Never Say Sty (12 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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“Kendra!” He crossed the room and took me tightly into his arms before I could back away.
Jeff was tall, muscular, and all male. I’d been extremely attracted to him. He kissed me hard, but I didn’t respond. He got it and let me go, looking into my eyes with his intense and sexy blue ones. He seemed to try to search my soul for a few seconds, then said, “Let’s go grab lunch.”
“Okay,” I agreed without revealing my reluctance.
I glanced at Althea on our way out. She sent a sympathetic stare our way. For Jeff, or for me? Maybe both.
I wasn’t surprised when Jeff led me to a Thai restaurant. Thai had always been our mutual favorite. Our sexual stimulus. Pad thai and mee krob, followed by a bout in bed.
No beds were on our agenda this afternoon, or ever again.
“So how’ve you been, Jeff?” I asked after we’d ordered. I stayed away from our habitual fare, instead ordering something with unspicy shrimp.
“I’ve missed you, Kendra,” he stated. “You know I’d do anything to take back what happened. And you also know it wasn’t entirely my fault.”
He’d been drugged for part of the passage of time that had led us to this point. But not for all of it. And his mistrust of me had only underscored my knowledge that I was a bust in the boyfriend department. My relationship with Jeff had been the most meaningful since I’d had an affair with the senior partner of my former law firm.
Which was also why I couldn’t allow myself to get too interested in the mystery man who was Dante. Although, with luck, he’d be a bit less mysterious after I had my conversation with Althea.
“I know there were extenuating circumstances,” I said to Jeff. “And I don’t blame you.” Not entirely, at least. “But as much as I enjoyed what we had, I just don’t feel the same anymore.” Okay, I was being as blunt, yet as kind, as I could. Would he buy it?
Not entirely. Although we talked in generalities about his cases and mine, my pet-sitting, and the whole
Animal Auditions
situation for the rest of our meal, he put an arm around me as we walked back to his office. I pulled my muscles in tightly and remained as far from leaning on his hard body as I could, yet I chose not to make a scene and shrug him off altogether.
But I dashed through the door of his office building and then stayed far from him, especially in the elevator when we were all alone.
“Thanks for having lunch with me, Kendra,” he said as we reached his company’s offices. “I’d really like to do it again. Give me a chance to make it all up to you, will you?”
Obviously, he hadn’t chosen to accept what I’d told him. “We can certainly be friends, Jeff.” I turned to him without opening the door. Mentioning friendship was surely the kiss of death to any hopes he might harbor, wasn’t it?
“I want more than just friendship with you,” he said sadly, acknowledging what I’d anticipated. “But I’ll take what I can get . . . for now. Go talk to Althea. I know you asked her to check out Dante DeFrancisco, since he’s backing that new reality show you started. I also know you intended to keep it secret from me, but what the hell? You and I are friends if nothing else, and if you need anything from Althea or me, just ask.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. What else could I do?
But he wasn’t through. “I’ve looked over what she found. That guy seems too good to be true . . . which most likely means there’s something still out there. I’ll have her keep looking. Meantime, watch your back. There’s already been one murder connected with your show, and I’ll bet you that DeFrancisco either did it himself or knows who did.”
Chapter Ten
SURE, IT WAS sour grapes that flavored Jeff’s ugly innuendos. Innuendos? Heck, those were utter accusations.
I didn’t defend Dante or demand a retraction. For all I knew, Jeff was absolutely on track for figuring out Mr. DeFrancisco. I had my own suspicions, after all. But I’d reserve judgment at least until I’d gotten the information Jeff had from his expert computer person, Althea.
Deep down inside, I knew I didn’t want to learn any bad stuff. Wise or not, I was smitten—at least somewhat—by the sexy pet-supplies mogul.
I thanked Jeff for lunch, agreed to keep in touch—sentiments any old friends might exchange. But I didn’t allow him close enough to seal that sorta promise with a kiss.
I was pleased when one of Jeff’s employees, Buzz Dulear, exited his office to say hello. Buzz was a whiz at installing security systems and had recently gotten his license as a P.I. A tall fellow with a buzz cut that emphasized his receding hairline, he’d become a fairly good friend when we’d hunted together for Hubbard Security’s big boss after Jeff disappeared.
“Good to see you, Kendra,” he said in a tone suggesting he was serious. Good old Buzz was definitely discreet in the way he tried to disguise how he shifted his gaze from Jeff to me, as if attempting to determine how the wind blew between us: Did it bluster to shove us far apart, or gust enough to propel us into one another’s arms? He obviously got the gist of things, since he suddenly seemed rueful, yet resigned. “Sorry, got to run. I’m in the middle of designing a security system for a new downtown office building. Hope I’ll see you again one of these days.” But his quick handshake suggested that he strongly doubted it.
Althea appeared in the reception area. “How was lunch, you two?” She didn’t await an answer—or maybe she knew it wasn’t necessarily what she wanted to hear. But I’d met with Jeff, even joined him for a meal. She owed me. “Come into my office, Kendra,” she said, as if in acknowledgment. “I’ll show you what I found on that assignment you gave me.”
“See ya later, Jeff,” I said casually and strode behind Althea into her office. I held my breath while waiting to see whether Jeff would impose himself in here. This was his company. His employee. His computer, and his subscription to whatever databases Althea had legally used.
Her hacking? It was at least his non-discouragement that allowed that as well.
As always, Althea’s office appeared to contain more computer gear than creature comforts. The chair I sat in, facing her electronics-laden desk, was small but sturdy.
Althea sat, too, and simply stared at me at first. I gazed right back. This lovely lady was a grandma? That concept always took me aback. She was slim and curvy and pretty. I could only hope that when I reached my fifties, middle age would be as generous with me as it had been with her.
But that, fortunately, remained a decade and a half away.
Which didn’t sound so far off after all. . . . Yikes!
“Okay, tell me all about it,” Althea finally commenced our conversation.
“Lunch? It was pleasant. We can clearly remain friends, even though there’s nothing romantic”—or sexual, but I wasn’t about to discuss that—“left between us.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Althea’s affirmative sound managed to seem skeptical. “We’ll see. Okay, you’ve fulfilled your end of this bargain. I’ll tell you what I found out on Dante DeFrancisco’s background. And, let me tell you, I used some of my most intense computer skills to try dig up more.”
In other, less subtle, words, she’d done some hacking.
“So what did you learn?”
She handed me printouts of some partly redacted computer pages—where anything that could identify the source was neatly obscured. At the same time, she explained, “I didn’t get much on Mr. DeFrancisco’s early life—childhood, I mean. But once he came of age, he joined the Marines and got into a supersecret covert special ops division. He worked with K-9s, and one dog apparently saved his life overseas. When DeFrancisco got out of the military, he brought the dog along—some special dispensation allowed him to adopt the animal. That experience apparently led to his love of pets, and he supposedly vowed to do everything in his power to make sure they were well cared for, no matter where they were, who owned them—or who got in his way.”
“That sounds like some sort of PR that his company HotPets would feed to the media,” I suggested, not quite scornfully. But it seemed too slick to be true.
Althea shook her head. “There’s no official story in any of their media releases. Lots of unrelated Web sites extol his virtues for his support of pet rescue organizations like HotRescues and his wildlife sanctuary, HotWildlife. He got an undergraduate degree in biology at the Illinois Institute of Technology and an MBA at Harvard. He was apparently well into his twenties when he headed into higher education, so he could have had a short but sweet military career first.”
“And he made his money how?” I couldn’t help asking.
Althea’s smile was cynical. “Ah, there’s the question. Nothing I discovered made that absolutely clear. The party line at his company was that he started working at a pet food manufacturer’s, decided he could improve on it, and started his own small shop.” Close enough to what he’d told me. “People loved what he offered to their pets and bought lots, he expanded his enterprise, and the rest was supposedly history.”
“And you don’t buy that?”
“Do you?”
My turn to smile. “I’ve bought a bunch of dog food and fun toys for Lexie at HotPets. So, yes, on some level, I buy it.”
But when I left Althea and the Hubbard Security offices a short while later, I was still wondering where the heck Dante DeFrancisco really came from . . . and how he’d become so filthy—or spotlessly—rich.
 
 
MY MIND CONTINUED to spin as I got in the car to head toward the San Fernando Valley and my law office. Dante’s past seemed interesting enough . . . if any of it was true. His present was absolutely fascinating. The guy’s wealth apparently rivaled that of the country’s richest moguls. And he’d made it all in a way that I could really relate to: supplying special treats to pets.
His future? Well, if all went well, it should still include
Animal Auditions
. Mine, too. Did that mean his future and mine would somehow merge?
In my dreams.
Or maybe, if my general luck with men remained in place, in my nightmares.
Okay. Enough. I had to focus on what was absolutely important to me: my pet-sitting, my law career, and now my affiliation with
Animal Auditions
.
As I started out, I recalled I might be able to address in tandem a couple of important issues relating both to my law practice and
Animal Auditions
—by meeting with the two remaining reality show judges. I might get some helpful feedback about Princess’s separation anxiety . . . and learn Matilda Hollins’s and Eliza Post’s perspectives on the slaying of Sebastian Czykovski.
Using my cell, I called both again, but reached only Eliza. I’d hoped to set up a meeting with each in the next couple of days, but Eliza had a window of opportunity only that afternoon. So, instead of heading over the hill toward the Valley, I directed the rental car toward the studio where her radio show on pets was recorded.
It was located in the so-called Miracle Mile area around the middle of Wilshire Boulevard. When I reached the address Eliza gave me, a short, squat office building sat there. I wasn’t certain where I expected a radio station to be located—maybe on top of a mountain, surrounded by old-fashioned antennas.
In any event, I located the station’s facilities on the fourth floor. KVLA wasn’t one of the city’s most popular stations, but I’d listened to it now and then. It aired an eclectic mix of talk shows and soft rock. Plus, its Web site was wonderful, full of information about the talent and celebs showcased onair, as well as programs easily accessed and enjoyed even in the absence of a radio or portable player.
A young guy who talked as if rehearsing to be an on- air personality—or maybe he
was
an on-air personality unknown to me—ushered me down a long hall, past a glassed-in studio where a guy wearing earphones talked into a microphone about baseball.
“Are you one of Eliza’s guests?” my escort asked after we’d started down another hall. His gaze inquired who the heck Kendra Ballantyne really was, and did she deserve to be interviewed onair by one of the station’s primo personalities?
“I’m a pet-sitter,” I replied, as if that explained everything.
“I see. And do you have some interesting experiences to describe to our listeners?”
He sounded less than enthusiastic about my subject, so I decided to say something shocking, just for fun. “Maybe, if you consider having some of my clients petnapped, and having to go many miles to find them. Or maybe finding some of my clients’ owners’ corpses is a tad more exciting. Or—hey, I think we’re here.”
The sign on the door said “Eliza Post, The Perfect Pet Show Host.” I gave the guy a smile filled with absolute innocence, while he leveled on me a gaze that suggested he either didn’t believe a word—though all of it was true—or he considered me the devil incarnate.
“Thanks.” I turned the doorknob and strolled in.
Eliza sat behind a table strewn with pet paraphernalia: a huge bone-shaped plastic container filled with giant doggy biscuits, woven nylon leashes, several six-packs of canned cat food, and countless stuffed animals, from rats to smiling snails.
“Kendra, hi,” she said in her soft British accent. “Please come in.”

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