A Fine Balance Read online

  Jack sat back and listened to Morrie rave on. He’d heard the harangue a thousand times before. There was a way to rid the world of the self-righteous although it might transgress one of the Ten Commandments. Jack smiled. A tempting thought on occasion when the fire and brimstone crowd got themselves all worked up into a frenzy. Draining his coffee cup, Jack signaled for a refill. Ginger roasted her own beans, ground them fresh for each pot and only bought from special friends in South America. Boutique coffee was a religion up here.

  The men parted an hour later. Jack stopped by the morgue for a closer look at the deceased. The body, lifeless, gory, was in the cooler waiting for Doc Peterson to autopsy him. Not that he’d find anything. It was pretty clear how the guy had died. But with murder, the law required an autopsy.

  He doubted the forensic crew would find much either, but he’d come back later and see if he got any bright ideas after going through the evidence. Every criminal was a CSI expert now. They used vinyl gloves, wore caps, so there were no fingerprints, no hair for DNA. Some had even taken to wearing disposable booties to cover the tread marks on their shoes. The fucking power of TV.

  After leaving the cooler, Jack sat in his SUV, his hands draped over the steering wheel, his gaze unfocused, looking for a way out of doing Woffie’s job. Fuck, fuck. And fuck. He should have said no. He probably would have if not for Woffie’s cute kid who’d do better with both a mother and a father.

  Dragging in an exasperated breath, he leaned back, turned the key in the ignition and intent on getting the rotten job over with ASAP, pulled out of the hospital parking lot. He glanced at the name and address on the envelope laying on the seat beside him and swore again. Christ. Five miles north of town.

  And as it turned out--not the right address. Unless someone was living in the ramshackle, abandoned house with dried grass knee high in the yard. But since he’d driven this far off the beaten path, he continued down the dirt road and scarred the shit out of three home owners by parking in their driveway, getting out and knocking on their doors. People who lived this far back in the woods did for a reason. But the third house was the charm. Larry Durbin knew Jillian Penrose.

  “I hope you’re not going to give her any trouble.” A first generation hippy, Larry ran his hand over his thinning hair pegged into the ubiquitous pony tail and scowled. “She’s had enough tough luck. Husband killed in Afghanistan a while back. Mother died after that. Then she lost her job after Christmas with the school budget cuts.”

  Jesus. Just what he wanted to hear. “I wouldn’t be here if I could help it.”

  “That’s total bullshit. You can do anything you effing want Jack. Who’s to know?”

  “Woffie should be doing this.”

  “Nobody should be doing this.”

  “What the hell is this?” Jack hadn’t looked at the papers.

  “She’s being evicted. Prick bankers.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Do her a favor. Toss the papers.” Legalities were flexible with Larry and most everyone else in the community. That’s why they lived where they lived.

  “I’ll think about it. Down the road you say?”

  “Second house on the left. Karma, Jack. Don’t forget. What goes around comes around.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. And if you hear of anyone who might know who slit some farmhand’s throat this morning give me a call.”

  “Where?”

  “On the dump road.”

  “There’ll be more.”

  “That’s what everyone says. I wouldn’t mind finding the perp though.”

  “Probably one of their own. Place hasn’t been the same since the gangs came in. Some vigilante justice wouldn’t hurt if you ask me. You’re good with a gun, Jack. Make the world a better place.”

  “No can do. Morrie wouldn’t approve. If you hear anything you know my number.” With a dip of his head, Jack walked away.

  Five minutes later, he turned into the driveway of the second house on the left and caught a glimpse through the redwoods of an old Victorian farmhouse that had seen better days. At close range the shabbiness was even more apparent. The paint was so faded the original color was indistinguishable, the porch tipped crazily toward one corner so the steps pitched to the right, two windows on the third floor were boarded over and he wouldn’t trust the stair railing. But the yard was neat, the flower gardens well-tended. And when he walked up the tilted stairs and across the slanted porch to the front door, he heard a child’s laughter through an open window.

  He told himself this had nothing to do with him. He distanced himself from the business at hand and knocked.

  The laughter stopped.

  The symbolism didn’t escape him.

  The door opened a moment later.

  “Yes?” Jillian’s gaze fell on the official looking envelope held out to her and she blanched.

  Larry should have warned him. It took Jack a moment to catch his breath. The woman with the tow-headed toddler in her arms was stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Even in a worn t-shirt and jeans with her copper curls in disarray and her wide, bright green eyes panic-stricken. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I mean it.” He handed her the envelope.

  She took it and burst into tears.

  The young boy in her arms took one look at his mother’s face and burst into tears.

  Jesus, now what? Jack was uncomfortable as hell. He couldn’t console a woman he didn’t know. Although under the circumstances, he didn’t know what kind of consolation he could have offered had he known her. The legalities were pretty cut and dried in cases like this. Then out of the blue, although her spectacular looks could have been a deciding factor, he heard himself say, “If there’s anything I can do to help...”

  “You can find me–a good lawyer–who works for free because...US Bank is stealing...my house,” she hiccuped between sniffles, not really meaning it. The guy was a perfect stranger.

  Jack generally avoided crying women. Nor was he crazy about redheads, although for this jaw-dropping beauty he’d make an exception. No make up. It didn’t matter. Hair mussed. It didn’t matter. Tear-streaked face. Still flawless.

  And bottom line–he felt sorry for her. “Maybe my brother can take a look at those eviction papers,” he offered. “Wade does pro bono work. Stealing? You’re sure?”

  “As sure as you’re standing there.” She rubbed her wet cheeks with the back of the hand holding the envelope. “I was going to say looking studly, but you’re probably married so I’m sorry about that. My mother always said I had no social skills. Although my second grade students like me. Or they did until I lost my job. Oh God, there I go again.” Anyway,” she said a few seconds later, her fresh tears stifled. “Budget cuts.” She wiped her son’s nose with her shirt sleeve. “It’s no secret.”

  “Why don’t I have Wade call you.”

  “Do you want to come in? You don’t have to,” she quickly said, taking note of his wary look. “I was just going to write down my number but I’m in the phone book. Jillian Penrose. And even if you didn’t mean it I’m grateful you offered.” After another glance at Jack’s closed expression, she added, “I talk too much. I always do. I can see I’m making you nervous. Please scratch that studly remark. But”–she flicked her fingertips a quick up and down. “All that broad-shouldered muscle--I just mean...oh hell–sorry again.” A faint smile fleetingly appeared. “I don’t talk to many people over two.”

  “No problem. What’s your son’s name?” He had no idea why he asked. He should turn around and leave. You know--distance himself.

  “Zeke. Show the man how old you are, darling,” she prompted.

  Hiding his face in his mother’s shoulder, the little boy stuck out two fingers.

  “Smart kid. By the way my name’s Jack. Jack Morgan.”

  “Jillian.” She smiled again, better this time, almost real. “Although you know that.”

  A pause. A lengthening pause.

  “Look, I’ll have my brother call you,”
Jack said into the hush.

  “I don’t know how to thank you. Really. Seriously. I’ve been fighting the bastards for almost a year with no luck as you can see. Anyway”–she blew out a small breath–“thanks again.”

  “Don’t mention it. My brother’s good. If the bank’s in the wrong, he’ll nail’em.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked twice, then smiled tentatively. “The thing is, I’d given up. So no matter win, lose or draw, I want you to know that I’m grateful for even a glimmer of hope.”

  “Wade should be good for more than a glimmer. He’s a pit bull when it comes to fighting corporate fraud. Hates it with a passion.”

  “Awesome.”

  This time her smile was glorious to behold. Jack felt a jolt where female smiles didn’t normally jolt him. Felt a current of raw primal desire so huge and out there it surprised him. “We’ll have to see,” he said, cautioning himself against adolescent impulses. “I’ll keep in touch. Bye Zeke.”

  The toddler turned his face enough to look at Jack with one eye.

  “He’s shy.”

  “Kids are at that age.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Nope.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.

  “I’m not married.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  A hint of a smile. “Sure you were.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. See ya.”

  Jill watched him walk away, feeling a degree of pleasure not entirely due to the fact that she might actually have a lawyer on her side. Feeling a degree of pleasure she hadn’t felt for years. Not that she was naive enough to act on her feelings. Not when the pressures in her life were almost overwhelming. One thing at a time. Right now that meant screwing US Bank like they’d been trying to screw her for the past ten months.

  “Me got whale too!” A high pitched toddler scream that came out of nowhere.

  “Hush,” Jill hissed, then looked up and smiled at Jack who’d turned and was looking confused. “Sorry about that. He’s talking about your t-shirt. Zeke’s favorite stuffed toy is a whale.”

  “Me wuv Biggy Boo!” A shriek of pure delight. In typical two-year-old fashion, his former shyness had given way to a new fixation.

  “That’s enough now,” Jillian quietly remonstrated. “The nice man has to go.”

  “You like whales?” Jack asked, walking back as if self-control had taken a long walk off a short pier. As if he were fifteen and acting on impulse, not thirty-two and scarred by divorce.

  “Me show you!” With a quick shove and wiggle, the little boy slipped from his mother’s arms without regard to the vertical drop.

  Jillian lunged and briefly caught a scrap of t-shirt before it slipped through her fingers.

  Taking the porch stairs in a leap, Jack scooped up the plummeting toddler just before his head hit the porch floor and swinging him upright, set him on his feet. “Can Biggy Boo talk?” A lightening swift query to stanch the open-mouthed toddler scream about to explode.

  A hiccupy gasp, a gulp of air, then Zeke’s mouth snapped shut and he grabbed Jack’s hand. “He talkths good. Come thee.”

  Jack looked up at Jillian who was clearly shaken. “Okay if we go in?”

  It took her a fraction of a second to answer. “Please do,” she said a little breathlessly. “And thank you again. Zeke’s a handful as”--

  “Mama! Top talking!” The little boy pulled Jack along. “We gonna go thee Biggy Boo.” Standing on tip toe a moment later, the toddler grasped the handle on the decrepit screen door.

  Jack helped him when the door caught on the warped floor and thought, I should plane that down sometime, without noticing that meant he’d have to seriously overlook his post-divorce mantra: Don’t get involved.

  As the little boy towed him to the stairway leading to the second floor, Jack took note of a living room on the left, a dining room on the right and scanned them with the examining eye of a cop: a hodge-podge mix of furniture in the living room, lots of crafty stuff on the walls, one of those old pedestal tables and china cabinet–same era as the house--in the dining room. Everything was neat and clean like the gardens outside. A model housekeeper. Not that housekeeping was necessarily considered a virtue any longer. His ex a case in point. Sarah couldn’t even pick up a dirty sock.

  Good luck there Monty.

  Dismissing aggrieved memory with the ease of considerable practice, Jack followed Zeke up the stairs and into a large sunny room painted floor to ceiling with splendid renditions of Discovery Channel animals. He glanced over his shoulder at Jillian who stood in the doorway. “Who’s the artist?”

  “My mother.”

  “They’re amazing,” he said, surveying the room while Zeke ran off to fetch his toy whale.

  “You might have heard of her. Margaret Hall.”

  “Of course. I should have recognized her work.” She’d been a well-known local artist specializing in animal subjects. He’d even met her once at a gallery opening he’d attended with his aunt. “She used to show at the Artists Collective didn’t she?”

  “Mother was one of the charter members.”

  “You must have grown up around here then.” Why hadn’t he met her? The school system was small and insular.

  “No. Mostly out East.”

  A divorced home. Pretty common. The father given custody. Unusual. Not that it was any of his business. “That explains why I haven’t met you before.” He would have remembered.

  “Zeke, no!”

  He was hit in the back of the knees with a large blue fuzzy whale carried by a toddler running full throttle. The impact careened the little boy back on his butt and Biggy Boo went flying.

  Lifting Zeke off the floor, Jack held him in the crook of his arm, tipped his head slightly and smiled. “Are you okay? That’s a mighty big whale.” It was huge; the kid was strong.

  Moving from the doorway into the room, Jillian stopped as she reached Jack, her admonishing gaze on her son. “Tell Mr. Morgan you’re sorry for hitting him.”

  A wide toothy smile for his mother, then Jack. “Thorry.”

  “Not a problem. Really,” Jack added, meeting Jillian’s rueful gaze. “He barely touched me. I have brothers who hit me a lot harder than that. The youngest one’s ten and even he can land a heck of a punch.”

  “You’re very kind. With just the two of”–the shrill squeal of a tea kettle rolled up the stairway. “Scuse me.” She dashed for the door. “It boils over.”

  “Me want choclit grab cwackers!” Zeke screamed as his mother disappeared. Then he smiled at Jack. “You wike choclit grab cwackers?”

  “I don’t know. Are they good?”

  A vigorous head nod in the affirmative, then the same impetuous shove and wiggle that had almost brought him to disaster on the porch.

  The kid was fearless, Jack thought, carefully easing him to his feet.

  “You bwing Biggy Boo!” Zeke cried, running for the door. “Us eat choclit grab cwackers!”

  He was gone in a flash. Grabbing the whale, Jack swiftly followed, not sure the boy could navigate the steep staircase alone. Nor that his unsteady toddler gait could sustain racing speed without a tumble. He caught up with him before the stairway and took his hand.

  “No!” Zeke wrenched his hand away. “Me do!”

  The descent was slow and relatively steady. Only a few teetering wobbles that gave rise to some non-touching lunges on Jack’s part before the bottom was reached and Zeke raced off. Jack smiled. The kid had only one speed–full steam ahead.

  After following him through the dining room, Jack stopped on the threshold to the kitchen. Jillian was setting two cups on the table; she looked up. Jack leaned over, balanced the whale against the wall. “I should go. I’ll make sure Wade calls you.”

  “Mama! Him stay!” Zeke loudly proclaimed as he scrambled up the side of his youth chair and sat down with a plop. “Him stay! Him have choclit grab cwack
ers! Tell him, tell him, Mama!”

  “Mr. Morgan has to go, dear.”

  “Noooo! Him stay!” A pouty scowl, a flush rising on chubby cheeks, a defiant little tilted chin. “Mama! Him has to!”

  Jack recognized a tantrum in the making. His family had raised five orphan children, two from infancy. “I could stay a few minutes if that would help.”

  A soft sigh. “Thanks.” A small, apologetic smile. “The terrible twos. Or at least I tell myself it’s that and not my parenting skills.”

  “He’s a good kid. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Would you like tea? We always have tea with our chocolate covered graham crackers. Zeke likes the ritual.”

  Tea? Not really. “Sure,” Jack said. “I could use a cup.”

  There wasn’t much opportunity to talk over tea with a two-year-old monopolizing the conversation at high decibels but the overall vibe was nice and the view was even nicer. Jillian Penrose was real easy on the eyes. Stunning and classy, with a kind of Mona Lisa secret smile and a quiet serenity rare in a woman.

  But Jack didn’t overstay his welcome for any number of reasons. Common sense, good manners, his busy schedule. But top of the list--he was having trouble behaving. He hadn’t felt this kind of unruly desire for a long time.

  He didn’t know if he could deal with it sensibly.

  So with Zeke appeased, he thought it best to leave.

  He was polite.

  She was polite back.

  They were both adults.

  Chapter 3

  While Jack was driving back to Bragg, a trim, toned middle-aged man with a golfer’s tan, a bespoke suit, an expensive haircut and the soul of a serpent, glanced at the number on the caller ID, frowned, then picked up the receiver and gruffly said, “Well?”

  “Problem solved.”

  “Find anything?”

  “A list of names in his wallet.”

  “Mine?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “The list?”

  “Burned.”

  He dropped the receiver back into the cradle of a desk phone that looked like the command center at NASA, leaned back in his chair and turned to the man seated on his left. “The issue’s been resolved. Will the attorney general’s office wonder why their pigeon doesn’t show for the meet?”