Excerpt of Dirty Harriet by Miriam Auerbach

The contessa walked into my office on a Tuesday clad in Chanel from head to toe — the pink suit with white trim, the pearls, the black-toed shoes, the white quilted bag with the chain strap — with her Chihuahua, Coco, ensconced on her left arm. The scent of Chanel No. 19 wafted in with her. Eau de parfum, eau de dog and eau de dollars hit me at once. My sinuses rebelled immediately and I went into a sneezing fit.

Glancing around imperiously at my barren office as she flipped back her mahogany pageboy hair, the contessa pronounced, "Harriet, what you need in here is some foliage. You know, the leaves will absorb the toxins, oxygenate the air, clear those allergies right up."

I just love it when people tell me what I need, don't you? She could take that little rodent-disguised-as-a-canine and —

"Yes, Your Excellency," I said. I learned long ago that you don't mess with the contessa. She was aristocracy, after all. The Boca version, that is. Her true origins were unknown. Whether she had acquired her title through birth, marriage, or purchase, no one knew. There was no count in her present, and she didn't speak of her past. Many believed that she had to be the real thing, since who would actually pay for a name like von Phul? Personally, I wasn't so sure. I happened to know she was a crafty one — she could well have bought the name, figuring people would think exactly that — there was no way anyone would buy it. Faking everyone out with a double negative, so to speak.

I knew the contessa from my former Boca Babe life. We had served on several charity committees together. She was the senior version of the Boca Babe — the Botox Babe. Seventy going on fifty. Yep, we have some of the world's best surgeons right here in Boca.

She hadn't finished with her critique of my lifestyle yet. Her eyes did a full-body scan as she checked me out. A Babe compulsion — they just can't help themselves. She took in my buff butt and biceps, big boobs, big dark hair and big dark eyes. She did miss my bigass Smith & Wesson Magnum .44 gun, which I had license to carry concealed and kept stashed in my boot. "It wouldn't hurt you to spiff up your wardrobe a little," she declared, peering at me down her hawkish nose.

I had on my usual post-Babe uniform — all black, all stretch tank top and boot-cut leggings. She clearly wasn't impressed.

"I've simplified, Contessa," I replied. "Besides, S and L are a girl's best friends."

She looked confused. Her brow would have wrinkled, but the Botox wouldn't let it.

"Savings and Loans?" she asked.

"No — Spandex and Lycra."

She rolled her green eyes and looked around for a place to sit.

She brushed some imaginary dog hairs off of one of the two Naugahyde chairs in front of my desk and gingerly placed Coco on it. Coco did a body shake and deposited some non- imaginary hairs. The contessa settled her tall frame into the other seat.

"Harriet, I have a case for you," she said, cutting to the chase. "An unsolved murder."

"But Contessa," I said, "I don't do murder. I do scams. My motto is 'They scam 'em, I slam 'em."

"But Harriet," she said, "this is a case that cries out for justice. And you are just the person for it."

"Why is that?" I asked, astounded.

"You will care about this case like no one else. You won't let go until you've solved it, because a part of the victim is a part of you."

"Oh, yeah? Which part is that?"

"That's for you to discover."

She was trying to get to me, I could tell. And she was succeeding, damn her.

"Go ahead," I said grudgingly.

"As you well know, I am benefactress of the Central American Rescue Mission."

How could I not know? For that matter, how could anyone in Boca not know? The contessa's name and face were plastered all over the place promoting her pet charity. She was in the papers, in Boca Raton magazine, on flyers in the Publix grocery, everywhere. The Central American Rescue Mission provided assistance to refugees who had fled to Florida from the war-torn countries of the south. The contessa's interest was thought to derive from her own childhood experiences in wartime Europe, though of course no one really knew.

"Maybe you remember from the papers, Harriet, that one of my girls was killed about a year ago," she continued. All the Rescue Mission's clients were her

"girls" and "boys."

"Yes, I do vaguely remember something. A body was found in the tomato fields west of here?"

"Not a body," she admonished. "A person. Gladys Gutierrez. Yes, they found the poor soul strangled last February. Just think of the irony, Harriet. This sweet girl had escaped the killing fields of Guatemala only to wind up dead in the tomato fields of South Florida. And she was just on the verge of starting a new life. She was learning English, she'd just gotten a new job, her future was bright. Tell me, where is the justice in that?"

"What about the police?" I asked.

"Well, of course they tried. But you know how it is. More pressing matters came up, and Gladys has been shelved."

I knew what she was talking about. Boca had been rocked by a few upper-crust scandals lately. The former president of the local public university had been accused of accepting a brand new red Corvette bought with university foundation money that had been laundered through his wife's interior decorator, while the local private college was accused of illegally procuring cadavers for its funeral services program without the families' consent. So I could see how a pesky little problem like the murder of a Guatemalan refugee had taken a back seat. "I didn't want to interfere with the official investigation," the contessa continued, "but it's been a year now, and I had my own internal deadline. I decided I'd give the police that long, and if they didn't make an arrest by now, I'd take matters into my own hands. Now I'm putting it in yours."

There were plenty of other P.I.s in town she could have picked. But she was getting to me. I could see the writing on the wall — if I didn't solve this case, no one ever would. Not that I have an ego or anything.

There was another thing, too. I figured I kind of owed the contessa. When I'd been in the slammer after offing my husband, most of my Boca Babe friends had dumped me like toxic waste, but not the contessa. She had been one of the few to visit me, and had even made public statements in my defense. In fact, I sometimes wondered if she'd had anything to do with the charges being dropped.

"Okay, I'll consider the case," I muttered.

"Of course you will," she said. She whipped a sheaf of papers out of her Chanel bag. "Here is a copy of the police summary of the case. I will see you at the Rescue Mission tomorrow morning at nine." She picked up Coco and headed for the door.

The gall! She had obviously decided before even coming in that I would take the case. I glared out the iron bars covering the plate-glass window as she pulled out in her Rolls.

I took a deep breath. The contessa had put her faith in me, big-time. No one had ever done that before. Trust me to attract someone's adulterous husband? Sure. Catch a con artist? Sure. But solve a murder? Not. The contessa was putting me to the test, and I had to meet the challenge. I couldn't let her down.

It was getting late in the day so I decided to pack it in and head home. I would read the case file tonight. I shut down my computer, turned out the lights and stepped outside. I locked the door, then the wrought-iron gate that serves as my security.

My office is located on the seedy side of Boca. Yeah, there is one. Of course you knew that everything glitzy in life is just a facade. Boca's backside, or at least one of them, is along its southwestern edge, on Highway 441, technically outside the city limits. This is strip mall city, with rutted parking lots and dusty barren roadways in place of the manicured hedges and fairways to the east. ScamBusters is in one of these strips, wedged between Tony's Tattoos and Carl's Checks 'R' Us check-cashing store.

Actually, the location is a business advantage. Think about it. My typical clients from east Boca wouldn't be caught dead walking into ScamBusters, since that would be tantamount to a public announcement that they'd been conned. So by driving a couple miles out of town, they don't have to worry about being seen and having their country club know their business the next day. Here, all they have to worry about is getting their Mercedes or their Beemers carjacked.

I put on my leather jacket, chaps, gloves and helmet, and settled into the seat of my Hog. I turned the ignition key and pushed the starter button, and the engine roared to life. I pushed my way back out of the parking space, then opened up the throttle and took off. As I headed west on Glades Road and left the traffic behind, everything faded out of my consciousness except the familiar four-stroke rhythm of the V-twin engine. You know that sound — the one you get only from a Harley. But maybe you don't know the feel. Let me put it this way: it's a five-hundred-pound vibrator between your legs. And people wonder why a woman would ride a bike.