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“I don’t have all day. Put—me—through.”
    She did. Next, I had Donna sparring in my ear. Before she could hang up, I squeezed in that I had a letter of introduction from Jones, Staubach, and Owens. She replied there was no free time on Mr. Bergstrom’s calendar. However, if I really had a letter from whom I said, she was willing to take a look at it. I could fax her a copy.
    I groaned, recognizing I had butted as big a hole in the stonewall as I could. I caved and followed instructions.
    Less than thirty minutes later, I had a return call from Donna. She apologized—or I took it as an apology—and invited me to meet with Mr. Bergstrom the next day at ten o’clock. With a warning I’d better not be late, she hung up.
    After that introduction, I faced the meeting with a feeling of trepidation. Obviously, I was no longer in people-friendly Texas. There would be no how’s the family icebreakers. It was put up, or shut up and get the hell out. A different world from the one I left, but I vowed to make it mine.
    When I showed up a comfortable ten minutes early, I met Donna face-to-face and quickly learned who ran things. Not that she said anything overt, but ownership is easy to recognize.
    She let me cool my heels, then glanced at her watch. “Come with me.” She led me into an ornate office.
    A man in his fifties presided over a desk that fit the room. His head was down, and he apparently studied a paper he held. The clock on the wall behind him read ten o’clock. I got the message and stopped in front of his desk.
    He looked up and said in a gruff voice, “I’m Sylvester Bergstrom, senior partner. You pissed off everybody in my office. You have thirty seconds. Make them count.”
    “Jones, Staubach, and Owens recommend me.”
    “So I heard. I have a copy. What do you want?”
    His abruptness didn’t work. I was ready for it. “A job. I’m the best investigator you ever met. I can go to work tomorrow and dedicate full time to your firm. If you don’t put me on the payroll right away, you’ll miss the chance. There are other firms who will hire me, then you’ll have to face me in a courtroom.”
    I’m not sure I heard an intake of breath, but there may have been one. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to a tough-talking woman coming into his office. He glared at me. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
    “I see no reason to play down my talent. I’m good. Read the letter.”
    His eyes flashed to his desktop, and he picked up a piece of paper—my letter of intro, I assumed. The rest was, as they say, history. I contracted a large retainer from Sly starting the next day, and we have worked together since. In my mind, we have both benefited from the relationship.
    Now, he was the hero I wanted riding to my rescue, the man I would have lunch with and beg to help me through this difficult situation.
    Before leaving the house, I checked my living room—I hate to leave a mess—and straightened a couple of magazines. The phone rang. The caller ID caused me to frown.
    My mother had tentacles into every aspect of my life. If I developed a cold sore, she knew it. And she always called at the most inopportune times. Now she was doing it again. My guess was she’d had a dream about yesterday.
    “Hi, Mom. I was just thinking about you.” Not entirely untrue. I did think of her when I saw the caller ID.
    “And I, you, Bethy. What happened? Are you okay? Should I come out there?”
    “Nothing, Mom. Afraid your radar is wrong this time. Just heading out for a meeting with Sylvester Bergstrom. You remember him, don’t you? The attorney I do some low-level investigating for. Simple business as usual.”
    I always used the words low-level when talking to Mom. I wanted her to think my job consisted of sifting through paperwork. If she knew half the truth, she’d be on the phone every day. Even in civil cases, people get upset when they discover a PI digging into their life. Paparazzi get the headlines