Promise You Won't Tell?

by John Locke

  She scowls. “Don’t be flippant. Although a surprise party makes more sense than your claim they were fucking in a motel room.”

  “How so?” I ask, noting the frequency with which she drops the “F” bomb.

  “If he’s putting her up in a house, why not fuck her there?”

  “Probably because of her mother.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “She lives there.”

  “Darcie’s mother lives in Max’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Max won’t even let my mother visit us!”

  “I think she lives there because of the child.”

  “What child?”

  I sigh. “I should probably find another way to earn a living.”

  “What child?” she repeats.

  “William Darden. Willie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Darcie’s son. The one she had with Max.”

  “What? Oh my God!” she yells.

  She stares straight ahead, processing the information. I take the opportunity to remove the video disk from her file and cue it on my laptop. I press play, and angle the screen so she can see the video of Max knocking on the motel room door, and entering, then leaving, then getting on the elevator. Then Darcie leaving the room, returning the key to the front desk, getting into her car, and driving to Max’s other house.

  Jana’s crying.

  “Things will be okay,” I say.

  “How can you possibly say that?” she snaps.

  “I can’t. I was deliberately trying to comfort you.”

  My cell phone vibrates with Fanny’s latest message.

  Can’t…breathe. Coughing up blood. Oh, God!

  I text back, You’re not fooling anyone. Get your ass to work or I’ll fire you!

  Jana says, “I can’t end our marriage without positive proof.”

  “I have copies of the deed and birth certificate.”

  “Positive proof they’re fucking.”

  I pause a moment, then ask, “Are you aware how often you use the “F” word?”

  “For five hundred a day I’ll say fuck as often as I please!”

  I make a note to put a no-cursing clause in my next contract. I mean, I like fucking as much as the next girl, but I don’t feel the need to say the word. Not constantly, anyway. And I certainly wouldn’t feel the need to say it just because I paid a fee for an unrelated service. I can’t imagine visiting my banker and saying fuck all the time just because I’m making mortgage payments.

  Having said that, now that I think about how much interest I paid last year compared to principal, I do feel fucked.

  Two years ago—before he died—my husband Ben talked me into watching a porn flick. Within five minutes a couple was doing it, and she kept yelling, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh, my God, FUCK me!”

  I pressed the pause button and Ben groaned, “You’re already disgusted?”

  “Confused,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “She keeps telling him to fuck her.”

  “So?”

  “What does she think he’s doing, if not fucking her? I mean, what did she think he’d say, No, I’m just going to keep doing this for a while, and maybe I’ll fuck you later?”

  Ben said, “Jeez, Dani, it’s porn, not Fellini.”

  “What’s Fellini?” I said.

  Poor Ben. I never really loved him, but we made a pretty good life together. Until I was accused of murdering him. As it turned out, someone else murdered him. But that didn’t have a positive impact on our relationship, either.

  “What if I get you a video of them having intercourse?” I ask Jana.

  “How would you do that?”

  “I have people.”

  “Your partners?”

  “Highly skilled, highly trained, highly connected.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “We’ll have to wait for the next motel visit. Are you prepared to pay our daily fee till that happens?”

  “Can I get some sort of discount?”

  “No. But after the fourth week—”

  “It’s free?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you get her check cashed?”

  “Yes,” Dillon says, and hands me a stack of fifties. I peel five from the pile and put them in his sticky hand.

  “You’ve got to stop eating those Sugar Smacks. They make your hands sticky.”

  “That’s not from the Sugar Smacks.”

  “Omigod!” I say, jumping back, staring at his hands as if they held live snakes.

  “What’s wrong?” he says. A devilish look crosses his face, and he suddenly becomes the boy you always tried to avoid on the playground at recess. He makes his hands into claws, holds them up, and comes at me.

  I back up. “Omigod! Don’t even!”

  He stops, confused.

  “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard!” I say.

  “What’re you talking about?” he says, staring at his sticky hands. Then his face turns red. “Oh, shit. You don’t actually think—”

  I shake my head. “Let’s drop it. I don’t want to know.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Trust me. I don’t want to hear!”

  “It’s paste.”

  “I don’t care what you call it. You can’t just go around doing that!”

  “Jesus, Dani. Seriously, it’s paste. We use it to seal the envelopes, remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “Remember last month when we ordered ten thousand envelopes in bulk and they showed up with no glue on the flaps?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “I called the company to complain and they said glue costs extra, and requires an extra step during the ordering process?”

  It’s all coming back to me like a bad dream. “I thought you sent them back for a refund.”

  “They refused them, and shipped them back. And charged us extra shipping. And a processing fee.”

  “Why did we deal with this ridiculous company in the first place?”

  “They gave me a great price.”

  I frown.

  Dillon says, “It’s not a big deal. I only mail a hundred lead letters a day.”

  “Are you listening to yourself?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a computer genius, Dillon. A genius! Which is why I made you a full partner in the business.”

  “I know. And I’m very grateful. I’ve got a car now, an apartment, and—”

  “And you’re pasting envelopes.”

  “So?”

  “That’s Fanny’s job.”

  “Fanny’s sick.”

  I frown. “How long have we had this office?”

  “About a month.”

  “In all that time, why haven’t I met Fanny?”

  “She’s been ill.”

  “Have you, in fact, ever met Fanny in person?”

  “Yes, of course. We talk all the time.”

  “You speak to her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She speaks back.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re referring to actual words.”

  “Yes.”

  “Spoken by a human voice? Not texted or simulated?”

  He nods.

  “How did you happen to find Fanny in the first place?”

  “She was working for one of our vendors.”

  “Which one?”

  “The envelope company.”

  “The same envelope company that sold us ten thousand envelopes with no glue?”

  He nods.

  “Let me guess. Big boobs?”

  He shrugs.

  “Great. Note to self. Don’t let teenage boys pick out the receptionist. Dillon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell her to get her ass to work.”

  “Okay. But I think you’re being kind of hard on her.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He says, “Till she
gets here, someone has to do the mailings. I can’t help it if I suck at pasting.”

  “If that’s really paste all over your hands, the letters you sent must be even stickier.”

  “Cool idea,” he says, changing the subject.

  “Which idea is that?”

  “Installing the slot behind your desk so the clients’ checks fall into my office. That way I can run to the bank and cash their checks while they’re still talking to you about their cases.”

  “Did you wire Jana’s car?”

  “Of course. As always.”

  Another of my “cool” ideas, as Dillon would say. Pretending he’s the valet parking guy instead of my partner. After parking the clients’ cars he installs a tracking device in the trunks of their cars.

  “Dani?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry about the envelopes.”

  I look at him. Dillon’s eighteen, with runaway acne and long hair he keeps in a ponytail and neglects to wash. He’s six-three, and so skinny my mom would say there’s more meat on a butcher’s apron.

  If Mom was still alive.

  Though socially inept, Dillon truly is a computer genius. He’s incredibly talented with anything electronic. Toss him some nuts and bolts, give him an hour, he’ll build you a lunar space module.

  Apart from his computer skills, he’s a work in progress.

  And sensitive.

  I smile to let him know I’m not upset about the envelopes.

  “Wash your hands, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I go back to my office, sit at my desk, think about how dull my job is. I’m a private investigator, but virtually all my income is derived from decoy work. Wives pay me to see if their husbands are cheaters. Fiancés pay me to test the integrity of prospective husbands. Attorneys pay me to test the fidelity of clients’ spouses. Campaign managers pay me to test their opponents’ characters.

  I keep trying to move beyond decoy work. It’s not an admirable profession. Decoys are two clicks below hookers, and only six above politicians.

  But the truth is I’m good at it.

  How good?

  Two weeks ago a deadly assassin paid me a hundred thousand dollars to see if I could seduce his girlfriend.

  Why so much?

  In his line of work love’s a luxury. His girlfriend, also an assassin, had been living a lesbian lifestyle for years. He had to be absolutely convinced she was ready to hang up her dildo.

  It was a thrilling assignment, dealing with volatile people who kill at the drop of a hat (which may explain why you don’t see many people wearing hats these days). Flirting with this assassin, playing her, was exhilarating. But the investigative work I’ve been doing the past two weeks?

  Boring.

  Half the time I’m at my computer, digging through records. The other half I’m in my car, or Dillon’s, waiting for something to happen. And by that I mean—brace yourself—a man or woman might walk out of a house or hotel room!

  Together!

  Yawn.

  Not long ago I was consumed by a real case. A serial killer was on the loose, one who preyed on teenage girls. Having been abducted by a similar killer/rapist at an early age, I devoted countless hours to solving the case.

  But the payoff?

  Zero.

  Monetarily speaking.

  The P.I. sign makes the phone ring, but decoy work pays the bills.

  People don’t realize it, but decoy work requires incredible skill. You need to be a psychologist, great listener, great conversationalist. A wardrobe master, great dancer, an enthusiastic, effective flirt. A tease. You must also be sensual, cute, adorable, cunning, clever, and so much more.

  By comparison, being a P.I. requires a computer, a car, and a reliable bladder.

  I hate routine investigative work! And the clients? Don’t get me started! My current book of clients would tax the patience of a sloth. No proctologist in the country sees more assholes each week than me.

  In general, I mean, because every now and then you strike gold. You get a real client with real problems and you get a shining opportunity to feel good about your job.

  My passion is helping victimized kids.

  I can relate to them.

  I understand them.

  They trust me.

  Don’t get me wrong: I don’t sit around hoping kids will be victimized just to keep me from getting bored. But when bad things do happen, I want to be the one who gets the case. I’ll work night and day for them, put everything else on the back burner. I…

  I look up at the young lady who just walked into my office.

  A teenager.

  “Ms. Ripper?” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Riley Freeman. Umm…” She looks around a minute. I notice her fingers fussing with the hem of her pleated skirt. She’s nervous. Confused about something. This could be it. The case I’ve been hoping for.

  I stand.

  “Hi, Riley.”

  I come around my desk, shake her hand.

  “I don’t have much money,” she says.

  “Who does?” I say. “Please. Have a seat.”

  She looks around, uneasy.

  I motion to one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Please,” I say.

  She takes one, I take the other.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I only need a minute,” she says.

  But the way she says it tells me this is going to be huge.

  “I think something might have happened at the party.”

  “What party?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a party,” Riley says. “Not at first. It started out as a sleepover.”

  I study my potential client. She’s cute, in a blonde, surfer, little sister sort of way. Her hair’s parted in the middle, and falls over narrow shoulders. She’s thin, willowy, with smallish breasts, perfect teeth, and wide-set amber eyes.

  I love amber eyes. Did you know they’re the fourth rarest of all colors in human eyes? I know weird things like that. I also know amber eyes are the most common color among wolves’ eyes.

  I remove a pen and legal pad from my desk drawer and say, “When was the sleepover?”

  “Last Saturday night.”

  “Who’s house?”

  “Kelli Underhill.”

  “Were her parents there?”

  “Her mom.”

  “Who was invited?”

  “Four girls were invited. Me, Jennie Cox, Cammi Churra, and Parker Page. Parker’s my best friend. She left at midnight.”

  “Any boys?”

  She bites the corner of her lip. Then says, “Some boys came by later.”

  “How old were they?”

  “High school juniors and seniors.”

  “Seventeen?”

  She nods.

  “Were any of them eighteen?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And you’re what, seventeen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you know these boys?”

  “They go to my school. Carson Collegiate.”

  “You said something might have happened at the sleepover Saturday night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We were playing Truth or Dare,” Riley says.

  “…And one of the dares was to steal a fifth of vodka from the liquor cabinet.”

  “And you did?”

  “Cammi got the dare.”

  “All the girls drank?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did Kelli’s mom know about the drinking?”

  “No. She wouldn’t have allowed that.”

  “Can I assume you drank too much?”

  She nods.

  “When did the boys show up?”

  “Just before I passed out.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  She sets her jaw bravely, and says, “I felt sick to my stomach, so I went upstairs to Kelli’s bedroom. She’s got her own
bathroom. I was dizzy, and thought I might need to throw up. When I came out of the bathroom, I sat on Kelli’s bed, then passed out.”

  “Was the bedroom light on or off?”

  “On.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I turned it on when I went in the room.”

  “Did you close the door behind you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Like I said, I thought I was going to be sick. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone to hear me throw up.”

  “How long were you in the bathroom?”

  “I don’t remember. A few minutes, I think.”

  “Then you went to the bed and passed out?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Any idea what time that happened?”

  “A little before midnight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Parker’s mom picked her up at midnight. But she was still in the basement when I went up to Kelli’s room.”

  “And Mrs. Underhill was asleep at the time?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Where’s her bedroom?”

  “On the main floor. But she was sleeping in the guest bedroom.”

  “And where is that located?”

  “On the other end of the hall from Kelli’s bedroom.”

  “How far away is that in feet?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do the Underhills have a big house?”

  “Huge.”

  “How many bedrooms upstairs?”

  “Four, I think.”

  “More than one staircase?”

  “They’ve got two. I used the back one, and came up from the basement.”

  “So Mrs. Underhill didn’t hear you come up the stairs?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “If she’d heard me, she would’ve come out of her room to ask why I was upstairs. We were supposed to stay in the den or the basement the entire time.”

  “Where were the girls going to sleep?”

  “In the basement. They’ve got six beds down there.”

  “So when did you wake up?”

  “The next morning, around nine.”

  “How’d you feel?”

  “First thing I did was throw up in the bathroom. I had a terrible headache all day.”

  “Did you feel groggy? Like you might have been drugged?”

  “No ma’am. Just however you’d feel after being drunk all night.”

  “So you woke up in Kelli’s bedroom, and threw up. Then what happened?”