Free Bite the Moon by Diane Fanning

the Bobby Wiggins case.” A scowl crossed the attorney’s face. “No, Arnie. I am not calling to ask for something for nothing again. I’ve already got someone who will work for nothing.” He rolled his eyes upward as he listened. “Oh, shut up, Arnie. She has all the legal qualifications. I just need her to work under your license.” He shook his head and sighed. “Cut the chauvinistic crap, Arnie. You don’t believe a word you are saying. You’ve told me a thousand times that the best investigators you ever encountered were women.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Yes, Arnie, of course. The best investigators after you.” After another pause, he said, “No, Arnie. She’s here now. I’ll send her right over.” He formed an O with his index finger and thumb and shot it in my direction. “Thank you, Arnie.”
    Hanging up the phone, he turned to me and said, “Okay, we’re all set. Used to be easier. I could just send you out with my authorization. Now I have to have you work under a licensed investigator.” He pulled a business card out of the top left-hand drawer of his desk. “The Agency. I know it sounds so ominous it’s corny but that’s Arnie. I begged him not to use a name that sounded like the CIA, but he was young then and now The Agency is established. So . . .” he shrugged.
    “ Did he do the background check on me?” I asked.
    “ Of course. I trust him completely. For years, he has saved me from unpleasant surprises in the courtroom. You’d be amazed at the things people think they can hide from their attorney and the court. Secrets never are really secrets.”
    The taciturn Mr. Travis transformed in to Chatty Cathy right before my eyes. He rattled off his list of expectations for reports. Gave me directions to Arnie’s office—just a five-minute walk, he said. And Travis gave me the number for his direct line. Hallelujah! An Arbuthnot bypass.
    He escorted me back to the reception area, talking the whole way. In front of the ice queen’s desk, he thanked me again and gave me a pat on the back before retreating to his office. I gave Ms. Arbuthnot one of my sweetest smiles. She looked as if she was fighting off the urge to spit on my shoes. I wiggled my fingers in her direction and headed down to street level.
    *
    I wound my way down one block, then another, past buildings that blocked the sun but did nothing to suppress the omnipresent, suffocating humidity of Houston. I approached the far shorter, less imposing, building that housed The Agency—less imposing by big-city standards, that is. Picked up and stuck in my downtown, and it would be the most impressive thing for miles.
    The third-floor offices did not provide much of a view—just the exteriors of other buildings and a glimpse of the street below. Unlike the loftier office of Dale Travis, this one was close enough to earth for the honks and screeches of the traffic below to seep through the walls.
    The furniture in the lobby was nondescript Naugahyde—a couple of rips repaired with discreet color-coordinated tape—built to use, not to impress. Behind a desk plate that read “Kristi Nichols,” the woman who greeted me bore no resemblance to Ms. Arbuthnot. She had a wholesome blond-haired, blue-eyed look and exhibited as much enthusiasm and good cheer as a Girl Scout peddling Thin Mints. Her smile beamed even broader as I approached. “You must be Ms. Mullet,” she said.
    “ Molly,” I said, returning her smile.
    Her eyes just about disappeared as her smile expanded to an even greater width than I thought possible. “Okay, Molly. Arnie is expecting you.” She wiggled her index finger and added, “Follow me.” I walked behind her, wondering if I had ever in my entire life had that much bounce in my step. I half-expected her to break into a skip or turn a cartwheel as we made our way down the hall.
    Kristi led me to an office with one clear surface—the seat of the visitor’s chair. The L-shaped desk had a