Rutledge on the evening news, Derek had glanced through the files Marlene had sent home with him, specifically looking for references to Paul Wheeler’s “companion.” She was mentioned frequently, but there wasn’t much personal information about her, and his home computer had yielded little that wasn’t in relation to the gallery. He’d called Dodge and asked him to get the lowdown.
“When do you need it?”
“Yesterday.”
“You got it.”
As usual,