Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (11 page)

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Authors: Scott Sherman

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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Or maybe I was just projecting.
“There is no job in life more important than being a good parent,” she intoned dramatically. “My children were everything to me. Nothing came before them. All I did was be there for them.”
The whole time I was growing up, my mother ran her own business. I couldn’t remember her ever going to a school play, attending an assembly, or volunteering in the classroom.
I did have a specific memory of her mockingly referring to the Parent Teacher Association meetings as “that support group for grown-ups who haven’t figured out the value of a good cocktail.”
Maybe she meant “there for” me in spirit. Which is not to say she was abusive or negligent—she was a great mom. She just wasn’t Suzy Homemaker.
Still, I never doubted she loved me. I’m sure my older sister felt loved, too.
It was surprising to me that, in retrospect, my mother felt the need to embellish her maternal involvement. When I was a kid, she was proud to call herself a “career woman,” happy to delegate the day-to-day child rearing to a succession of housekeepers and au pairs. Now, she was suddenly Betty Crocker.
I guess everyone has regrets. As we get older, we become aware of how we wished we’d handled things differently and eventually convince ourselves that’s what we did.
“Where were the people who were supposed to be there for Adam?” my mother asked.
“Behind bars,” I said. “Hopefully, for a very long time.”
“No, I mean those stuck-up bastards at Families by Design? Shouldn’t they be screening the families who adopt from them? Aren’t they supposed to be doing home studies to make sure that the children they place wind up in safe situations? Shouldn’t they also do follow-up visits to see how the baby is doing?”
I wasn’t sure what the exact requirements were, but most of that sounded right.
“But reading between the lines of that Web page,” my mother continued, “I don’t think they’re ‘placing’ children at all.
“I think they’re selling them.”
She let the words sink in.
“Their ‘premium service’ for the ‘elite few’ willing to make a ‘significant investment.’ What does that sound like to you?”
“My brother and his wife adopted,” Andrew said, using a yellow marker to highlight the phrases my mother had quoted. “There are fees involved, and I suppose agencies can charge what they want. But there are certain things you can’t pay for. For example, you can reimburse the birth mother’s health and living expenses during the pregnancy, but you can’t give her an out-and-out fee. That would be . . .”
“Selling a child.” My mother finished his sentence. “Which would be wrong.”
“We don’t know that’s what they’re doing,” Andrew said. He’d put down the highlighter and picked up a paper clip, which he toyed with absently.
“No,” I offered. “But it does happen.” I’d seen a Lifetime movie starring Melissa Joan Hart or some reasonable facsimile of her as a young girl who’d fallen into a baby-selling ring.
Sabrina’s Secret Shame: My Womb for Hire,
or something.
“I bet this Families by Design cuts other corners, too,” my mother observed. “Whatever preadoption screening they did couldn’t have been too careful if they let Adam wind up with two
meshuganas
like the Merrs. What about the follow-up visits? How do you miss that the
baby’s in a cage?
” My mother pursed her lips together and pushed out air, miming a spit. “Animals.”
“I agree,” I said. “But, still. What can we do about it? I doubt we’ll get them to come on the show.”
“Obviously not,” my mother said. “I’m thinking we go undercover. A stink operation.”
“A sting,” I corrected, although she probably had it right the first time.
“What,” Andrew asked her, trying to keep an expression of horror off his face, “do you have in mind?” I noticed he’d half uncurled the paper clip he’d been playing with, bending back the metal with nervous restlessness.
My mother sat up straighter, excited to present her plan. “We pretend to be a couple looking to adopt. A rich couple. But a crazy one—clearly not suitable as adoptive parents. We go in . . . what’s that word from
CSI
? Wired. We get them to make some incriminating remarks on tape, and then expose them for the scum they are.”
Andrew gave up the pretense of remaining calm. “We?” he croaked.
“Not
we.
” My mother gave a little giggle, wagging her finger between herself and her producer. “I don’t think
we’d
make a particularly believable couple, do you?”
“No!” Andrew almost shouted in a combination of relief and agreement. “We wouldn’t.”
“I meant
‘we,’ ”
my mother explained, indicating with her finger again.
Only this time, it was me on the other end of the wag.
15
Mystery Men
Is there a reverse Oedipus complex? If so, I was pretty sure my mother had one. I instinctively scooted a foot away from her on the couch.
“You want to pretend we’re a couple?” I asked, my voice rising on each syllable, until I squeaked out the end of the sentence like a sixteen-year-old girl.
“Why not? You’ll be perfect.” To Andrew: “He looks so much like his father did at that age.”
“Yeah, but now you look
your
age,” I pointed out, too appalled to be polite.
“Don’t be silly,” my mother trilled. “You know I look a lot younger than I am. How often have people told us we look more like brother and sister than mother and son.”
Unless the A in ADHD stood for “amnesiac,” I was pretty sure the answer to that was “Never.”
“Why not have Dad play your husband,” I suggested, trying the more diplomatic approach. “He’s had more experience.”
“Oh, your father’s much too old.” She dismissed my suggestion. “Who’d ever believe he’d want a child at his stage of life? Besides, you know he’d never go along with the idea.”
It was true; my father was much too sensible to get involved with my mother’s attention-seeking machinations.
“He’s too jealous,” she explained. “Of my success.” Then, lest she sound immodest, she added, “He’s such a sweet man. Wants me all to himself.”
What my father wanted most from my mother was to be left alone. My mother saw the skepticism on my face.
“Listen, we have some of the best makeup people in television on this show, right?” She turned her attention toward Andrew. “We have them glam me up a little, take a few years off. At the same time, they throw some gray in Kevin’s hair, give him a few wrinkles; he’ll look a decade older. He’ll appear to be in his mid-thirties, I’ll pass for early forties. That’s not a huge difference. Remember that episode we did: ‘Cougars and the Boys Who Love Them’? Some of those women were twenty years older than their lovers. Kevin and I will look much closer in age than that.
“I mean”—she bestowed upon Andrew her patented imperious expression, which combined the most outrageous possible claim with an implicit dare that you’d better not challenge her—“I really don’t look like a woman past her forties even
before
your hair and makeup crew touch me. Given the level of quality I
know
you insist on from the staff, there’s no reason we can’t make this work, right?”
I could think of at least a dozen reasons, not the least of which was the probability that at least one of the people we’d be meeting with would be sighted. But my mother was studiously, purposefully ignoring me and directing her question at her producer.
Andrew’s eyes widened and darted back and forth like a rat caught in a trap. Any sane person would tell my mother her plan was ridiculous. She looked like a woman in her forties only if you took that to mean the decade in which she was born. Plus, I was cursed and blessed with looking far younger than my real age, as proven by the fact that I still got carded at bars. I couldn’t imagine a coma patient buying us as a couple, let alone a conscious person.
Added to that, my mother had no experience “going undercover.” One of her few undeniable charms was that she was always herself, for better or worse. Her ability to convince anyone that she was genuinely looking to adopt, and to trick them into an admission of unethical practices, was highly doubtful.
Another issue: Who knew how much this wild goose chase would cost? We weren’t prepared for this kind of investigation—no hidden camera equipment, no crack research team. As the producer of
Sophie’s Voice,
Andrew had to consider the bottom line on things like that.
On the one hand, Andrew had all these arguments and more he could make against my mother’s wacky scheme.
On the other hand, he’d like to stay employed.
“No reason at all,” he agreed, sounding less believable than Megan Fox in a Michael Bay movie. By now, he’s completely unfurled the paper clip he’d been mangling, turning it into a thin, straight, pointed rod. He discreetly pressed it against the skin of his palm while looking at my mother with a, literally, pained smile. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”
 
Back in my office, I stewed for a while. Then I brooded. I followed up this productive activity with some pouting, gnashing of teeth, and an imagined argument with my mother for her harebrained and, on some deeply psychological level, unsettling scheme. That was followed by an interior monologue in which I berated Andrew for agreeing to it.
Unfortunately, in real life, I knew he had no choice but to indulge my mother’s folly. It was his job to keep her happy, and if helping her play Girl Reporter was what it took, that’s what he had to do.
No, it would be up to me to convince her otherwise. Unfortunately, my mother was like a toddler when it came to being denied something she wanted. You couldn’t reason with her. Would you ever try to convince a two-year-old it was genuinely not in her best interest to eat the whole bag of cookies at one time? No. You’d give her one and put the rest somewhere she couldn’t reach them.
Taking away my mother’s determination to go through with her plan wasn’t an option, though. There was no metaphorical cabinet in which I could hide her crazy.
However, as my volunteer work as a teacher at the Sunday school program at my Unitarian church plus my time with Rafi taught me, there are other ways to forestall a child’s tantrum when you want to take away something they want that might harm them.
Method number one?
Distraction
.
My mother wanted a story she could sink her teeth into. She’d forget about the adoption agency if I could get her interested in something else. Something juicy. Something sexy.
Which brought me back to Brent.
What was that story he’d promised me before he disappeared? Could it even be the
cause
of his disappearance? I had to track him down.
Where had I left things? The owner of SwordFight Productions and its most successful director both claimed they didn’t know where he was. To his credit, though, at least the latter had given me a lead.
Brent’s boyfriend, Charlie.
What did I know about him? Brent told me he really liked Charlie, but that Charlie hated Brent’s working in porn. It had gotten to the point where Brent was feeling so pressured he was considering breaking up with Charlie.
What if things went the other way? Maybe, in the end, Brent decided to keep Charlie and give up the films. It would explain Brent’s dropping off the radar.
The too-tasty-by-half Kristen LaNue told me where Charlie worked as a bartender. The place only employed extremely good-looking young men. Charlie was probably quite the looker. He’d have that going for him.
What else did he bring to the table? Was it enough to convince Brent to walk away from the fame and fortune he’d been achieving in adult films? More important, did he know where Brent was and would he be willing to tell me?
Only one way to find out.
If you need to go to the bathroom or grab a snack, you might as well do it now.
It’s time for Intermission.
Memories light the corners of my mind. Misty watercolor memories. Of the whore I was.
The verse repeated itself in my head as I neared Intermission’s discreet street-level entrance in an elegant but otherwise typical Upper West Side town house.
I pitied the poor manager who had to hire the bouncers that manned the door. He or she had to find just the right combination of men muscular enough to intimidate, handsome enough not to be a turn-off, but not so good-looking as to get hit on all night. It was a delicate balancing act.
I nodded at the two on duty as I passed by. They nodded back.
I was wearing charcoal-gray Hugo Boss dress slacks, a white button-down Calvin Klein shirt, and a baby-blue cashmere V-neck Versace sweater I’d been told brought out the color of my eyes. I wanted to look good, but not
too
good. Just enough to get me in the door. Not so much that I had to decline offers all night.
Had I been dressed more provocatively or too casually, the bouncers wouldn’t have been so friendly. Intermission was what Bogart would have called a “classy joint.” It might have been a hustler bar, but it was a tony one. No streetwalkers in short-shorts or too-tight denim need apply. Anyone who gave off the vibe of a reporter, paparazzi, or private detective was similarly discouraged. The buyers here were rich and powerful, the merchandise polished, expensive, and, generally, worth it.
Through the doors, the ambiance was similarly low-key and posh. I’d arrived at seven-thirty, planning my visit for the quietest time of the evening. It was the small window after the “just off from work and looking to pick up some takeout” crowd had left and before the “went home, had dinner, and now it’s time for my favorite dessert” customers would arrive.
As I hoped, the place was almost empty. There were men at only two of the twenty or so tables, and another couple in the equal number of booths that lined the walls.
I headed straight for the dark mahogany bar that ran the length of the back. Only one of the brown leather stools there was occupied. An older gentleman was nursing an amber-colored drink in a low tumbler while eyeing two young men at a nearby table. Clearly vexed by analysis paralysis, his glance shifted from blond to brunette and back again. What to choose, what to choose?
The boys, obviously friendly but aware of the competition, chatted amicably while attempting to casually put forward their best faces. They squared their shoulders, sucked in their stomachs, and frequently shared smiles not meant for the other.
“Be a sport,” I wanted to tell the indecisive buyer, “spring for them both. They look even cuter as a pair, and I bet two plus one will more than equal three.”
So as not to interfere with the emerging deal, I sat at the far end of the bar. There was only one bartender on duty and his back was to me as he sliced lemons by a small utility sink. From behind, he looked good. He was tall, a few inches over six feet. A squarish head with neatly groomed reddish-brown hair sat on a neck thick with muscles. A burly upper body, plump ass, and something about the way he stood, stolidly wide-stanced and confident, as if braced for impact, gave the impression he’d played a lot of football. He’d fill out a uniform nicely.
Probably wouldn’t look too bad out of one, either.
Then I noticed behind him a bar-cruiser’s best friend: a mirrored panel against the wall that allowed me to observe his front without his noticing. With his chin tucked toward his chest while he worked, I had free rein to study his fine features. His oval eyes, long eyelashes, and full lips would have been pouty on a less masculine man. Rosy, fine-pored skin that suggested at least a little Irish in him. Pronounced pecs stretched out his standard white waiter’s shirt, and dome-shaped biceps confirmed my sense he was a high school athlete, or maybe a current school player if he was attending college while not tending bar.
I pictured him with Brent. They’d be a handsome couple by any measure. Smaller, swimmer’s-build Brent would fold nicely into this beefy bohunk.
Assuming this
was
Charlie, that is. Finding out was the first order of business. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
The bartender looked up and saw me in the mirror. His face transformed from an expression of lemon-slicing indifference to a hugely excited and relieved smile in the space of a second. Pivoting gracefully on one foot, he turned around, positively beaming with joy.
Either he was inordinately happy to see another patron, or he’d mistaken me for someone else.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, louder than appropriate in the quiet room. He fast-walked over to me, eyes alight with the eager prospect of reunion. “I’m so glad to see you! I was so . . .”
Charlie, who I was now sure this was, let his voice trail off as he realized his error.
He wasn’t the only person who’d noticed how alike Brent and I appeared, but he was the first who looked like the resemblance was going to bring him to tears. His face crumpled like a little boy’s who runs downstairs on Christmas morning to find not only no presents under the tree, but no tree. His naturally pink cheeks flushed an alarmingly bright red.

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