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PROLOGUE

    The knife protruding from his chest was proof of his condition—dead.

    She crumpled in the corner of the room, crying as if Satan had claimed her soul. Through the tears, she stared at blood on her hands. There was little. Fatal heart wounds don't bleed much.

CHAPTER ONE

    I placed the food dishes on the floor and snatched my hands away fast enough to escape the fangs of my charging cats. "Hey, you guys, I know you're not starving. The bowls were full when we went to bed last night."

    Sweeper and Striker didn't interrupt their crunching, but their tails did flip in appreciation. At least, that's the way I interpreted the switching motion.

    I poured a cup of coffee and added a packet of sweetener. Is there anything better than that first leisurely sip in the morning, especially on a day when you have nothing on the calendar? I savored the thought as I stirred.

    The phone rang, destroying the moment. I took a quick slurp, burning my mouth, and grabbed the handset. "Ace Edwards here."

    "Mr. Edwards?"

    The voice was so soft, I struggled to understand the words after my name—with no luck. "Hello. Whoever you are, you'll have to speak up. I can't hear you."

    "Mr. Edwards." The voice was louder, but not much. "The police are here. They think I killed him. I wouldn't kill him. I love him. Will you help me?" The voice sounded female, but I couldn't be sure. Sobbing filled my ear.

    "Ace, this is Clint Ravel."

    It was a new voice—one I hadn't heard for a while.

    "I'm the lead detective, and things look pretty bad for this young lady. Her boyfriend is dead, and she's wearing his blood. No evidence of anyone else being here."

    "Why'd she call me?"

    "Because I'm working at getting reduced in rank. I've always been a sucker for a crying dame. She swears she didn't do it, and asked me to help. I have to stay objective so I looked up your number."

    I chuckled. "Clint, you're the same sentimental sap you were in the academy. What are you now—lieutenant, captain?"

    "Lieutenant. Homicide. Can you help her?"

    "Does she have a lawyer?"

    "No. I recommended she get one, but she says she doesn't know anyone. I don't have one I'd recommend for anyone less than a Mafioso. The ones I know are bottom of the barrel in integrity. I was hoping you could handle that."

    "You don't think she did it?"

    Clint didn't answer immediately. I heard him sigh. "Ace, most of my life is spent chasing slime-balls. She doesn't fit the mold. My job is to find the guilty person, or someone convictable. I don't have time to concentrate on innocence. Before the week is out, I'll have at least three more cases. That's why you're on the line."

    I was flattered that Clint remembered me. We attended the police academy together, then went our separate ways on the Dallas Police Force. When I gave it up ten years ago, he had moved into plain clothes and was a junior member of homicide. Obviously, a fast-mover. Last time I remembered talking to him was when one of our mentors retired. It had been three, maybe four years.

    "Are you arresting her?" I asked.

    "Not now. I'm gambling she won't run. If she does, my captain will be all over me. I hate to leave her alone though. She says she'll call a girlfriend, but I'd feel better if I knew you were on the way."

    "Clint, I can't afford charity cases. Can she pay?"

    "That's between the two of you. Uh-oh, the medical examiner just walked in. Coming or not?"

    It was my turn to sigh. "On the way. Give me the address."

    He did, and while writing it down, I told him I'd be there within the hour. As I started to hang up, the cats yowled. "Wait, Clint. What's her name?"

    He chuckled. "Wondered if you'd ask. Jasmine Loverly." He hesitated, then added, "It fits."

    He put Jasmine back on. She'd composed herself—well, she wasn't sobbing anymore. However, sniffles punctuated her words. I told her to keep her mouth shut, and I'd be there as fast as possible. I didn't ask about fees. Somehow, it didn't seem appropriate with her snuffling into the phone.

* * *

    In case you're wondering, I'm Arthur Conan Edwards, Ace to my friends. I'm a PI in Dallas. While most of my cases involve spouses who forgot—or chose to ignore—their wedding vows, I prefer ones with a little more challenge. And, in case you're taking notes, I have as many male customers as female. Adultery is an equal opportunity activity.

    I'm a bachelor, actually a divorcee, who lives with two orange alley cats, Sweeper and Striker. I rescued them from the SPCA, and they promptly took over my home and my life. I'm in love with two women—one dead and one very much alive. Life is complicated.

* * *

    I set a new Ace Edwards' land-speed-record with my shower, shave, and dressing. While lathering, scrubbing, scraping my face, and pulling on my jeans, polo shirt, and boots, my mind raced, flipping through the lawyers I knew. Like Clint's list, most of them surfed along the bottom of my cesspool. I discarded name after name. I trusted Clint, and that meant I wanted a lawyer with scruples—an endangered species in modern society. It came down to one name, one person who was unimpeachable and would rip the hide off an adversary—Candi Maladay. I grabbed her number off my Rolodex and headed out the door. I'd call her on the way to the crime scene.

    I dropped the top on my Chrysler Sebring and backed out of the driveway. Mr. Harbinger, my senior citizen, one-man neighborhood watch, waved from his front door. I returned his greeting and raced down the street. At the first traffic light, I punched Candi's number into my cell phone.

    "Candi Maladay, Attorney-at-Law," a voice said. Since it didn't carry Candi's signature verbiage, I assumed it was a legal assistant.

    "Hi. This is Ace Edwards, and I'm hoping Candi is in. It's really important that I talk to her right away."

    "Let me check, Mr. Edwards."

    The next thing I heard let me know I'd reached Candi. "Bullshit, Space Edwards. Great to hear from you. What's on your undeveloped mind?"

    Yep, that was the Candi I knew. She used bullshit like some women use hairspray—lots of it. Relief flooded through me that I'd caught her in the office. I gave Candi the nickel version of what I knew about Jasmine Loverly.

    "What's her bullshit number?"

    "Oops," I said. "Don’t have it. I'll call you back when I get it."

    "Okay, Spaceman. Get a phone number, and I'll call her. In the meantime, make sure she keeps her mouth sewed shut in the presence of the cops. I'll be in Dallas tomorrow and will make time to see her. Maybe you can be there. This might call for a good PI." She hesitated before adding, "Guess you'll have to do." Her witch's cackle traveled across the airways.

    I flinched, but bit my lip. Her insults were part of her charm. On another day, I'd get even. "Sounds good. You have my cell. Let me know where and when tomorrow." I hung up feeling pretty good. Jasmine was in good hands, innocent or guilty.