Chapter 23

Sunday Rust

Author's note: It's time to get to know Carl and Jamie better and start to sort out their roles in this story. In my head, there's big chemistry between 2 lonely people here – but also big secrets…

Intro Song: Sunday, Bloody Sunday, U2

For most people, weekends were for families, adventures, or even just rest - anything that provided a distraction from the day-to-day job demands of the work week. Sunny Los Angeles was a city especially conducive to fun and recreation for most.

Carl Davis, however, was not most people.

He didn't have the time or the inclination for such activities - at least not this weekend. Not today for sure. Yes, it was Sunday but his church-going days were long behind him, a bone of contention in the Davis household, where their church was the foundation the family's world revolved around. Carl had lost track of the number of church functions he'd attended over the years. Everything from youth retreats to choir performances to community outreach, they'd done it all - plus showing up in their pews at least twice a week, most weeks more. He'd finally burned out. His work, and the challenging schedule that came with it, gave him the out he needed, and he'd taken it. And so, he found himself alone on this beautiful day, with only his thoughts and the case file to keep him company.

He preferred to have the contents of his briefcase strewn about on his coffee table instead of working in the bedroom at the back of the house that had been converted to a home office. For some reason, using the living room allowed him to trick his mind into believing that he was not actually working. Yeah, right. As the afternoon began its slow drift toward evening, he alternated between reading excerpts of the case file and drinking coffee to stay alert. He'd industriously typed notes on his laptop periodically throughout the day as facts jumped out at him, or questions for follow-up occurred to him.

Truth be told, he had nothing better to do - correction, nothing that he'd rather be doing - right now. To be under 35 and reach his rank in the Los Angeles Police Department required sacrifices. There was no emotion, anger, or self-pity in that reality. "Those are the facts" as his grandfather used to say, "and there's no point crying over it. Either you beat the system, or it beats you. Your choice."

He smiled at the remembrance of his grandfather, or 'Papa', as they all called him, and the images it evoked. With a tenth grade education, Lionel Davis had migrated as a young man from Shreveport, Louisiana to Los Angeles, California, where he landed a good job in the defense industry that allowed him to comfortably support his family. He also managed to go to school at night, eventually completing a two-year degree from a community college. Respect for education had been instilled in all his children and grandchildren. That man's pride, determination, and solid work ethic was passed to Carl's father, Reggie and down to him, along with the house he was living in now.

Papa had told him frequently how proud he was of the path Carl had taken and the hard work that went along with it. He'd bequeathed Davis his home because, as he made a point of saying in his will, "Carl is doing the lord's work for peasant's pay, while most of the rest of you are chasing the almighty dollar. My support of his career will be to provide a roof over his head for as long as he chooses to use it. I hereby bequeath him my home." In Papa's mind, spending one's life solely in the pursuit of money was a mortal sin, unworthy of a Davis. No one bearing that name was allowed to take the easy path or be less than his or her best. Although, the definition of "best" was subject to interpretation and his father had certainly not shared his grandfather's view of Carl's chosen profession. He grimaced and returned to the present. Nothing good could come from dwelling on that ongoing point of contention within the Davis clan.

As the afternoon began its slow drift toward evening, he alternated between reading excerpts of the case file and drinking coffee to stay alert. He'd industriously typed notes on his laptop periodically throughout the day as facts jumped out at him, or questions for follow-up occurred to him. Another sip of coffee, and he refocused... and froze. His inspection of the stack of crime scene photos from the most recent border murders yielded a gruesome fact that he hadn't seen in prior pictures - the victims here were beheaded. Carl had seen plenty of carnage during his tenure on the police force, but this was especially disturbing... and then he focused on the smallness of several of the bodies. "Good God," he exclaimed out loud, "some of these look like..."

Children.

Maybe he was wrong. Please god, please let me be wrong. Enough of the bodies remained to tell that heads were missing, but they were so badly burned that deciphering age or gender from the photographs was nearly impossible... He scrambled through the file, pulling out the written report on the photographic evidence, scanning it quickly...

Fuck! It was children!

Dropping the pictures on the table as if they were red hot, Carl leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his hands scrubbing at his face as if, by doing so, he could remove the memory of the images he'd just seen. This was too much. Just... too much. You're a professional, he admonished himself. That didn't make it any easier. And why hadn't Talbot mentioned this critical fact? Why hadn't the ADA warned him in advance? Had Talbot wanted to elicit just the type of gut level response Davis had experienced? If so…then the man's a grade A prick. This whole thing was looking weirder and more disturbing by the hour.

He'd promised to send a copy to St. John before their meeting with Talbot, and he was a man of his word so he needed to suck it up and finish his review. "Speaking of weird..." He spoke out loud again at the thought of the private investigator. There was something about the man... Carl couldn't put it into words. It was a visceral thing, a gut reaction, but he could feel that there was something different about the P.I. Not bad, necessarily, but definitely different.

He'd heard about the P.I. even before meeting him. He'd taken negative comments with a grain of salt - there was no love lost between police and "freelancers". But in his initial face-to-face meeting with the man had been odd, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. His first instinct had been to flee, to run as far and fast as he could from him. Yet, there was nothing overtly menacing about Mick – he had been a little pushy and cocky, but what P.I. had Davis ever met who wasn't? The guy was intelligent, polite, professional, and very, very good at his job. Probably the best the detective had ever encountered. By all rights, he should have liked him.

Instead, he'd been so unsettled by his own reaction that he'd willingly accepted any opportunity to be rude, curt, or downright mean to Mick, even though he knew it wasn't right. He'd been all too accommodating of Josh Lindsey's order to search St. John during the drug raid at Club Valace. "With pleasure," he'd muttered as he grabbed the private investigator, forcing his hands behind his head. He'd regretted it almost immediately. Reactions – and Josh Lindsey's jealousy aside, Carl just could not abuse his authority that way. He had known the real reason Lindsey wanted Mick ruffled, and, regardless of his own feelings, Davis could not - and would not - justify it. Not to himself or to anyone else.

After frisking St. John, he'd ushered him outside the club, out of the sight of the deputy DA, and then released him. He'd responded to the quizzical expression on the P.I.'s face. "I wanted to get you out of Lindsey's sight. Let him cool off a bit," he'd told Mick. "Come on, man. You were at that club with his girl. We're both men. You figure it out."

What had made an impression on Davis at the time was Mick's overriding concern for Beth, and how quickly he'd tried to dispel any notion of impropriety with the reporter. It was clearly important to him that she be protected from fallout from whatever their escapade had been. Admittedly, he, himself, had trouble completely buying that part of it, considering how provocatively Beth had been dressed that evening. Even if St. John's intentions had been innocent, it was fairly obvious to the detective that hers were not.

What finally changed his opinion of the private investigator forever, however, was the tragic day when Josh was murdered. Regardless of his prior notions or uneasiness around Mick, no one could deny the man's heroic attempts to save Lindsey's life. If only he'd known the comments Josh made about him before, Carl had thought darkly at the time. But now he had the feeling that it wouldn't have mattered. Mick would still have made the same valiant effort.

Afterward, in the police station, still wearing the shirt soaked with Josh's blood, St. John had interrogated Bustos. Although the henchman, not surprisingly, didn't divulge Tejada's real hideout, Carl did have to admit to a certain deep satisfaction with the abject terror that Mick had managed to instill in the criminal, even as he wondered what the P.I. could possibly have said to cause it. The smell of urine had hit his nostrils the minute he'd gone in the room to collect the scumbag. Good! The asshole deserved far worse than a scare that made him piss his pants.

But the law was what it was, even for pieces of crap like Bustos. He was facing a capital case - accessory and co-conspirator in the kidnap and murder of a public official. Bustos, however, with the help of his attorney, plead out, saving the taxpayers, Josh's family, and Beth, the expense and pain of a prolonged trial. The deputy district attorney's life had ultimately been exchanged for knowing how and where HEM Brotherhood got drug shipments into the U.S. - and Bustos got a nice, soft cell in the prison psych ward.

The Latino's attorney always claimed that whatever St. John had done to him in the interrogation room had scarred him for life. The tapes, however, showed that the P.I. had never touched him, so that argument went nowhere. What the hell had Mick done – or said - to him? Carl had wondered over and over. Whatever it was, he sure hadn't seen it. He made a mental note to ask St. John about that sometime if he saw an opening. Whatever the technique was, he wanted it.

Now, it looked like the Hermanos En Muerte gang was back. With a vengeance. Drug running and the murder of border agents and innocents were, no doubt, their version of giving the finger to law enforcement. He had no hard evidence yet, but, based on the type and quantity of drugs involved, the delivery path used, and the "HEM haircut", as this style of beheading had come to be known in El Salvador, his experience screamed to him that HEM was behind this. He still had questions regarding this case. Lots of them. But, if his instincts served him correctly - and they did more often than not - the meeting about this case would take him to exactly one place. The scene of the crime.

Grimly, Carl took one last look at the brutality before stuffing the disturbing photos back in the file. With renewed determination, he balanced the computer on his lap, and continued typing his notes in preparation for the coming week. It just wasn't all coming together in his head, though. The questions about why Talbot was throwing he and St. John together, and what he hoped to accomplish, kept derailing his train of thought. He desperately needed someone to talk this through with. In that moment, he keenly felt the lack of close friendships among the law enforcement community.

Sundays always confronted Jamie Sommers with that special brand of guilt that seemed to be especially reserved for lapsed Catholics. She thought glumly that her grandmother, Betty Rae Johnson, would be turning in her grave right now at the thought that her properly-raised granddaughter hadn't attended mass since landing in Los Angeles some four months ago. Almost her entire maternal line was entrenched in the French Quarter, so Catholicism was as natural as breathing. Jamie was pretty sure that "Big Mama" Johnson would not be pleased with quite a few things she was now doing with her life.

Yet she still clung to those Catholic roots, reaffirmed, ironically enough, after Hurricane Katrina. Everyone needed something to give them hope during those dark days. Some looked outward and, when it soon became clear that no dependable help was coming from that direction, others, like herself, turned inward, returning to the faith of their forebears - and for much of Louisiana, that meant their religion.

Eventually, aid did come, but it certainly was not due to a compassionate, responsive government. A convoluted combination of churches, philanthropic groups and civic-minded celebrities formed the backbone of real post-Katrina assistance, as any New Orleans natives like her would readily concur. One organization in particular, CHOIR, provided relief on a scale few matched, and she, like thousands of others, was grateful. If only she'd remembered Homer's admonition about Greeks bearing gifts...

The incoming message that popped up on her laptop ended her introspection. She frowned at the simple email:

Family Reunion, tomorrow night 6:00 PM PST

Zoom invitation to follow

"Show and tell time," Jamie mumbled, tension churning her stomach as she reviewed the list of invitees. If the news she'd heard about New York was true, the situation could rapidly be approaching the boiling point. This was D-day... decisions had to be made. And she had to be ready. But there was still the question of who could be trusted.

Another alert came through, but this time it was her cell phone. "What now?!" she blurted, her mood reflecting her escalating stress as she grabbed the phone. "Yes?!" Her greeting was curt; she hadn't even bothered to check the caller ID.

At first, there was silence on the other end. Then... "Um... if this is a bad time, I can call back another time..."

Her attitude shifted from annoyance to concern. This can't be good... "Carl?! Oh my God I'm so sorry for answering like that! I didn't expect your call. I-I guess this is what I sound like when Monday morning is on the horizon..."

"Well, I'm getting kinda gloomy too. I've been working all day and I need a break. Wanna go grab some coffee? Maybe we can turn your day around."

Jamie weighed the offer. She needed to get to know the detective better. "Sure, that sounds nice." It's strictly business though, right?

"Great! How about if I come pick you up?"

Declining could offend him, but accepting meant she'd be effectively tied to him with no way to leave if things weren't going well. And the detective was the inquisitive type, which meant she'd have to be particularly careful about answering questions, so the potential for things to go wrong was very real. "Carl, you don't have to go out of your way on my account - "

"It's not out of my way," Davis interrupted. "I do know where you live, remember? The coffee house I'm going to is downtown, so I'd have to pass near you to get there anyway." When she didn't respond, he added, "Come on, Jamie, it's the least I can do for having to cancel dinner on Friday." The detective had been almost to his car with Jamie on Friday when an emergency call had come through, blowing up his plans for the night. Jamie had assured him she understood and was not offended by the cancellation, but he still felt terrible about it. "How about I pick you up in about 30 minutes? I'll have you back in time to get ready for tomorrow."

Jamie gave in. "Since you put it that way - that'd be fine. Just enough time to ditch her sweats, get herself presentable, and her thoughts in order. "See you then."

"Looking forward to it."

She couldn't help but smile as she placed her phone on the counter. His brevity was actually one of the things she liked about him. Half an hour! Damn! Jamie bounded for the shower, throwing off her sweats as she went. Maybe the long day was about to get better…

"Soooo... coming from New Orleans, are you a serious javanista? "

Jamie gave her driver a sideways glance. "If I could mainline it, I would. Does that answer your question?"

Laughing, Carl responded, "Yes, ma'am! For me, coffee is an occupational hazard - a necessity if I'm gonna stay alert."

"I admit, I wasn't much of a coffee drinker until I hit college. Exams stacked on top of papers makes one a quick convert."

"What college was that?"

Mentally, she gave Davis a plus-one in his score column. The man was always "on", and she'd be wise never to forget that. "Xavier University." She decided the best way to engage him, and, hopefully maintain a semblance of control over the conversation, was quid pro quo. "You?"

"Morehouse College for undergraduate."

"Which means you did graduate work, Carl Davis. Whereabouts?"

"Well, I came back home to L.A. for my advanced degree – Gould School of Law. Finished about, oh, four years ago."

"Wait... you have a Juris Doctor from U.S.C. and you're not an attorney?!" Jamie was beginning to think that there was more to Carl Davis than met the eye.

"You sound like my parents."

Uh-oh... looks like I may have stepped in it... "I hope that's a good thing."

"Depends," was his cryptic response. A glance at her face prompted an apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so mysterious. It's no biggie, just typical family baggage."

Jamie smiled encouragingly. "We all have that drama, in one way or another."

"So, what about you. Did you do post-grad work?" His tone was casual but Jamie wasn't sure that the question was. Or am I just jumping at shadows? "I completed my B.A. in Sociology at Xavier, then migrated to Tulane University for my Masters work... Sociology and Anthropology," she added, trying to get ahead of his questions.

Carl whistled his approval. "Wow, Tulane - the 'Harvard of the South'. I'm very impressed."

Jamie snorted. "Yeah, here we are, just a couple of overachievers. My masters, plus about $5, will buy me a mocha."

Davis smiled over at his passenger. "Nah, today, I'll buy you one."

Silence again overtook the car. She relaxed into the soft black leather seat, the low hum of the well-tuned engine the only sound for several moments. "So," she began, finally breaking the silence, "where exactly are we going?"

"Cafe Corsa. It's one of those places we natives know about. Independent coffee house, great vibe, stays open late. It's not one of those big chain stores and you can taste the difference. At least I think so." Davis expertly guided the car off Figueroa Street, into a small strip mall parking lot, surrounded on either side by quaint, brick-front businesses. When they parked, Jamie made a move to open her door, but Carl intervened. "Let me get the door for you. My mother would have my hide if I didn't behave like the gentleman she raised me to be."

When he held the passenger door open for her, she rewarded him with a brilliant smile. "I'll be sure to tell your mother what good manners you have if I ever meet her." His clothes were tasteful - blue jeans, button-down shirt, leather shoes, conservative silver necklace - but nothing extravagant. His car was a black BMW, late model, nicely appointed but devoid of the ostentatiousness that was so much a part of Los Angeles. Class, but not flashy. Just Like Carl. Overall, it appeared as if he lived within the means of a police lieutenant - which hopefully meant he didn't have the financial stress which would make him susceptible to bribery, all too common with civil servants who have, as her father used to put it, "Cadillac tastes and bicycle money." The amount of graft and outright theft by politicians and other officials that she had seen during, and after, Hurricane Katrina had sensitized her to that potential.

Jamie's stare lingered on him longer than it should have - and she was caught. First, a look of curiosity showed on his face, then a wide smile spread across it. Damn those doe eyes of his... The young woman looked away, embarrassed by her momentary lapse. There were serious matters ahead of her, and this was not the time for her to behave like a smitten adolescent. To her relief, he said nothing, and, after a brief stroll, the two reached the small coffee house.

As Carl again insisted on holding open the door for her, it dawned on the detective why his companion looked different today. "I just noticed that you aren't wearing your glasses!"

"No. I only wear them for reading or when I'm on the computer - I'm a bit vain I'm afraid." Jamie smiled up at him, her dark brown curls glinting in the sunlight as they headed inside.

Cafe Corsa was an attractive, if unassuming, venue, faintly reminiscent to Jamie of coffee houses in the French Quarter. The interior was a combination of brick walls, dark woods and wrought iron which gave the cafe a modernized version of old world feel. The odor of strong, fresh coffee permeated the cozy shop and soft jazz played in the background. Jamie inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma. A decent number of patrons were leisurely enjoying their Sunday, a few of whom gave friendly nods to the couple as they walked by.

"Another occupational hazard," Carl explained in low tones. "Being a cop in downtown L.A. means I keep running into people I know, usually either from work - or because of work. Sorry about that.

Jamie shook her head. "Don't be silly, I don't mind at all." Her mind was elsewhere, focused on the questions she needed to ask him - and on what approach she could take that wouldn't trigger his suspicion. No easy task, given his well-honed instincts.

Two coffee orders later, the couple was seated at one of the bar tables in front of the shop's expansive bay window. The golden glow of late afternoon light cast its shadows on the room and its occupants. Their hands wrapped around large, steaming mugs of coffee, a plate of pastries between them, the two sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

Jamie finally decided to take the bull by the horns. "Why did you want to meet, Carl? I mean, I know we didn't get to go out on Friday night, but I totally understood. That's the life of a policeman. Now I'm getting the impression it's something else..."

"Can't get anything by you, can I?" Davis squinted out the bay window at the street scene for a moment, before leaning across the table toward her. Quietly, he said, "It's this case... I can't talk to just anyone about it. I can talk to you because you work for Talbot, even though it's probably walking a fine line. I trust you though." His expression softened. "I hope that's okay. I mean, it's not part of your job, and..."

Jamie smiled encouragingly. "No problem. I understand. I mean, sometimes you need to 'talk shop' - even on a Sunday." For her purposes, jumping right into this conversation was advantageous, though there was a small kernel of disappointment that she did her best to ignore. "You know, one of my grandmother's favorite sayings was a quote from Joseph Addison: 'Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week.' She used to sit at her kitchen table on Sunday evenings after the dinner dishes were cleared away and organize herself for the week. If we tried to get her to do something else with us, she'd put us off and say she was cleaning up the Sunday rust. So, let's clear away some rust, Carl Davis."

He smiled. "I like that. Never heard it before – or heard of Joseph Addison. Who was he?"

Jamie made a 'tsk-tsk' sound. "That's what happens when a person spends too much time buried in one subject in college. Addison was a 17th century English poet and playwright. Quite famous, actually," she added teasingly. Sobering, she plunged ahead. "So what's going on? It was pretty clear that Talbot wanted to talk to you and Mick about something important, but he didn't share anything with me."

Carl blew on his coffee before cautiously venturing a sip, organizing his thoughts before beginning. "The case involves a string of murders along the U.S. - Mexico border, in San Diego. So far, we know that some border agents were killed, along with suspected illegal immigrants. The M.O. is pretty grisly." He paused, turning his spoon round and round in his coffee, as if stalling for time, before looking up. "Decapitation and burning. Some of the victims include... children."

"Oh my God..." The young woman closed her eyes as if that would help to block out the disturbing image the words created.

Davis cursed himself silently. Helluva way to make up for canceling Friday's date. "Jamie, I'm... I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking to haul you out of your home on a Sunday to lay this on you. Forget I said anything. I'm really sorry…I-" Davis faltered, realizing it would be impossible to undo the damage he had just inflicted with his words and repeated, "I'm just so sorry."

A hand over his stayed any further apologies. "I understand, Carl. I do. It just- It shocked me a little. Please go on though." She smiled with what she hoped was encouragement. "I mean it. I'm ready." At least I think I am.

"Are you sure? We don't have to." Davis berated himself again. What were you thinking, man? Oh right, you were thinking that if you didn't talk to someone about this, you'd be climbing the walls. And you didn't have anyone else…

When Jamie nodded emphatically, leaving her hand in place over his, Carl continued. "Well, Talbot wanted to talk this case over with Mick St. John and me. I have to admit, the details bothered us - beheadings, looked like some of the bodies burned to ash..."

"Ash?"

"Yeah. Has to be a damn hot fire to reduce a human being to ash. It has all the earmarks of a drug gang. My gut tells me it's the same one responsible for the hit on Josh Lindsey - but I need more evidence to make sure. I'm betting that we are going to take a trip south."

"'We' meaning…?"

"Mick and me. Not sure yet if anyone else would go; at best, we'd be on a fact-finding expedition."

"I guess that's one thing I don't understand. How can Talbot send an L.A. detective into the San Diego jurisdiction?"

"I'd be working one of our cases – the murder of Josh Lindsey. That sort of thing happens all the time."

"I see," Jamie nodded. She suddenly realized she still had her hand on his and pulled it back, picking up her coffee mug to make it less obvious. Casually, she asked, "So, what do you think of Mick St. John being involved?"

Carl eyed Jamie curiously. "Why do you want to know?"

"I know private investigators and independent contractors are not brought into police activities routinely," Jamie said, choosing her words carefully. "So, I figured he must either be really good or have great connections because he always seems involved with the DA's office somehow. And now this case." She shrugged. "I just met him last week, and he seemed really nice. Beth apparently doesn't like talking about him, though. So I'm just trying to figure it all out."

"You and me both," Carl replied dryly.

"Why is it that Ben doesn't like him? I mean, it's not that he's said anything specific to me, but I certainly get that vibe from him."

Davis sighed. He thought back to Talbot's discussion of the Josh-Beth-Mick triangle. That had to be at least a factor in the ADA's animosity towards St. John. He found it distasteful; definitely not something he liked discussing with Jamie or anyone else. And he didn't think it was the only reason Talbot was coming after Mick. "Quite honestly, Jamie, I'm not sure why he doesn't like St. John. I suspect it has to do with the fact that Beth began to see Mick after Josh's death. But I really don't know for sure." I'm going to find out, though.

"Was he that close to Josh that it would matter that much to him? I don't get that impression, do you?"

"I wish I knew. Josh never brought up Talbot, and I was around him a lot, working on cases. I'd have thought he would have mentioned him if they were right. You didn't know Josh Lindsey, did you?"

Jamie shook her head. "No, that was before my time."

Carl groaned inwardly. He was going to have to dredge all this up, it seemed, to help Jamie understand the underlying personal dynamics going on. "Well, I'm sure you've heard that he was the Deputy District Attorney who was murdered by the H.E.M. drug cartel a while back - and he was Beth's boyfriend at the time. They'd been together for about a year when it happened." Davis paused for a moment, thinking back to the events that led up to Josh's tragic death. He wasn't proud of his part in all that and hesitated to share it with the very attractive woman across the table from him. Just stick to the facts, Davis.

"Anyway, Josh first brought Mick in on a case when he suspected a leak in his department that put a potential witness in jeopardy – and St. John did a great job, risked his life to bring the witness in safely. Then, after that, he just seemed to always be around when we were working a case - usually with Beth. They were pretty tight. So, naturally, Josh wasn't overly fond of him. It got pretty... tense... a few times." Nice understatement there.

Jamie's dark eyes frowned at the detective over the edge of her coffee mug. "Really? And you think that has something to do with Ben not liking Mick? That seems like an awfully big stretch if they weren't that close – and politically risky for an ADA with ambitions." She sipped her drink thoughtfully before continuing. "Is the so-called tension with Josh the reason why Beth won't talk about Mick in the office?"

"I don't know, Jamie. I try real hard to stay out of all these office dramas. I do know that Josh had asked Mick to help protect Beth from the drug ring right before he was kidnapped, so he must have come to some kind of understanding with him. And..." he stopped, swallowing hard as unwanted images from that terrible day flashed through his mind, "...and, I watched Mick try like hell to save Josh when he was shot. He'd been a medic in the war and he pulled out every trick in the book to try to save his life. Things I'd never seen anyone do out on the street. Believe me, if it had been humanly possible to save Josh, St. John would have done it. As far as why Ben doesn't like Mick? I'm just guessing here, but I'd say it's probably a case of two big dogs trying to piss on the same tree." He caught himself. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that to you; it's not polite." His expression was contrite.

She laughed. "Don't you go worrying about that. I'm the only girl in the pack of Sommers kids - all older brothers, mind you. Trust me, darlin', I've heard and seen it all - girls sneaking in and out of the house, conversations about who did what with whom in glorious graphic detail - you'd really have to go some, Carl Davis, to shock me." Her New Orleans accent was on full display.

"Thanks." He reached over and squeezed her free hand gratefully. "There's really no excuse, though. I wasn't raised to talk that way in front of a lady. It won't happen again. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Ben and Mick. I probably shouldn't be saying this to you..."

"Come on, don't stop now!" she protested. Don't stop holding my hand either. "You can't leave me hanging like this!"

Davis took a gulp of his own coffee, stalling for time. He needed to talk to someone about this and get things straight in his own head. Isn't that why he'd called her? Partly... He made a decision. "Okay, I can't say no to a southern accent like yours. But this doesn't leave the table, all right? I mean it, Jamie." He waited for her response, one pair of brown eyes boring into the other.

She nodded slowly - that intense stare made it exceedingly hard to think straight. "You have no idea the secrets I've had to keep. I'm good at it."

"Well, that certainly sounds intriguing. Next time, I get to ask the questions!" He smiled briefly, then sighed and put down his now-empty mug, pushing it away and folding his arms. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm not sure why, but Ben appears to have a vendetta against Mick St. John. At the very least, he's definitely got a burr in his butt about him." He hesitated, then continued. Tell her all of it. "He showed me a file he has on Mick, with some... interesting... pictures. And, he wants me to work this case with him partly to keep an eye on him. You know, get close to him and see what I can find out. I meant it when I said I don't know what's going on here. But I can tell you, I I don't like it."

"Pictures? What kind of pictures?" Though she'd seen the images, Jamie still did not know their origin, or anything else that could put them in context. She wanted…needed…that information.

"I -" Carl stopped and shook his head. "Sorry Jamie, I just don't feel comfortable with sharing that information right now. I don't know if they could be evidence in a case, or what Talbot might have planned for them. I hope you understand."

It wasn't the answer she had hoped for, but Jamie realized she was in no position to push the issue right now without raising suspicions. She considered her options before asking thoughtfully, "How do you feel about all this? What are your impressions of St. John and Talbot?"

"Me?" He straightened, staring unblinkingly at her. "I think Mick St. John is a straight-up guy who was in love with Beth Turner long before Josh was killed but didn't act on it. I think she was in love with him too. And, I think he's got a big secret."

His bluntness shocked Jamie; it took her a moment to gather her thoughts. "Wow, don't hold back, Carl! Tell me what you really think!" The comment made him laugh, diminishing the tension, as she had hoped it would. She plied him with more questions. "What do you think his secret is? Does it have anything to do with Beth? Were they getting together behind Josh's back before he died?"

"No, I don't think Beth was cheating on Josh. I just don't think she's that kind of person – and I don't think he is, either. But, if I were a betting person, I'd lay odds that she was going to break things off with Lindsey. When she and Mick were in the same room, there were sparks flying everywhere. You'd have had to be deaf and blind not to see it or feel it. For that matter, there are still fireworks whenever they're around each other. You must have noticed that." He shrugged. "I honestly have no idea what's going on with Mick, it's just a sense I have that he's carrying something around. As far as whether it has anything to do with Beth, I don't know... yet."

The emphasis on the word 'yet' did not escape her attention. Get him to focus on Talbot. "Well, since we're being honest, it's my turn." She took another drink. "I agree with you about the fireworks, even though I've only seem them together the once. I also don't think Talbot trusts Beth."

Davis nodded his head in agreement. "I think you're right. But then, I don't think Talbot trusts anybody. That's how ambitious people are, they think everyone is like them. And he strikes me as very ambitious. I'm sure he doesn't trust me either." He smiled ruefully. "See why I don't like to get involved in office politics? It's a quagmire."

"Unfortunately, since he's one of the attorneys I primarily support, the best I can do is try to duck the crap as it flies overhead," she responded gloomily. "Still doesn't explain his attitude toward Beth. I was told that he's the one who offered her this position, so he must have wanted her in the office. It doesn't add up. Please keep this to yourself, but I do think it's because she's with Mick."

"That could be; Ben's a hard one to read. And there's no question that Mick St. John rubs him the wrong way. I think Talbot is intimidated by Mick and he resents it. One guy's take on the situation, for what it's worth," he added drily. "Just be careful though, Jamie. I don't know what Talbot's agenda is and I'd hate to see you get dragged into whatever he has planned."

"What about you? Isn't he dragging you into it by trying to get you to spy on Mick?"

He winced. She has a point. " 'Spy' may be too harsh a word for it - but I - I'm really not sure how to answer that. I am sure, though, that if I don't do it, he'll just find someone else. At least I feel like I can be objective - and I won't let Talbot conduct a witch hunt. I don't know everything there is to know about Mick St. John, but I do know he doesn't deserve that."

His voice was firm and, looking at his face, jaw set and eyes deadly serious. Jamie did not doubt his resolve. I could really get to likin' this man. She couldn't resist touching him again, putting her hand on his arm. "So, what happens next?"

"I guess I go work this case with Mick - and I keep my eyes and ears open. Thank you for listening, Jamie. This wasn't exactly a fun outing for you. I hope at least the coffee was good."

"The coffee and the company were excellent," Jamie responded firmly. She reached for his hand again; this time, she didn't let go.

Carl had to admit he was, without question, drawn to this lady. Her warmth, and intelligence appealed to him – and lord knew, he was lonely. All the same, despite her charm, and his admitted attraction, Jamie Sommers was a mystery. One he intended to solve before he got any closer.

End Song: A Sunday Kind of Love, Etta James