You Don't Know Me

by Nancy Bush

  Theirs had been a good relationship for a while. He’d enjoyed her humor, her way of teasing. But he couldn’t commit in the way she’d wanted, so the whole thing had fizzled out. He’d been totally involved in his work and she’d wanted a quiet, down-home lifestyle. Ironically, soon after they split, he quit the force and became a private investigator.

  Some things just weren’t meant to be.

  Carolyn steepled her fingers beneath her chin, assessing him as he walked inside. “So what gives?” she asked. “Who are you really?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Oh, my. What’s Denise done?”

  “Is she here?”

  “Well, now, that’s a good question, Mr . . . ?”

  “Jackley.”

  “Do you have a first name?”

  “Connor.”

  “Mmm . . .” Carolyn led the way through a solarium to the pool outside. Several people lay in lounge chairs, bronzed statues ignorant of anything but the heat of the sun on their skin. Did no one entertain thoughts of melanoma?

  Connor stayed beneath a slatted trellis where a scraggly vine sought to stay fresh beneath the beating rays. Carolyn sat in the sun on the opposite side of a glass-topped table and motioned him to sit down.

  “How’d you know Denise was here?”

  “It wasn’t too hard to find out.”

  “You talk to her ex-husband?”

  “No.”

  “That’s who you should talk to. She still loves him.”

  Connor let that sink in. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Well, that’d be great, but she left. Just a few nights ago, as a matter of fact. Back to Los Angeles.” Carolyn twisted around and yelled to all and sundry, “Hey, get me a Perrier, and bring something stronger for Mr. Jackley.”

  Nobody moved. The somnolent inactivity seemed almost surreal. Carolyn tried again, then muttered an obscenity beneath her breath and went to get the drinks herself. Connor stared into the azure depths of the pool, watching the play of light on water.

  She returned with a black enamel tray and two drinks, sparkling water for her and a mug of ale for him, condensation dripping down the mug’s frosted sides. She’d managed to lose the silk robe en route and now settled herself on the lounge, one knee pulled up to show off her shapely thigh and calf.

  “Would you rather have something else?” she asked, a hint of suggestion in her tone.

  “No, thanks.”

  “All right, Connor. What can I tell you about Denise Scott?”

  Connor lifted the mug. Its chill was heaven against the afternoon heat. He swallowed heartily and set the mug back down. Watching him, Carolyn Lenton pulled an ice cube from her glass, shook off the excess water, then pressed it to her chest, smearing the small frozen block over her tanned flesh.

  Plop! She dropped the cube into his mug of ale. A little suntan oil with his beverage.

  “What do you want to hear?” she asked in a husky purr.

  “Everything.”

  “Every sordid detail? Every indiscretion and less than legal activity?” She leaned forward, her breasts straining against the triangular scraps of her bikini top.

  Connor sized her up. He couldn’t have stopped her now if he’d paid her. “Don’t leave out a thing.”

  Three hours later he was on his way back to Houston International Airport without much further information. Carolyn was certainly full of gossip and innuendo, but all he really learned of value was that Denise had left for L.A. Carolyn didn’t know anything about any sisters.

  “Sisters?” she’d repeated blankly. “You must be kidding. Denise has an ex-husband. A real prick, or so she says. But you never know. Denise is as screwed up as anybody. I should know.”

  Carolyn had gone on to tell him about Lambert Wallace. She bristled at the name. It looked like Denise had scored him away from her hostess. Unforgivable, if Connor read the narrowed fury in Carolyn’s hard eyes.

  To a lesser extent, she’d also mentioned Dr. Hayden Stone, Denise’s shrink, who, by coincidence had relocated from Houston to Los Angeles himself.

  Glancing at the list of names and addresses on the notebook he’d tossed onto the passenger seat, Connor decided he’d better check with Dempsey. The sheriff was antsy. A part of him really wanted to brush the whole nasty story under the rug. But a part of him kept on plugging away. The last time Connor had talked to him, Dempsey had talked to Denise’s ex-boyfriend again, Jimmy Fargo, who lived in Seattle.

  “He swears she had an abortion,” Gus had informed him. “Seems obsessed with the idea.”

  “Did you ask him if he was sure he was the father?”

  “Now, what are you thinkin’, Jackley?”

  “I don’t know,” Connor answered honestly.

  “This thing’s bound to blow up, no matter what.” Gus sighed with real regret. “Your sister sure doesn’t like you pokin’ around. Matt’s been keepin’ notes, y’know.”

  “She doesn’t like him involved.”

  “Yeah, well, Matt feels kinda proprietary about the whole thing. Naturally so. But I got better things to do than worry about the eight-year-old murder of a lowlife mongrel like Daniels. Anytime you’re sick of workin’ on it, just let me know . . .”

  Sick of working on it . . .

  Now, Connor swept a hand around the back of his neck and rotated the kinks out of his spine. His mouth tasted sour after two glasses of ale. Carolyn had pressed more on him, but mostly Connor stayed away from booze of any kind. Once—only once—during his illustrious career with L.A.P.D., he’d let himself indulge in too much liquor. His partner had clapped him on the back and driven him home. No big deal. But later that night, that same partner had been first on the scene of a terrible automobile accident. Fog. Stupid drivers.

  And then he’d been out of the prowler and killed by a drunk driver trying to get around the other cars.

  His death had nothing to do with Connor, but Connor’s taste for alcohol of any kind had diminished after that, which was just as well since Carolyn had practically climbed atop him while her guests baked in the sun. Her hands had been strong, sleek, and knowing; guiltily he recalled waiting just an instant too long before stopping her.

  He needed a woman, but there wasn’t one on the goddamned planet that held any appeal.

  With an effort he pushed thoughts of Carolyn’s nutbrown, oil-drenched body and exploring fingers from his mind and planned his next move: Lambert Wallace of Beverly Hills.

  Why did that name sound so familiar? And why did he have a hollow feeling in his gut?

  This thing’s bound to blow up, no matter what.

  Grimacing, Connor wondered if Gus Dempsey and his sister might have the right idea after all. It was going to get messy and end badly.

  She’d gone straight home with him. It had seemed so right, after their long flight. And where else did she have to go anyway? Home? Where was that? Dinah was shacking up with John, and Derek, the putz, had only liked screwing the anal way. The man was a homosexual, if ever there was one, but try telling him that. Denise had jokingly said as much one day, and Derek had shrieked that he had a “teenaged daughter, in case you haven’t noticed! I hate those sick, disgusting bastards!”

  Denise had then pointed out that she had a lot of friends who were gay, and hey—you are what you are—but that hadn’t cut any ice with Derek, whose paranoia had reached critical mass. His being gay was cool, she’d tried to tell him, but he’d practically stuck his fingers in his ears. He was in the closet and wanted to stay there.

  At any rate, their relationship was dead so Denise, adrift and suffering from bipolar whatever-the-hell-it-was, had dialed Dinah and run off with Carolyn to the next bump on life’s highway.

  Walking into Lambert’s spacious home had been like coming home at the end of a long journey. She belonged here. She could tell. It was all beautiful. Sparkling windows. Antiques. Most culled from a house in Charlottesville that was now on the historic registry. Hardwood floors
thick with area rugs. Rose blossoms floating in a pewter bowl on the hall sideboard.

  Denise looked into Lambert’s face. He was smiling that inscrutable smile.

  “You like it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you like it.” He clasped her hand and led her to the back of the house and the kitchen. Newspapers were neatly stacked on a chair.

  “What the—Lina!” he screamed, his demeanor changing so swiftly, it took Denise by surprise.

  Footsteps scurried overhead. Moments later a tiny Mexican maid appeared, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “Pick that up and get rid of it,” Lambert demanded coldly. He pointed to the newspapers.

  “I take them with me,” she said, nodding quickly over and over again.

  She gave Lambert a wide berth, going out of her way to avoid him as she lifted the huge stack in her arms.

  Silence followed her exit. Then suddenly Lambert pulled Denise into his arms, tightly. His heartbeat was strong and fast. Uncertain, Denise remained passive.

  “Want to make love?” he murmured, his gaze intent.

  She knew it would come to this. It always came to this.

  Do I have to? Denise thought wearily. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “Sure.” Reluctantly, he released her and walked to the refrigerator. A freshly made pitcher of martinis materialized in his hands. Lina might not know what to do with newspapers, but she seemed to understand her boss’s other needs pretty well.

  Producing two martini glasses and a stick of fat olives, he deftly poured them each a drink. There was something unnerving about the way he watched her as she lifted her glass, but Denise shook it off. So he got his jollies eyeing her. Half the nation’s population had gotten off watching her in the midst of a fake orgasm in Cosmos. Jeezus, what a sorry excuse for a film, even if it did make millions.

  Denise had a nice buzz going when Lambert reached out and tweaked her breast.

  “I believe that’s sexual harassment,” she told him, trying to keep it light, feeling soul-weary with exhaustion.

  He grinned and did it again.

  Inevitability fell over her like a shroud. Same scene, different actor. Empty, empty life. But there was nothing else.

  He slid a hand down the curve of her cheek. He bent down and kissed her ear. Hot breath. Urgent tongue.

  You’re gonna like this, baby. You’re gonna like this.

  Thomas Daniels’s face swam into her vision, leering and cruel. Denise’s whole body trembled. Misinterpreting, Lambert wrapped his hands beneath her buttocks, picked her up, and set her on the counter, hiking up her skirt at the same time so her long bare legs dangled from skimpy, silk panties. He rhythmically ran his hands over her thighs, his thumbs brushing lightly against her panties, pulling away, brushing again. It was a move destined to generate heat and desire, but Denise couldn’t respond.

  Lambert either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He simply jerked her hips to the edge of the counter, yanked off the panties, spread her legs, unzipped his pants, pulled out his erection, and went to work.

  Denise braced herself on her hands and wondered desperately if Lina was about to reappear. But the maid stayed out of sight, and Lambert was quick enough that before Denise had beaten herself up over making another bad choice, he’d zipped back up and even, gentlemanly, readjusted her skirt.

  But the smile on his face worried her.

  Life could be far worse, she reminded herself. Far, far worse.

  “Been waiting to do that since Houston,” he told her. “Thought about it on the plane the whole way back. Come on . . .” He took her hand and led her to his own magnificent pool and patio, where he settled her on a lounge chair.

  Denise thrummed with tension. Haunting worries. Flitting ghosts. Close your hand into a fist. Push out the poisons.

  Lambert Wallace then stripped off his clothes, standing in front of her like a conquering warrior.

  Swallowing, she wondered half-hysterically what he expected her to do now. She was not going to put anything in her mouth, if that’s what he thought.

  But he dove backward into the pool and started doing laps. Denise watched him, almost mesmerized, and then she looked up and gazed at the mullioned French doors that led to the master bedroom. Lina stood framed in the glass, an unsmiling madonna with black hair scraped back.

  And the look in her eyes was pure pity.

  “He is the ugliest excuse for a human being I have ever seen.”

  “He’s emperor of the film industry.”

  “I can see sweat stains under his arms.”

  “So he ain’t Mr. Clean. Who cares? He’s loaded.”

  “Which studio?”

  “Titan Pictures.”

  “Damn . . .”

  Where were all the A-list players? Hayley was so sick of C- and D-list. She ground her teeth in frustration. The scene was the same as always: groups of people getting high, sprawled around in loose arms and legs, vacant stares, little interest. But this was at the home of Rodney Walburn III, a spread at the top of Mulholland Drive. Swank. Posh. Full of important players who were gorgeous, jaded, and pretty near lifeless human shells.

  Rodney himself was a monster. Hollywood’s “Be Thin or Be Nothing” attitude didn’t seem to apply here. He rolled in fat, skin shiny with perspiration. His small eyes were nearly hidden behind flaps of fat. His pudgy hands looked small and his arms stood out from his torso, wedged like wings because they couldn’t compete with his tremendous girth.

  He was meticulous about his hair, however. He wore it greased down, not a single strand out of place. When he wanted something, he snapped his fingers and nubile Hollywood starlets ran to do his bidding.

  But he could make her career with one phone call. One phone call.

  “What do I have to do?” Hayley asked Gloria.

  “I thought you were a watcher. All you gotta do is watch.”

  Watch that? She thought a bit hysterically. If she had to see Rodney in action she was pretty sure she’d be sick. Mentally removing herself from a scene with him would be darn near impossible.

  To make him even more repugnant, he used the F-word in every sentence. It was fuck this and fuck that, this fucking thing and that fucking thing, and you’re a fucking idiot, you stupid cock-sucking fucker.

  She’d thought she was inured to bad language, but with good, old Rod she learned differently.

  As if reading her mind, he suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed to Hayley and Gloria. Hayley swallowed her trepidation and followed after Gloria.

  They approached him together, Hayley slightly behind Gloria.

  “Nice tits,” he observed, staring at Gloria.

  Well, she’d been wrong. He didn’t say fuck that time.

  But the night was young.

  “They’re honest-to-God silicone,” Gloria smarted off.

  His answer a chuckle. “You’re a fucking ugly woman,” he declared meanly.

  This, from the Slime King?

  “Who’s the mouse?” he demanded, glancing at Hayley.

  “New to the business,” Gloria said. “She’s a watcher.”

  “What the fuck’s that?”

  Gloria shrugged. “Ask her. She likes to watch.”

  This seemed to stump Rod who was momentarily silent. After all, you still had to formulate other words to make a sentence no matter whether fuck was a noun, adjective, or verb. Might be a stumper for someone so limited.

  The head of Titan Pictures! How? How?

  Licking his lips, he breathed heavily through his nose in an effort to move oxygen through those layers of fat to his overwhelmed lungs. Rodney Walburn—repulsive be thy name.

  Hayley loathed him with a passion.

  “Well, you’re not watching me,” he told her with thinly disguised Puritanism. “Go away.”

  Hayley’s mouth nearly dropped open. So Rodney was a closet prude.

  Gloria either didn’t pick up on it or didn’t care. She ran her
hand over his head. Big mistake. Strands of oiled hair stuck straight up. His fat hand grabbed her wrist and he twisted viciously.

  “Get the fuck out. Whores. You belong on the fucking street!”

  Within seconds they were dumped on the doorstep like so much garbage. Gloria was infuriated. “I have friends!” she sputtered. “I know people. Fat bastard!” She shook her fist at the closed, locked door.

  “Street walking never looked so good,” Hayley muttered, more relieved than upset.

  “He threw us out! Threw us out!” She was incensed beyond measure. “Wait ’til I tell Danny!”

  They both knew Danny had no power over Rodney Walburn. He was a small-time pimp and Rodney was rumored to have earned his title through ties to organized crime. And Danny had considered it an honor that Rodney had been interested in his girls. He’d be more likely to blame Gloria for not delivering the goods than commiserate about what a pig the man was.

  “Let’s go,” Hayley suggested, her mind already churning through possibilities. Okay, they’d bombed with this segment of the Hollywood crowd. Good. Hayley didn’t really think anyone, no matter who they were, would cast an honest-to-goodness hooker in a part the caliber of Isabella in Blackbird. Besides, Rod didn’t have creative control even if he was head of Titan Pictures. Hayley wasn’t even certain Callahan’s deal was with Titan. Wasn’t there bad blood between him and the studio his father had practically owned?

  Well, who cared anyway? Her best bet was John Callahan and her “Hooker for a Day” résumé. This mixing with Hollywood types when she was disguised as a prostitute could only do more harm than good. Time to quit.

  Time to make her move on Callahan himself.

  Chapter Eight

  The man’s dark eyes held her in their grip. Emotion smoldered like black coals whose innards glowed red-hot. The room was barren. A cheap bed with squeaking mattress, a scarred bureau, a yellowed room notice attached to the back of the door.