Legwork

Casey's latest assignment is to guard Senatorial hopeful Mary Lee Masters-a tough-as-nails politico with a reputation for perfection and a long list of adversaries, including one who just dumped a shotgunned corpse into the candidate's Jeep. With her campaign on the horizon, Mary Lee turns to Casey for help-the kind that soon has the unlicensed sleuth swimming in an unsavory southern stew of treachery and dirty politics...with a large pinch of murder thrown in for flavor. EXCERPT: He was tall with a slim build and solid shoulders. And he was wearing my favorite: old jeans and a black sweatshirt. He had long hands and beautifully tapered fingers. Brown eyes, longish brown hair. Long eyelashes. A long nose, long dark mustache, and a long smile. I liked the long motif and wanted to explore it further. Good heavens. And me not looking my very best.

"Excuse me," I interrupted cleverly. Both men jumped when I stepped from the shadows. Good thing I had vetoed the puke-stained dress. "I'm Ms. Master's bodyguard and I'm concerned about her safety. Where is she?"

"Bodyguard?" Shorty asked incredulously, surveying my sturdy frame with exaggerated skepticism. "What would you do if I started to attack her like this, huh?" He came towards me, arms outstretched, ready to grabmy arms and pin them behind my back.

What is it with short men? They're always trying to prove they're bigger than they are. It was time to cut this one down to size.

"For starters, I'd kick you in the balls," I said, flexing my left leg for balance as I whipped out my right, stopping an inch from his crotch with the heel of my size nine Ferragamos ready to strike. Shorty froze.

"Nice shoes," William Bryant Butler said. It was enough. I was in love. He took his eyes off my black velvets and examined me carefully. "At ease, Sergeant," he said with a laugh. I dropped my foot, smiling sweetly at Shorty as he backed away. "Your client is in the back seat of that car," Butler explained and I noticed that he not only had brown eyes, but deep brown ones.

Oh, mamma. It felt like a million butterflies were nibbling inside my stomach. ''You married?" I asked. I couldn't help it. Reflexes, you know. Besides, I pride myself on my subtlety.

Shorty stomped away toward the blue sedan, grateful for what was left of his pride, if not his balls.

"Not at the moment," the detective replied, admirably unshaken by my prying. "What about you?"

"I'm not married at the moment, either."

"A coincidence. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" He pulled out a notebook. Damn. He was a worker, not a romantic. I had a feeling I knew why he wasn't married anymore.

"Detective?" I asked.

"First class all the way." He pulled a small wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open. I love it when they do that. The badge winked at me and he flipped it shut again. ''Name's William Butler. But you can call me Bill. "

"How old are you, Bill?" I asked, just to try on the name for size.

"Old enough to know better. Mind if I ask the questions and you give the answers?''

Mind? Not at all, I thought. Especially if we remove our clothes first. Oh, stop, I told myself. This is serious work. My client is sitting over there in the back seat of a car being guarded by a steroid-filled dwarf. Get your mind out of the gutter, girl.

"You know anything about local politics?" I asked Bill Butler. "You know who's sitting in the car, right?"

Bill nodded. "I know who she is. How long you been working for her?"

"About a month," I told him, flashing a quick look at the sedan. Shorty had propped his butt against the front hood. I was surprised he didn't lift his leg and pee on the bumper to mark it.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?" It's tough to follow a conversation when you're busy imagining the speaker naked. He had great teeth, small and even and white. It might be nice to have a boyfriend who practiced personal hygiene for a change. Everyone needs to branch out on occasion.

"Why were you working for her?" he repeated impatiently. "You on drugs or something?"

The question was like a slap. "Me? God, no. Why do you ask?"

"You're acting a little out of it."

"Well, it's four fucking o'clock in the morning," I explained. "How with it are you right now?"

"Plenty with it because I'm plenty mad. Were you lurking in the bushes long enough to hear my conversation with Runthead?" He nodded toward Shorty.

"Yeah,'' I admitted. "If I help you out, will you help me out?" I thought it best to get right to the point.

He had a great laugh. "I guess you aren't so out of it, after all. What makes you think I know anything?''

"All I want to know is the identity of the victim," I said. It wasn't all I wanted to know, but it was a good start.

"Who do you think it is?" he countered.

"Oh, no." I shook my head. "We need a little faith here or we won't get anywhere."

"Okay," he agreed, lowering his voice. "You answer two questions for me and I'll answer one for you."

"Deal," I said. "Then I get to talk to my client."

"Hey, I can't even talk to her," he protested.

"No problem. I can help us both out there. Shoot."

"Why were you guarding her? What's wrong with the locals?"

"She didn't trust them. Thought they were reporting back to the Maloney campaign. She might have been right. Maloney is Senator Boyd Jackson's nephew and everyone is in Boyd Jackson's pocket."

"Why did she hire you? You don't look that.. . big. "

"How sweet of you to notice,'' I said. He had a disconcerting habit of staring intently while he waited for an answer. I was sorry I'd worn my glasses. Where were my contact lenses when I needed them?

"She wanted a woman," I explained. "Not a lot of us around. "

"You licensed?" he asked.

"You've had your two questions,'' I pointed out. Talk about a close shave.

He shrugged. "What's your question?"

"Who's the dead man?" I started up the steep driveway toward a Jeep Cherokee surrounded by a horde of forensic specialists in yellow windbreakers. They looked like giant hornets swarming around a dish of honey.

"Thorton Mitchell," he said. "Ring a bell?"

"Shit," I said. "You're kidding?"

"Not me," Bill Butler promised, snapping his notebook shut. "I never kid about business."

Somehow, I believed him.

Copyright ) 1997 by Katy MungerShe's smart, talented and durable, but Casey Jones has had more than her share of bad luck in her life-including a short stretch in a Florida pen that haunts her still. In Raleigh, N.C., where Casey now lives, a prison record means no private investigator's license. So she's doing legwork for legit p.i. Bobby D—a blimp-sized eating machine with a bad toupee, who exercises few muscles below the jawline.

Casey's latest assignment is to guard Senatorial hopeful Mary Lee Masters-a tough-as-nails politico with a reputation for perfection and a long list of adversaries, including one who just dumped a shotgunned corpse into the candidate's Jeep. With her campaign on the horizon, Mary Lee turns to Casey for help-the kind that soon has the unlicensed sleuth swimming in an unsavory southern stew of treachery and dirty politics...with a large pinch of murder thrown in for flavor.

Author Biography:

Katy Munger is a Southern belle with a Northern funnybone. She was raised in Raleigh, North Carolina, buthoped her caustic wit during a sixteen year stint walking onthe many wild sides of New York City. In real life, she isolder than Casey Jones, but probably younger than you.She lives happily in Durham with her husband Greg andtheir baby daughter Zuzu. When she is not reading in herI hot tub, she can often be found having breakfast at thenew Former's Market.