by Geneva Lee
"You always say him or he."
"I guess I just assume this perv is a dude," she says.
The whole game does have a creepy, up-skirt camera vibe. But even narrowing it down to a him, doesn’t get us any closer to discovering The Dealer’s identity.
"You know my pic wasn’t the most interesting one he posted. Did you see the other one?"
I frown. The other shot had been nonsensical at best. A cup o’ joe labeled May. "The cup of coffee? May? Maybe The Dealer is behind on posting since it’s June. "
"No!" Josie sits up and tosses the pillow to the top of the bed. "What was under the cup of coffee."
I roll over and grab my phone from her bedside table. Opening Instagram, I scroll to the photo. "I stared at this thing forever."
"And you didn’t notice the business card?" she asks dryly. Leaning over, she taps the screen and I immediately spot the black card poking out from beneath the mug.
"I was looking for lipstick or a logo on the cup." I leave out that I also studied the woodgrain of the table, hoping I might recognize the coffee shop where the photo was taken. I’d been so focused on minute details the whole time, I’d missed the most important element.
"What does it say?" she asks.
I raise an eyebrow. "You noticed but you didn’t even try to read it?"
"Not all of us spent our afternoon working on our amateur sleuth badge," she teases. "I figured we'd tackle it later."
I pinch the screen and zoom in. It’s hard to make out the card’s gold foil lettering, especially since the cup cuts some of the info off. "It looks like a-c-h-è, but I know there’s more."
"There’s part of a phone number, too."
I sit up on the bed and reach for my laptop. "So we know The Dealer is in Vegas."
"He didn’t take any pics of you in California," she says with a nod, "and he was obviously here today."
"That’s about the only thing I miss about Palm Springs," I mutter as I open Google. Typing in what I can see on the business card, which is nothing more than the letters and a few digits of a phone number, I hold my breath and hit search.
"Anything?" Josies asks as the search results load.
Frowning, I scroll down and stop when I hit the third entry. Cachè. Half the phone number listed matches what I could read on the card. "That can’t be a coincidence."
"What?" She worms her way next to me so that she can see the screen. "I don’t get it."
"I forgot you failed French."
She jabs me in the stomach. "I didn’t take French."
"Cachè means hidden." I give her a second to process this. "Like—"
"The Dealer," she finishes for me. "Holy shit."
"Did I earn my badge?" I ask her.
"With honors."
We both fidget as Cachè’s homepage loads. The website is sleek and modern, carefully presented with very little information. "Let’s see. They’re located in Las Vegas. Big surprise. No clue what they’re selling…or hiding."
"Click on that," Josie says, pointing to the company policy page.
The company policy consists of a single line:
Cachè provides singular companionship with uncompromising discretion.
"Wait," Josie fumbles for words as it hits both of us. "Cachè is a brothel."
"I think they use the term escort agency."
"Is there really a difference?"
We both know there is. You don’t grow up in Nevada without knowing a bit more about issues of vice than most people your age. "Hand me my phone."
Josie sucks in a breath before she relinquishes it. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"You’re right. This is why he posted this photo." I check the number on my computer screen as I begin to dial.
"So maybe it’s a trap," she says nervously.
"I don’t think The Dealer wants to hurt us." I hesitate before I hit the call button. Talking to the agency isn’t dangerous. It’s just about information, so why is my heart lodged in my throat?
"How do you know that?"
"Because whoever it is followed you around long enough today to get a photo of the most embarrassing part of your day." I tilt my head toward the Weckman’s bag.
"Everybody poops, Emma." She jumps on the bed and begins to pace nervously. "What are you going to say?"
"I’m going to wing it," I admit before I press the green circle. It only rings twice before a breathy voice answers.
"Cachè."
"Yes, I’m calling to…" I look at Josie and say the first thing that comes to mind, "Find out about a job."
* * *
"You’ve officially lost your mind," Josie informs me the next morning as we stand in the entry and go over today’s plan. "Who is going to notice something like this?"
"Jameson West needs to be taught a lesson." I finish throwing my license in her purse, then pass her mine. I’d borrowed a black, lace romper from her that left little to the imagination. Between the fuck me pumps she’d insisted I wear for today’s undercover operation, and handing off my purse, I feel more than a bit out of my element. "Little details are going to be important. Believe me, this Maddox is ex-military."
"What branch?"
"Why do you care, GI Jane?"
She grabs her bag from me and fishes out her plum lipgloss.
"Don’t wear that!" I grab it back. "I’d never wear that color."
"You’re also not black, Emma," she points out dryly.
"I’m tan and wearing a hat," I shoot back.
She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me. "Hat and tan aside. No one has ever mistaken us for each other."
"As long as you stay far enough from him, he’ll never know." I hand her my keys. "Plus, you get to drive the Mercedes."
Offering her the keys to my shiny, new ride was the only part of my insane plan that had interested her.
"You shouldn’t go alone."
"It’s my only choice unless I want to take Maddox along," I remind her.
"Why do you care if Jameson knows you’re playing detective?" she asks, dropping the key chain into my bag.
"I don’t. This is about teaching him a lesson."
"Isn’t love grand?" she quips, but she doesn’t press me further. Neither of us are the type to appreciate a guy overstepping his boundaries. "Just promise me you’ll be careful."
"I’m not doing anything dangerous." Not really. I’ve only told her about half of my plans for the day. If Maddox catches up with her, the less she knows, the better.
"Look, he’s worried about you, and he has a right to be. I don’t see why having a little hired muscle with you is so wrong." She squares her shoulders before she adds, "But I’m your best friend, so lecture over."
I kiss her cheek. "It’s cute when you worry. I’ll go out the garage. Wait a few minutes and then run out to my car."
With any luck, my newly hired shadow would be too distracted by both of us leaving to realize we’d switched cars.
Climbing into the driver’s seat of the Civic, memories flood me. I’d learned to drive in this car courtesy of Josie and Becca. Dad was usually too drunk to give proper instruction. While I’m still not a fan of being behind the wheel, at least I’m comfortable here. I know what every button does. The stereo has a radio and a tape deck. I’ve never once needed to check a 300 page instruction manual to figure out how to open the fuel tank.
I don’t bother to look at Maddox’s car as I pull out, but when I finally give in and peek in the rearview mirror, I see he’s starting to pull away from the curb. Dammit, he must assume we’re together. He’s a few car lengths behind me when he comes to a stop. Josie’s in the Mercedes, heading the opposite direction at breakneck speed.
"I hope I have full insurance on that," I say to myself. But her dramatic exit works. Maddox backs his car into a driveway and peels out to catch up with her. I blow a kiss.
It might be nice to think the hard part of the day is behind me, but I left a few errands off the list I shared
with Josie when I convinced her to help me with my shenanigans.
Pulling over a few blocks away, I glance around to make certain that Maddox didn’t wise up. When I know I’m alone, I dig Dominic Chamber’s card from my wallet and input his address in my phone’s GPS app. He’s only fifteen minutes away, which gives me plenty of time to pay him a visit and still make my interview at Cachè.
With a full day of being in the wrong place at the right time ahead of me, I can’t help hoping that I’ll catch the attention of The Dealer. I failed to mention to Josie that today I’ll be playing the role of live bait. If this amateur creep is interested in photos of Josie with toilet paper, I can only imagine how eager he’ll be to catch me walking into an escort agency. This time, though, I’ll be the one waiting to snap a picture of him.
Reaching into Josie’s purse, I rifle through a handful of receipts from Weckman’s until I find a few lipsticks stashed at the bottom. Pulling the caps off each, I search for the perfect color. The last one labeled Troublemaker is exactly what I’m searching for. Swiping the bright red over my lips, I smack them together in the mirror. The Dealer has no idea who he’s messed with.
"Say cheese, asshole."
Chapter 14
The Chamber Detective Agency looks like the set for an old film noir. Right down to the gold foil letters on the office door. A bell tinkles as I open it and look around to discover a cluttered desk and a half-dead fern. A familiar head pokes around the corner.
"Just a sec. You want coffee?" he calls out.
"No thanks." I don’t trust my stomach to keep anything, even something as innocuous as coffee, down today. Butterflies are already churning up what’s left of last night’s late night snack with Josie.
I remember Dominic Chamber more for his woolly eyebrows than his detection skills. It’s a long shot coming to him for help, especially given that he hadn’t been keen enough to spot a fake Babe Ruth card. But since I don’t know any other private investigators, he’s what I have to work with.
Today he’s in a velour jogging suit the color of overly cooked green beans. How he manages to wear it and keep the office at a balmy 85 degrees is beyond me. I fan myself with my hand as he pushes aside a stack of papers to make room for his coffee mug.
"Let me guess…cheating boyfriend?" he asks, sizing me up.
"Close," I grant him. "Cheating wife." Amongst so many other things, but I have to start somewhere.
"Well, the times, they’re a-changing." He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his nearly bald head. "Do I know you?"
"We had some business before." I hesitate to mention the baseball card. A shrewd business man doesn’t accept payment in the form of collectibles.
"Hold on," he says before I can continue. "I’m good with faces." A few seconds later, he snaps his fingers. "The waitress from the Golden Nugget."
If we were playing hot and cold, he’d be in the arctic. I shake my head.
"The lady with the lost Shih Tzu."
Arguably, I’m about to lose my Shih Tzu just being here, but I can see that he’s not going to stop guessing. "The girl from the pawn shop."
"The heartbreaker." He clutches his chest. Then he points to a frame on the far wall. I look over to find the forged card on display. "I decided who cares if it’s real. It impresses clients."
"You know what? I think I need to be somewhere." I grab my purse from the floor, but before I can stand up, he starts to talk.
"That’s not your purse," he tells me, "or your outfit. I’d wager you’re as comfortable in that lipstick as you are in those heels. You’re pretending to be someone else today, which means you’re hiding from someone. Maybe your mother? She’s the cheating wife, right? But you work in your father’s shop, so why would you care?"
My mouth falls open and I have to force it closed. "How did you do that?"
"I might be bad with faces, but I’m good with details."
"No, really," I press. I don’t think private investigators cling to their secrets as tightly as magicians, and I want to know his tricks.
"You looked at the floor for a second before you picked up the purse, like you were looking for a different one. You’ve been tugging up your top since you walked in. Whoever that belongs to has a smaller bust-line. No offense."
"None taken," I assure him. "Go on."
"I didn’t recognize you at first because you don’t look like the kid who threw that fake card in my face."
"Sorry," I interject, but he waves me off.
Taking a sip of coffee, he studies me for a moment. "Hiding from your mom is a guess. Girls your age like to dress up behind their mother’s backs. I’m guessing she wouldn’t want you walking around this city looking like that. No offense again."
At least, I’ll look the part at the escort agency.
"You said cheating wife and I remembered that the other guy who works at that shop, who is less concerned about authenticity, by the way, mentioned the owner was out. He’d been coming in less since he got divorced. I gathered since you’re here about a cheating wife and your parents are divorced that we’re talking about your mom."
"Holy shit." I applaud politely and he bows his head.
"So what can I help you with, Miss?"
"Emma," I correct him. "Can I still call you Dominic?"
He nods, steepling his fingers as he waits for me to spill.
"It’s about my sister," I begin. "She’s…she died."
"I’m sorry to hear that."
"Anyway, I came across her death certificate recently and noticed that there’s no father listed on it." I really hope his gift extends to reading between the lines, so I don’t have to spell out anymore of this than I have to.
"And you want to know who her dad is? You thought you shared the same father," he guessed.
"Yes," I say in a quiet voice.
"I have to warn you, Emma. Paternity cases can dredge up some nasty secrets."
I think of how much my father drinks to deal with her death. Then to Hans and his unnerving relationship with Becca. "There are a lot of things I don’t know about my sister. I have to start somewhere."
"I’ll look into it." He picks up a card from a stack on his desk but I shake my head.
"I already have one."
"Then I’ll just need you to fill this out. Basic information. Your name. Her name. Everything is kept confidential." He passes me a sheet of paper and a pen. "My standard rate is $100 an hour."
I flinch and force a smile. "Do you take credit cards?"
"And fake baseball cards," he says, grinning back.
I finish filling out the information form and check the time on my phone. "I have to go!"
"I look forward to working together," he calls after me. "I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything."
I pause at the door and consider my next request. "There’s one more thing," I say slowly. "My father had a grudge against Nathaniel West. I want to know how it started."
"It might raise some eyebrows if I go digging around looking for info on Nathaniel West," he warns me.
I think about my next appointment. "Be discreet."
* * *
Cachè is not what I expect. The agency’s office is as minimal as their website, the only sign of personality is the black paint coating the walls. But I guess you hide things in the dark. There’s only one woman inside and she greets me at the door. Her dress suit matches the wall, the neckline dipping to display an impressive amount of cleavage. Other than a single silver streak at each temple her hair is fiery red.
"You must be Caroline." She extends a hand and I take it uncertainly. "I’m Suzanne."
"Um, yes, I am." I’d nearly forgotten the fake name I’d fed her when I made the appointment.
"If you don’t mind my asking…" She pauses and I suspect whatever comes out of her mouth next is going to be a bit rude. "…how old are you?"
"I’ll be eighteen next week." That isn’t a lie. "Is that a problem?"
It’s been a while since I brushed up on the Vegas prostitution guidelines. It’s a joke at Belle Mère Prep that they hand out a pamphlet on the subject during career day in the local public schools.
"Oh, lovely!" She claps her hands together in delight, which I suppose means I’m good to ho. "You won’t be able to start until then, of course, but we can begin all the necessary paperwork and tests."
"Tests?" I repeat back.
"The usual. We need to check for STDs and pregnancy as well as overall health." She gestures to the chair at her desk. I sit down and let this soak in. I don’t know how far I’ll have to go to find out why The Dealer led us here. Getting blood drawn might be my hard limit, never mind having someone poke around inside my vagina. Ironically. "Will that be a problem?"
"I guess I didn’t realize that…" My blush finishes the sentence for me.
"Sexual relations are not a requirement. This is an escort agency." She gives me a practiced smile that feels as rehearsed as those lines. "You choose if you want to engage in sex with your clients."
"Then why the tests?"
Her smile grows forced. "Many of our girls enjoy sexual relations with our clients who are very wealthy men and very appreciative."
Translation: they’re willing to pay because they’re old, fat, or desperate.
"As I mentioned, we don’t encourage our girls to have sex, but…"
"I don’t have a problem with it," I interject before she can end the interview. It’s not like I’m actually taking the job, so what do I care about the semantics of it. "I just wanted to understand. I don’t want to get into trouble."
"There will be no trouble." The warmth in her tone returns as she begins to click around with her mouse. "Our clients are very discreet. They know to expect a certain caliber of women and they follow the rules."
"If they don’t?"
"I handle all appointments personally. Once you’re on my blacklist, you can’t beg or buy yourself off it."
I don’t want to know what lands you on that list, judging by the cold undercurrent in her words.
"You’ll want to choose a name," she advises. "We don’t recommend that girls give their real names. It encourages stalking or romance, both activities we strictly prohibit."