Call Me! (2 page)

“For two thousand you could hire the best hooker in town.”

“This isn’t about sex, Ms. Ripper. I don’t want to catch him
cheating
, I just need to know if he
would
. There’s a lot at stake here. The wedding
alone
will cost my father a quarter million.”

Two grand means I get to keep driving my car.

“Bra and panties?” I offer.

“Three thousand,” she says. “All cash.”

“In advance?”

“If you wish.”

I wince, thinking about it.

“Maybe I could lose the bra. But my panties aren’t negotiable.”

“Five thousand dollars!” she calls out with all the enthusiasm of a trophy wife at a charity auction. “All cash. In advance.” She pauses, then says, “My final offer.”

I bite my lip.

“Take it or leave it,” she says.

“No photos,” I say.

“
What
? Why not?”

“Are you
serious
?”

Carter sighs. “Deal.”

Her fiancé’s name is Joe Fagin. He’s thirty-two. We review his photos together. She wants to set it up for tomorrow night at the Brundage Hotel in Louisville, where he has dinner reservations at Simon Claire’s at seven-fifteen.

“Have you ever been there?” I ask.

“No.”

“The restaurant’s on the second floor. There’s an open area, then the bar.”

“Perfect.”

“Who’s Joe meeting for dinner?”

“Computer geeks, trying to raise money.”

“Joe’s a venture capitalist?”

“He thinks so, but my father suspects he can’t fund his deals. Mind you, there’s no evidence of that.”

“Do you know if they have plans for after dinner?”

“Joe Fagin hanging out with computer geeks?” she laughs. “He’s not the type. You’ll see. I expect he’ll lose them after dinner, probably hit the Brundage bar.”

“Or catch a cab somewhere more exciting.”

She frowns. “That could mess things up.”

“I’ll work it out.”

“I admire your confidence.”

“I’m confident I can get his attention. Enticing him to come to my room is something entirely different.”

“You’ll try your best?”

“Of course. But if he doesn’t take the bait…”

“Then we live happily ever after.”

“You’d consider him faithful if I can’t seduce him in a single encounter?”

“Absolutely.” She notes my puzzled expression and says, “I mean,
look
at you!”

I can’t look at me, but she does. In fact, she studies me so deliberately it makes me uncomfortable.

She says, “If he can resist
you
, I’ll marry him. If not, I’ll be heartbroken, but better off.”

She opens her purse and removes a bundle of hundreds wrapped in a Union City Bank
paper band.

“That’s five,” she says.

To her amusement, I spread the bills across my desktop and run a counterfeit money pen over them. When I’m satisfied they’re real, she reaches in her purse and removes another bundle of equal size and denomination, and peels five bills from that one.

“Expenses,” she says.

I run the pen over those, as well.

As I watch her leave my office, I recall how she entered it thirty minutes earlier. She knocked on my door, tentatively. I told her to come in. When she did, she looked at me and her eyes widened.

That was the first thing I noticed, her eyes. I’d never seen harlequin-green eyes before.

“Wow,” she said.

“Wow?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s quite a compliment, coming from you.”

And it was, because Carter Teague’s a knockout. As a woman, I’m allowed to say that. I’m allowed to notice, too. It’s funny how we can get away with looking at, and even touching, other women. I wasn’t interested in touching her boobs, of course, but I could’ve said something like, “Are those real? No? Oh, my God, they’re
spectacular
! May I?” Then I could’ve reached out and touched them. She would’ve been embarrassed, but she’d have allowed it. If a man tried that, he’d find himself in an orange jumpsuit before the noon whistle signals lunch at county.

Funny, that.

I think she caught me looking at her boobs just then, because she suddenly averted her eyes and pretended to glance out my office window. She did that a few seconds, then turned back and focused her eyes on mine.

“You’re Ms. Ripper?” she said.

“Please. Call me Dani. And you’re?”

“Carter Teague.”

“Great name,” I said.

“Thanks.”

We were both quiet a moment.

“Um…you’re staring,” I said.

“Oh. Sorry!”

“No problem. I’m flattered. I think.”

She wasn’t blushing, more like flushed. And staring again.

“You’re married?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

How does any married woman answer that question? Depends on the hour, the day, the time of month…

“I like to think so,” I say. “How can I help you?”

She removed my business card from the card holder on my desk and held it between her perfectly manicured thumb and index finger.

“You’re a private investigator?” she said.

“I am.”

“I was told you’re a decoy.”

“By whom?”

“I heard my father talking to someone. He’s a divorce attorney.”

“Here?”

“No. Cleveland.”

“And he’s heard of
me
?”

“He was telling someone you’re the best in the business.”

“I’ve done some decoy work. Not locally.”

“This would be in Louisville, not Cincinnati.”

I nodded. She explained what she wanted, and how she planned to walk in on her fiancé and me while having sex, and I explained how I don’t actually have sex with the husbands or boyfriends, and—wait. I’m wasting your time. You’re caught up. Let’s move along.

TWO THINGS HAVE happened. Carter Teague has left the building, and I’ve got another decoy job.

The sign on the door says
Dani Ripper, Private Investigator
. As does the ad in the phone book. The business cards. The social media listings all over the internet.

Dani Ripper, Private Investigator
.

The word “decoy” cannot be found associated with my name, but that’s the work I get.

I’m not shocked, there are reasons I’m not on the short list for the big PI jobs. First, I’m a woman.

I don’t mean it the way you think.

What I mean is most clients think this type of work involves physical encounters with seamy, bent-nosed characters. Clients are conditioned to expect a PI who’ll hang a brute on a meat hook and beat the shit out of him with a tire iron to find out where he hid the jewels. They tend to view me as tight jeans, five-inch heels, and a kick-ass halter.

I’m the first to admit I’m not tough.

I don’t grunt, sweat, or smell. I know some basic moves, but I’m more at home on a dance floor than a kick boxing ring. In short, I don’t look the part. Which is funny, since ninety-nine percent of the job involves computer and camera work, and sitting in cars waiting for people to exit homes, hotels or businesses. Less than one percent involves physical contact.

The second reason I don’t get much PI business is I’ve never had a high-profile case. In this business one high profile case will feed you a lifetime of clients.

Let me amend that statement: I
have
had a high-profile case. I just didn’t solve it. And that’s the third reason I don’t get much PI business.

I scoop Carter’s cash off my desk and stuff it in my shoulder tote. I’m a Choo girl on a Kors budget, which is to say I’ll splurge to a point when I get a windfall.

Which isn’t often.

Today’s a windfall, but I’ve already earmarked Carter’s cash for practical things, like catching up on my car payments. And the mortgage. I’ll also put a grand toward my step-son’s college fund. Buy some groceries and household cleaning supplies. And…wait. I might have enough left to splurge. Tomorrow I’ll buy a nice gift for best friend Sophie Alexander, whose birthday happens to be today. This morning Sophie was the proud recipient of a whimsical email card and an invitation to a birthday lunch on Tuesday. Thanks to Carter Teague, Sophie’s lunch has been upgraded to dinner and a bracelet. I’ll get her something trendy, but tasteful.

So the clothes, jewelry, fancy cars, mansions, yachts and such will be placed on hold till I finally crack a high-profile case. And that’s fine, since I suspect it’s more fun to dream about exquisite material things than it is to insure and maintain them. While I admit to owning a few signature pieces, like my Gucci watch (a gift from Sophie) I’m not a clothes whore. I’d much rather have a fond vacation memory than a pair of designer pumps.

With ninety minutes to kill before my lunch appointment with Vicky Stringfellow, I go back to what I was doing before Carter showered me with cash, which happens to be the same thing I always do when I have time on my hands.

Check my emails.

It’s not what you think.

I check emails the same way you do, and read and answer them the same way you do. But, unlike you, I’m checking to see if my alerts have been triggered. I use all the alert programs, seeking hits to variations on the phrase that haunts my days and nights.

A quick scan shows no recent hits. But most of my alerts are updated every twenty-four hours, so I go to Google and type the word
cherrystones
.

167,000 entries.

I scan the first dozen pages, as always, but can’t find what I want. I narrow the search by typing
Are your nipples like cherrystones?

That phrase turns up 19,200 entries, but none on the first dozen pages contain the exact wording. So I try
nipples like cherrystones
.

And get 11,100,000 entries.

Crazy, right?

But as I scan the first dozen pages of this search, I find two references. One on a dating site, another in a chat room.

The dating site would be an uncharacteristic departure for my target, but my pulse quickens, as it always does, whenever these (or similar) words are typed in a chat room that underage girls are likely to frequent. I copy the link into my browser, click it, and learn it requires an annual credit card payment of nineteen dollars.

I sigh.

That brings my total to fourteen paid sites and forty-seven free ones. That’s sixty-one sites if my math skills haven’t deserted me. I check each of these sites at least once a week. Do I have that much time to spare?