Gossip (Desire Never Dies)

by Clara Grace Walker

  “You don’t need to speak to me like I’m your lackey, Peter. I’m your business partner. A little respect would be appreciated.”

  “Okay. Fine. Whatever. Don’t get your panties in an uproar.”

  Fucking prick. “I don’t wear panties.”

  Peter shot him an exasperated look. “What do you want me to say? I read the article and the guy’s throwing your ass to the wolves, okay? I get that.”

  “Great. You get that. What are we going to do about it?”

  “Fuck. How am I supposed to know? The time to do something would have been before he printed the goddamn story.”

  “There has to be some sort of damage control we can do.”

  “Like what?”

  Rod threw his hands in the air. “Something! Anything. The son-of-a-bitch is ruining my life.” He exhaled, feeling a tremendous urge to vent his frustrations by throttling Peter, who leaned back in his sofa, drinking his beer and staring at Rod like he’d just busted loose from a mental hospital.

  “I get you’re upset,” he said. “But you need to calm down. You go blowing up like that in public and the police are going to nail your ass for sure.”

  “Fine. I’ll calm down. But you need to print a rebuttal in your paper.”

  “A rebuttal? How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Find out who his source is. Expose that person as a vengeful liar or something. You’ve got a full staff of reporters, Peter. I’m sure you can come up with something.”

  “I’ll look into it. But don’t get your hopes up. I don’t want to throw suspicion on myself by jumping too eagerly to your defense.”

  Of course not. Something more needed to come of this than Peter’s lame-ass, half-offers to help. “What about applying more pressure on Nick?” he suggested. “I’m sure you can’t object too strongly to discrediting that asshole. And the more he’s discredited, the less attention people will pay to what he says about me in his paper.”

  “You’ve got a point there. I’ll tell you what, you give Darla a kick in the ass and get her into bed with Nick, and we’ll start making some progress in that direction.”

  Why the hell did Peter keep bringing it back to her? “Why does it have to be Darla? Can’t you get Regina to coax him into bed and pump him for information?”

  “No!” Peter glared at him. “I get Regina to do it and it’s just going to look like another middle-aged guy having a mid-life crisis and humping some twenty-year-old to get over it. It looks bad if Nick screws Darla because he knew her as a little girl. He watched her grow up. I’ve already explained this to her. Do I really have to explain it to you, too?”

  “No. I get it.” Rod stood, leaving his beer unfinished. “I have to get to the studio. D-bag’s got some girls coming in to audition today.”

  A wide smile spread across Peter’s face. “Let me know if you need some help with that.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And talk to Darla for me. Kick her ass into gear where Nick’s concerned.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  Rod left, closing the door to Peter’s study behind him, hearing the bump and grind music click back on. What a fucking waste of time.

  Chapter 35

  Sarge had questioned women in Janelle Beck’s social circle for two days. So far, none of them had confessed to having an affair with Rod Skinner, let alone being blackmailed by him or leaking the story to Nicholas Beck. Pearl Arnold Watson was last on her list, and had been conveniently out of town, visiting her sister in Los Angeles. Now, the day she’d been told by the Watson’s maid Pearl would be home, Sarge’s phone sat quietly on her desk; not ringing. No return-call from Pearl Watson.

  She’d wanted to do it the easy way. Tried to do it the easy way. But Pearl seemed hell-bent on making her questioning as tough as possible. Unfortunately for her, that had meant dispatching Sanchez to her house in a police cruiser. Neighbors were going to love that. A fact Pearl might have considered before she decided not to return her many phone messages from the police department. Sarge shook her head in silent dismay. Just another example of smart women making stupid choices.

  She looked out the glass partition wall of her office to the activity of the squad room on the other side. Not much going on today. A few officers sat at their desks typing out reports. Phones rang every now and then. Still no sign of Sanchez. What the hell was keeping him?

  She got up and paced her office. She cleaned her desk and computer with some anti-bacterial wipes, leaving a bleach-like scent in the air. She glanced up at the clock, then back out to the squad room. Finally, Sanchez stepped into view. Opening her office door, she motioned him inside. “Sanchez, get in here.”

  He entered the room barely meeting her gaze, taking slow steps. Her spirits sagged. “What’s wrong?”

  “No can do on questioning the witness, Sarge.”

  She pulled out a chair. “Sit down and explain.”

  He sat down, shaking his head. “No witness to interview.”

  “She didn’t come home today?”

  “Arrived at the airport at eight o’clock this morning, according to her husband.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Husband said she called him, said she was getting a car to take her home, and then never showed up.”

  Her mind raced with questions. “You think she’s trying to run?”

  “Maybe, but hard to say why.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to answer our questions.”

  “I don’t think so. Husband said he never gave her any of our messages. Said he normally doesn’t give her messages until after she gets home and unpacks.”

  “You check with the airlines?”

  “Yes. She was on the plane. It landed and reached the gate at seven forty-nine.”

  “So she got here.”

  “Yes.”

  “You check with the transportation services?”

  “She called Airport Limo Services for a ride at eight-fifteen, but the driver says she never showed.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Guy says he waited almost an hour. Passenger never showed up.”

  She went over the facts. “So the woman arrives at the airport, calls home, calls for a car, and then disappears.”

  “Those are the facts as we know them.”

  “Have some guys get over there with her picture. Question the other passengers. See if anyone can remember seeing her leave.”

  “No problem.”

  “One more thing. Did she pick up her luggage at the airport?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “No. Airport workers found it still circling the carousel almost two hours after the plane landed.”

  “What about the husband? His demeanor seem off to you?”

  “Not really. Guy’s pretty upset. Says he plans on filing an MPR as soon as the twenty-four hours have passed.”

  “Well, that’s just lovely. Two murder victims and one missing person who, I would bet, is connected in some way.”

  Sanchez looked up, his brow furrowed. “You think she was Nick Beck’s source?”

  “Bet my life on it. Get him on the phone for me.”

  “No problem, Sarge.”

  “And, Sanchez?”

  “Yes, Sarge?”

  “Put Mr. Beck under increased surveillance. I don’t want him splashing any more headlines across those papers of his without knowing about them first.”

  Chapter 36

  She was the one person who never lied to him.

  Nick couldn’t have made her feel worse if he’d tried. For the past three days Jamie heard him say those words over and over in her mind, like an old vinyl album with a skip. She should have told him the truth. Right from the start. Even a confession the other night would have been better than the lie she was now forced to live.

  She almost had told him the truth. But then he’d interrupted her and sounded so angry, so threatening about what he was going to do to the person who ha
d Janelle’s sex tape, that she’d lost her nerve.

  She’d almost told him again minutes later, but then he’d pulled her into his arms, forcing away reason and her ability to speak. Reminding her how difficult it was to keep him at arm’s length. Then he’d told her how much he counted on her, lodging the lie deep into her soul. She was stuck with it.

  Now, she sat in her Jeep, hid in it practically, remembering his words and agonizing over her failure to live up to them. She remembered other things, too. The feel of his body, his warm breath, the throbbing of his hardening shaft as he’d held her close. And of course, the question he’d asked. Did she want to have kids? Or at least practice?

  Of course she did. She’d had to physically move away and change the subject to keep from telling him so. No way would she ever let that happen. She had to keep her walls up. Had to keep him from knowing how close he was coming to breaking them down.

  She forced thoughts of Nick from her mind and went back to thinking about the task at hand. She had moved on to Step Two of helping Nick solve Janelle’s murder and now watched the concrete structure housing Rod’s porn film studio, two buildings down and across the street. Her Nikon rested on her lap, ready to answer the call to duty should the need arise.

  A trickle of apprehension pulsed through her, bringing with it a noticeable pick up in her heartbeat and respiration and the sheen of perspiration to her palms. She was a woman alone. And this was not a nice neighborhood.

  In the past hour she’d witnessed at least a dozen drug deals go down at the end of the block, where a group of young street thugs held court. She’d snapped some photos of the drug deals to give to the police. Every now and again the dealers looked in her direction, and she’d look away, worried they’d mistake her for a member of the vice squad. For all the activity the neighborhood outside remained eerily quiet. Like watching a movie with no sound.

  As sunlight waned, the lights of the adult bookstores and massage parlors came on. Ladies of the night stepped outside their doors. Jamie checked the flash and light meter on her camera. She could still get a good picture if something happened soon. She looked back at the forbidding concrete building that was the subject of her stakeout in time to see something was, indeed, about to happen. A black Maserati convertible pulled up and came to a stop in front of the studio. Out stepped Peter Arnold.

  Even dressed down in jeans and a leather jacket, and sporting dark glasses, she recognized him. The shock of dark red hair gave him away. With him was a young woman with curly, dark blonde hair, and dressed like she’d stepped out of the neon-lit massage parlor next door. Pink halter top and a jean mini skirt, so short Jamie could see her butt cheeks peeking out from the bottom of it. Grabbing the camera, she began snapping pictures. She got half a dozen photos, the last one showing Peter as he disappeared inside the building.

  It occurred to her though that, while she was positive it was Peter, she needed absolute proof. Starting her vehicle, she pulled forward, u-turned and pulled up just behind the Maserati, clicking off a few shots of the license plate before pulling away and heading for home. That ought to do it. It felt like penance. She had something to offer Nick. Something to back up his suspicions about Peter Arnold. And maybe something to make up for lying to him about the film of Janelle and Rod.

  She was going to tell him the truth she decided, and let the chips fall where they may. When he was finished being angry and disappointed with her maybe he’d see how much she just wanted to help.

  Chapter 37

  Rod sat upstairs in his office looking over sales figures from the studio’s last film. A loud slam of the door and the impatient tapping of D-bag’s foot disturbed his concentration. He looked up, shooting the moron a scowl. “Do you need something?”

  D-bag motioned his head toward the stairs. “Peter’s here.”

  “Of course he is.” Guy could be counted on to show up whenever it was time to go over the finances.

  “He’s got a new girl with him.”

  “That would make sense, too.”

  Rod abandoned his paperwork and followed D-bag downstairs, not surprised to find Peter standing in front of the heart-shaped bed, already nuzzling the girl’s neck. The girl, for her part, stared off into space. Her face was heavily painted, but not heavily enough to hide the fact she was young. Really young. No way did she look eighteen. He knew Peter liked his girls young, but until now he’d always thought the guy at least kept it legal. Whatever admiration Rod once felt for the man dissolved in that moment. “Carl, can I talk to you?” Carl was Peter’s code name at the studio. His way of trying to mask his involvement with the porn industry. Only Rod and D-bag knew him as Peter.

  He looked up from the girl’s neck. “Timing’s not great, Rod.”

  “I can see that.” And that was just too damn bad. “How old is she?”

  Peter laughed. “Eighteen. What? You think I’d bring an underage girl around here?”

  “Would you?”

  The response brought a glare to Peter’s eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Rod fell into a director’s chair beside the camera, and while Peter busied himself nibbling the girl’s neck, silently turned the camera on.

  D-bag took the seat next to him. “Relax, man. He said she’s eighteen.”

  “She look eighteen to you?”

  D-bag shrugged, the sentiment ‘who cares?’ clear on his face. “She’s got ID says she’s eighteen. Some chicks just look young for their age. Chill out, man.”

  “Right.” Rod didn’t buy it. The more he got to know Peter, the more he suspected there was a side to the man that would make his own missteps pale in comparison. He was a womanizer, sure. He loved women. Loved seducing them. Loved using them, manipulating them, getting whatever he could out of them. He’d never denied it. But the women he used were actually women. Old enough to know what they were doing. He’d never used a woman that was too damn young to really be called a woman.

  “Heather, honey, head over there.” Peter waved the girl over toward Rod. “I want you to meet your new boss.” He pointed at Rod and winked. “This is Rod. Be nice to him.”

  “What?” Rod glared at the man. “What do you mean, boss?”

  “I mean put her to work, dumb ass. What the hell do you think I mean?”

  “No. I don’t need her.”

  “It’s not a request, pal. It’s an order.”

  “I thought this was a partnership, Carl.” He pronounced Peter’s chosen pseudonym sarcastically.

  “And I thought I put up the money to start this business, pal.”

  By now, Heather had made her way over to him and stood staring at the floor.

  “How old are you?” Rod asked.

  She looked at Peter and then back to the floor. “Eighteen.”

  “Do you have ID?”

  She nodded.

  “Let me see it.”

  “It’s in my purse.”

  “Go get him your purse, honey.” Peter spoke through clenched teeth.

  She walked over and retrieved a torn blue jean bag from the side of the bed. All the while Peter stared at Rod, glaring, hands balled into fists at his side. “You calling me a liar?” he asked.

  “Not at all, buddy. Just need something on file to document her age. You know, for when the authorities come around asking questions.”

  Heather returned with her purse and fished a State ID out of it, handing it to Rod. It showed her age as eighteen. He looked the laminated card over closely. Good forgery, if it was one. He couldn’t tell it from the real thing.

  He handed the ID back to her. “No driver’s license?”

  She shook her head and glanced over at Peter. “No. I, I never learned how.”

  Right. Probably not old enough.

  “D-bag, take Heather here and get her some new clothes,” Peter said.

  “You want me to get her anything in pa’ticular?” D-bag asked.

  “I don’t care. Just something clean that fits. Anything
we’ve got in wardrobe has to be better than those rags she was wearing when I pulled her off the street.”

  Runaway. Just the way Peter phrased it, Rod figured that had to be it. He’d pulled her off the streets, all right. Probably found her camped out in a cardboard box wishing she had enough change to phone home.

  As soon as they were gone, Peter glared at Rod. “Don’t you ever question me like that in front of anyone again. You got that? You do what I tell you and put that girl to work. I want her to start shooting tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Rod nearly choked. Peter wasn’t giving him much time to figure out how to deal with this problem.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. You whiny little pussy. We’ve got a business to run. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “She’s a little inexperienced, don’t you think?”

  Peter burst out laughing. “Inexperienced! Rod, buddy, she’s been walking the streets turning tricks for almost a year now. If that’s what’s got you all bent out of shape, get over it. I guarantee you, the girl’s a pro.”

  Rod felt his blood pressure rise higher with every breath he took. He felt even more disillusioned today than he had when he’d married Patrice and found out she’d lied about having money. He wanted out of this party. The price of admission had gotten higher than he was willing to pay.

  “Maybe you should just take over running the studio?” he suggested.

  Predictably, Peter scoffed, turning an irritated stare on him. “Running the business is your end of the deal, remember?”

  “Well, you seem to find this all…” he stood and made a sweeping gesture across the set that ended in front of the prop bed, “… much more entertaining than I do.”

  “Oh bullshit, pal. Give me a break. You were as hot for this business venture as an egg on a frying pan when I brought the idea to you. You couldn’t think of a more entertaining way to make a living. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, I said that. But-”

  “But nothing!” Peter’s voice had risen to shouting volumes. “We made a deal. I put up the seed money and you run the studio. So do your job and run the fucking studio!”