Homicide in High Heels (29 page)

"No one can pretend for that long."

"Pick. One," Levine enunciated.

I looked down at the two photos, which incidentally
consisted of 50% percent of the Bond Agency. The problem wasn't
that I'd over hired. The problem was I knew jack shit about running
a business.

Men. That's what I knew.

When I was seven years old Chad Fischer's Mom packed
him a Snickers bar in his lunch. And not those fun size suckers.
This was a king-sized log of nougat, caramel, and sugar induced
highs that would last well past the end of afternoon cartoons. I
wanted it. Every kid in second grade wanted it. But I tossed my
blonde hair over one shoulder, batted my baby blues at Chad, and
promised that he could stand underneath me while my little pink
skirt and I did flips on the monkey bars at recess. I got the
Snickers. That was my first lesson in how easy men were.

Fast forward a few years, and my fifteen-year-old
self was hanging out at the Northridge mall slurping a Jamba Juice
when I'd been spotted by Maurcess DeLine, owner of the world
renowned DeLine Models. Suddenly I wasn't just working the boys at
my school; I was working every guy that bought a magazine with my
body on the cover. And getting paid handsomely to do it. I'd been
DeLine's top model for over a decade when Maurcess had started to
drop hints that my fresh innocence act wasn't cutting it anymore. I
was twenty-six. A dinosaur in runway years.

That's when I moved back to L.A. and decided to take
over the family business.

Domestic espionage.

Really, there was very little difference between
making love to a camera and making a married man forget his vows.
In fact, this was sometimes even easier. Men with adultery already
on their minds were simple targets. It was like taking Snickers
from a second grader all over again.

Unfortunately, getting their wives to pay was a
whole other matter.

I glanced at the two photos staring up at me. Truth
was, I needed both of these women.

"Cutting back on personnel only means I can handle
fewer
cases. I don't see how that's going to help me expand
the business," I argued.

"We're not talking expansion here, Jamie. We're
talking staying afloat. We're talking not filing for
bankruptcy."

"I've got a big client tonight. Judge Thomas
Waterston. Superior court. If things go well, I guarantee his wife
will have her entire bridge club in here by the end of the
week."

"Well, you'd better hope that's true," Levine said,
rising. "Because your balloon payment is due on the 1
^st
.
You've got two weeks, then…" He tapped the photos. "One of them's
got to go."

* * *

"Caleigh?"

"What?" She swiveled in her desk chair, turning her
wide eyes my way.

"You're on the Peters case. Care to give us an
update?" I tapped open the schedule app on my phone and leaned an
elbow across the conference table.

She cleared her throat and shuffled the notes in her
lap. Caleigh Presley hailed from the south, claiming she was some
distant cousin of Elvis's. Blonde, blue-eyed and bubbly, she'd
cornered the market on perky. I'd met Caleigh while doing a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit shoot in Cancun. She'd smuggled
a bag of fat free Cheetos onto the set, and we'd bonded instantly.
Three years later Caleigh foolishly agreed to go out on a date with
Nigel Owens, the top fashion photographer in London. I say
foolishly because everyone but Caleigh knew about his particular
fetish for bondage and tickling. When Caleigh refused to be
molested by his feather duster, Nigel had refused to work with her,
calling her "difficult". News that quickly spread to other
photographers, her agent, and every high profile account in the
fashion world. They'd dropped her like a skydiver without a
parachute. Luckily for her, that had been just about the time I'd
taken over the Bond Agency, and I'd hired her on the spot.

Not, mind you, that I'd hired her out of any sort of
pity. Despite her innocent-little-thing looks, Caleigh spoke five
different languages and had the computer know-how to hack into the
pentagon. Dumb blonde she was not.

"Right. Peters." Caleigh cleared her throat again.
"Well, so far I've followed him to the Venice Boardwalk, Element,
and out to dinner twice at Formaggio's."

"And?"

She shook her head. "Nothin'. I'm beginning to
wonder if his wife isn't paranoid. So far the guy's a straight
arrow. Both the dinners were business meetings, and he didn't so
much as glance at a bikini on the boardwalk."

I picked up my coffee cup and swished the dregs
around in the bottom, trying to remember if Mrs. Peters had seemed
the paranoid type when she'd come in last week. Or, more
importantly, the type who would balk at the amount of billable
hours we'd spent with nothing to show for it. "What about the club?
Element?"

Again, Caleigh shook her head. "Sorry, boss. He
ducked in for a drink with a buddy, danced a little, then ducked
back out. No funny business."

"Fine. If we don't have anything by Monday, we'll
call it off. But take Sam with you this weekend," I said, gesturing
to the woman sitting next to her, "and tag-team him. Every man has
a breaking point."

Caleigh nodded and made a note on the yellow pad in
her lap.

I turned to Sam. "Where are we with the
Nortons?"

Samantha Cross had come to me from Brooklyn last
year. Long legs, perfect mocha latte skin, and thick dark curls,
Sam had been a finalist on the first season of the reality show
America's New Hot Model
and quickly become the darling of
the cover girl world. Until five years later when her boyfriend,
Julio, had knocked her up. As if taking a nine month hiatus from
modeling hadn't been enough to kill her fledgling career, it turned
out Sam wasn't one of those lucky ladies whose bodies miraculously
snap back after pregnancy. While she was still a knockout among
normal people, the two ounces of fat hanging around her lightly
stretch-marked belly put a decisive end to her bikini days. So, Sam
had packed up the munchkin (Julio was long gone at that point) and
headed out to California to make a career change. One I was happy
to facilitate. Sam had legs long enough to make husbands forget
their vows and, thanks to her military-brat upbringing, knew more
about guns than the NRA. And her aim was flawless. Sam could shoot
the balls off a fruit fly at fifty yards.

"Mrs. Norton's lawyer," Sam said, "has requested all
of our notes."

"Which we will gladly copy for him. Mrs. Norton has
gone through three husbands with the agency. What Mrs. Norton
wants, we give."

"Of course." Sam nodded. "I think Mr. Norton's
lawyers are close to a settlement." Her brown eyes lit up, and she
leaned in close. "They offered a 60/40 split plus the house in
Aspen."

"Good for her." She deserved it. Especially after
her husband had offered to pay Sam fifty dollars for a blow job in
the back of his Jag. Sam had been so insulted that he'd offered
less than a hundred, she'd actually hauled off and punched him. I
made a note in my organizer to edit that part out before handing
the footage over to Mrs. Norton's lawyers.

"Okay, so get the Norton files to her lawyer, then
work Mr. Peters with Caleigh."

Sam nodded. "Will do."

"So… new cases this week?" I asked, turning to the
woman on my left.

Maya Alexander handled all of the admin for the
agency, including scheduling appointments with prospective clients.
And if her face looked a little familiar, it was because she was
March's Playmate of the month. Lucky for me, not many men
recognized her with her clothes on.

"Uh-huh. Two possible new cases. Mrs. Shankmann, who
claims her husband, and I quote, 'shtupped the freakin' au pair,'
and a Rachel Blake who wants us to test her fiancée before the
wedding."

Caleigh raised her hand and bounced in her seat.
"Oh, me, me. I love doing bachelor parties."

"Done." I noted it down. "I'll take Mr. Shankmann if
we get the account. Right. On to tonight. Judge Waterston."

All three girls leaned forward in their seats.

"We all know how high profile, i.e. high dollar,
this account is."

Three heads nodded.

"So, this needs to go off flawlessly. Mrs. Waterston
is a big name. She has big friends, who all have big cash on the
line should they decide they need our services to bust their
prenups."

"We're hitting him at the party?" Sam asked,
checking her notes.

"Black tie benefit at the Beverley Hilton. So, I
want everyone to look sharp, okay?"

Again with the nods.

"I'm personally running game on this one. Sam,
you're camera one. Caleigh, I want you on two. Danny will direct
from the van." I paused. "Girls, we need this guy. We can't fuck it
up."

I didn't add because without him, one of them was
looking at unemployment.

The Beverly Hilton is located on Wilshire in
the part of Los Angeles where Mercedes outnumber homeless people
fifty to one. An iconic piece of Hollywood history, the hotel has
played host to countless stars, dignitaries, and legends, and holds
over one hundred red carpet events each year.

And tonight's affair did not disappoint.

The plush banquet room was decorated in tactful hues
of red and gold, accentuated by floral arrangements at every
column. A jazz group played in the corner, creating mellow mood
music for the hundred-some guests in suits and subdued cocktail
dresses, nibbling at their fat-free hors d'oeuvres.

Caleigh stood to the right of the band,
wearing a strapless emerald green number. In the center of her
bodice sat a jade colored brooch, pointed straight at me. Sam was
directly across the room from her, wearing a tight red mini-dress
with a silver brooch of her own attached to her right shoulder
strap. She held a glass of chardonnay in one hand and swayed
slightly to the rhythm of the upright bass.

I leaned against the bar, ignoring the jab
of my Glock strapped to my thigh, and lifted a single olive martini
to my lips to disguise their movement. "Tell Sam I'll be
intercepting the target to her right, near the front entrance," I
murmured into my décolletage.

"You got it," a voice sounded in my
earpiece.

I waited two beats; then Sam changed her
position ever so slightly, shifting to face the entrance.

"She's got a clear shot," piped my
earpiece.

"Thanks, Danny."

"Anytime, boss," he replied. Then, "Shit.
Incoming at two o'clock, Jamie."

I turned to my left…

But was too late to avoid the guy in the
Brooks Brothers suit with "hook-up" written all over his tanned
face.

"Hi there," he said, suddenly well inside my
personal space.

I took an instinctive step back, giving him
a quick once over.

His hair was cropped close in a conservative
style, blond, gelled into place. Green eyes, creased just a little
at the corners. Broad shoulders that spoke of either high school
football or a dedicated personal trainer. Not bad looking, but
polished to a high sheen. In fact, if my name were Barbie, I'd say
he was the perfect catch.

I gave him a semi-polite "kiss off"
smile.

"Nice party, huh?" he persisted.

"Sure."

"I just moved here recently. I tell you,
they don't have parties like this where I'm from."

I nodded. Sipped my drink. Prayed he'd go
away.

"You from around here?" he asked.

Again, I gave the noncommittal nod.

"Well, I gotta say, the weather out here is
fantastic. Sunny and seventy year round. Paradise."

Jesus, was this guy seriously trying to pick
me up with talk about the weather? I'd seen better game from a ten
year old.

Danny piped up in my ear. "Detach the suit,
Jamie. Our mark just walked in."

I whipped my head around to the entrance. A
balding, sixty-ish man stood in the doorway. Dark suit, navy tie,
sharp eyes. Almost immediately a young guy with "future politician"
stamped all over his pinstriped jacket was on the judge like pumps
on a prostitute, jiggling his hand up and down.

"Excuse me," I said, setting my martini on
the bar and turning to go.

"Aiden Prince." Brooks Brothers stuck a hand
out to bar my way.

I paused. Then quickly shook it.

"And you?"

"What?" I glanced over his shoulder. The
judge had detached the eager beaver. He was alone. Perfect.

"Your name?"

"Oh. Uh, Jamie. Jamie Smith." At least
tonight.

He smiled, showing off a row of perfectly
bleached teeth. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jamie Smith. Can I
buy you a drink?"

I pointed to the martini, still virtually
untouched. "Got one, thanks. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Here." He shoved a cocktail napkin at me, a
phone number hastily scrawled on it beneath the name, "Aiden."

"My number. You know, just in case you feel
like playing tour guide for the new guy some evening." He
grinned.

I'll admit, the "new kid in town" thing was
kinda cute.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time for cute.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the judge moving toward a
group of men smoking cigars on the balcony. It was now or
never.

"Thanks," I mumbled and shoved the napkin
into my cleavage.

Danny piped up in my ear again as I threaded
my way through the growing crowd. "I thought that guy would never
give up."

"You and me both," I mumbled.

"There he is," Danny directed. "Near the
French doors."

"I'm on it. Sam's in position?" I asked.

"She's right behind you."

I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see
the brunette keeping pace three feet behind.

"Then it's show time."