“Marissa’s not that much younger than I am.”
“Not much is relative. I’d guess she’s at least eight years your junior.”
“Seven. She’s in her mid-thirties. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
He strapped his seatbelt on and moved the seat back. “What do you need?”
“I wanted to apologize about the other day.”
“You drove over just to say you’re sorry?”
“Partially. I’d like to blame my outburst on all the stress I’ve been under since Shelby’s death, but I can’t. I shouldn’t have made the assumptions I did. You’ve changed. You seem different now, and I can tell she makes you happy. I’m glad.”
“I feel like a different person now. I know I didn’t always handle things the right way when we were together. I was overbearing at times. You deserved better.”
“I wasn’t perfect either. I think breakups give us an opportunity to be better, and sometimes that means better for someone else.”
“What about you? Are you happy? I mean, were you, before all of this happened?”
I considered the question. “Yeah, I was. I mean, I still am. Cade is good for me.”
“I’m glad. I want you to be happy.”
“I was thinking, if you’re still open to working together, I have a couple of tips to pass along.”
He nodded. “Shoot.”
We discussed my meeting with Jesse Baldwin, and then I told him about the house Shelby went to on Capitol Hill.
“Yeah, he told me the same thing when I saw him earlier. I’ve been sitting on the information for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because I know whose house she was at in Capitol Hill, and given what we know now about what Shelby did for a living, I’ve been trying to decide the best way to approach it.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Clinton Presley’s. He’s a Utah state representative.”
I shook my head. “Figures.”
“We might as well talk to him. Let’s take a drive to his house and see what we can find out.”
Minutes later, we stood on the porch of a turn-of-the-century mini-mansion. The front door opened, and a portly woman in her early fifties wearing a white suit jacket and a matching skirt smiled and said, “Nick, it’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Rebecca. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. We’re off to a choir concert at the tabernacle.”
She looked at me. “And who’s this?”
“This is Sloane Monroe. She’s an old friend of mine.”
Before I could speak, a man rounded the corner. He was thin and statuesque, everything the woman was not.
“Rebecca, can you help me with these cufflinks?” He walked into the foyer and noticed us standing on his porch. “Oh, Nick, good to see you. We were just about to head out for the evening. What are you doing here?”
“I need a minute or two, if you can spare it.”
Clinton looked at Rebecca. “How are we doing on time, honey?”
She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “We have about five minutes.”
We were invited into an office decorated in floor-to-ceiling mahogany, wine-colored velvet curtains, and bookshelves filled with antique books. Rebecca disappeared into another room, leaving the three of us alone to talk.
“What’s this about?” Clinton said.
“I’m guessing you heard about Shelby McCoy, the college student who was murdered in the park this past week,” Nick said.
Clinton leaned against the wall, crossed one leg over the other. “Sure, I heard about it. How’s the investigation going?”
“Slow. I’ll get right to the point. I’m here because we received a tip.”
Clinton wiped his brow. “Oh yeah? What kind of tip?”
“We were told she was dropped off here, at your residence, sometime in the last week or so.”
Clinton reached out and pushed the door closed. He glanced at me. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Sloane Monroe. I’m a private detective. Shelby was my boyfriend’s daughter.”
His eyes widened.
My admission had unnerved him.
It had also given him away.
Nick leaned in, lowered his voice. “We know Shelby was working as an escort, Clinton. I need to know why she was here.”
“I’m not sure what to say except your tipster was wrong. There are several homes on this street. What makes him so sure it was mine?”
“We were given your address.”
Clinton shrugged. “Still doesn’t mean your informant was right.”
“He also described the house,” I added. “Yours is the only one with five white columns across the front.”
The clack of high heels headed in our direction, and the conversation paused. Clinton’s five minutes were up. Rebecca opened the door and leaned toward her husband. “Sorry to interrupt, but if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late, and we’re sitting right up front.”
Clinton looked at Nick and then at his wife as if he were trying to determine which was the lesser of two evils. “You’ll need to leave without me, honey. There’s an important matter I need to discuss here. I’ll join you shortly.”
She frowned. “But if you’re late, it will be hard for you to—”
“I’ll hurry.”
“Well, all right then. Don’t be long.”
“Okay, dear. I won’t.”
We waited until she pulled out of the garage, and Nick started up again. “I’m paying you a courtesy by coming here. I could bring you in, pass you off to Coop, and expose whatever extracurricular activities you’ve been indulging in. We’ve known each other for a long time, and I consider you a good man. I’d prefer not to do that.”
“You couldn’t possibly think I could have anything to do with—”
“I’m offering you the chance to keep your dignity,” Nick said. “So why don’t we cut through the bullshit? Tell me what I want to know. Shelby was here. Why?”
Clinton walked to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and removed a bottle of scotch. He tipped it toward us. “Either of you care to join?”
I shook my head.
Nick nodded. “I’m off the clock at the moment. I’ll indulge in one drink.”
It surprised me, but if a little camaraderie put Clinton at ease, I was all for it. Clinton poured a shot’s worth of scotch in a glass, handed one to Nick, then poured the same for himself. He walked to the window and looked out. “My wife doesn’t know I drink.”
I had a feeling his wife didn’t know a lot of things.
Nick joined Clinton. “Let’s talk about Shelby, so you don’t keep Rebecca waiting all night.”
Clinton swallowed the scotch down in one gulp and poured himself another. “I was meeting a few gentlemen in Las Vegas for the weekend and wanted a companion.”
I bit my lip, which did nothing to contain my sarcasm. “Why not take your wife? She’s a companion.”
“These guys I take trips with on occasion ... we’re all a member of the same club, meaning, we’re all married, we all love our wives. Surrounding ourselves with young, classy women every now and then helps relieve the pressures of our jobs. It’s all innocent fun. We’d fly everyone out to Vegas, relax, have a great time, and return refreshed, ready to face our daily routines again.”
I wondered what all was included in the “great time” package.
“Shelby accompanied you on these trips?” Nick asked.
“A few times, yes.” Clinton looked at me. “And just so you know, it wasn’t about sex. I didn’t sleep with her. I’ve never cheated on my wife.”
He had a loose interpretation of what the word cheating actually meant.
“And the other men?” Nick asked. “Did they have sex with their dates?”
Clinton shrugged. “Not my business, and I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
“How often did you see Shelby?”
&n
bsp; “A few times over the past year. She was a good girl—bright and funny—easy to be around, easy to talk to about anything. I could say whatever was on my mind, and she didn’t judge me.”
“Did she ever talk about her personal life, ever seem worried or act like she might be in danger?”
Clinton shook his head. “Every time I saw her she was happy and lighthearted. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world.”
Nick folded his arms. “I need to know where you were Monday morning between six and eight.”
“Oh for hell’s sake, Nick. Really?”
“I have to ask.”
“Actually, you don’t have to ask. You know me. You know I’m not capable of murder.”
“I thought you were a loyal, happily married man with three children, and yet today, you shocked me.”
“I love my family. I’m a good husband and a father. I thought if I explained everything you’d understand. Guess you don’t.”
“You didn’t answer my question about where you were the morning Shelby was murdered,” Nick said.
“I’m where I am every weekday morning at that hour—in my office at the capitol building. My secretary will vouch for me. Are we done here?”
“Almost. I need the name of the agency you used to hire Shelby.”
Clinton shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t give you that.”
“If you don’t want your wife finding out about your fun little side trips, you will.”
“You don’t understand. I signed an agreement. I’d be putting myself and my colleagues at risk.”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will talk to your wife.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Nick said, “and as your friend, I’m asking you to help me out.”
“I’ll be blacklisted, banned forever.” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He wiped them away. “If I tell you, you’ll keep my name out of it, right?”
“If I can.”
“You have to, Nick. Please.”
“I want to believe you didn’t have anything to do with Shelby McCoy’s murder.”
“I didn’t.”
“As long as I have no reason to consider you as a suspect, whatever you say right now stays in this room.”
Clinton sighed. “Fine. It’s called Play with Me.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Play with Me. That’s the name of the escort service.”
“I need an address and a number,” Nick said.
“I don’t have an address.” He walked to his desk, pulled a sticky note out of a drawer, scribbled down the number and a website URL, and handed it to Nick.
“How does it work?” Nick asked.
“You go on the website. Log in with the name UtahEscorts and the password Ready2Play. Choose the girl you want and book the date and time. Call and make the payment, and that’s it. I wouldn’t use your real name, if I were you. They have a list of all the law enforcement around here.”
CHAPTER 21
Nick ran a search on the company and came up with a physical address. It took us to a small office downtown where it didn’t appear any business was actually being conducted. The letters PWM Incorporated were on the outside of the building, but the lights were off, the door was locked, and after a quick look through the front window, it was obvious no one had been there in some time.
Nick explained the business cards found in the planter box I’d given to Coop were worthless. He had tried the number, only to discover the line was no longer in service and attached to an untraceable burner phone.
We queued up plan B, returning to Maddie’s house and using her computer to log in to the business’s private website. We clicked on the gallery of girls and scrolled through their profiles. There were eleven in all, most of them dressed in skimpy clothing and posed in such a way that their faces were hidden from the camera. I didn’t see Shelby. I also didn’t see the girl who had called herself Veronica.
“I’m thinking we should just pick one of these girls and make the call.” Nick pointed at the computer screen. “What do you think about this one?”
“Hang on. Some of these girls look soft and some look hard. We’re more likely to get what we’re after with one who’s nice.”
He backed away from the computer. “Okay then. You choose.”
I leaned in, taking a second look at the photos, and then pointed at a girl with long, blond hair, bright blue eyes, long legs, and a wide smile. “What about her?”
He nodded. “Krista it is.”
Nick made the call, posing as an executive in need of an evening companion. He requested Krista’s services and was quoted an hourly rate of two hundred twenty-five dollars. The booking agent who took the call said she’d check with Krista about her schedule and call back. Four minutes later, she did, and the meeting was set.
“I should go alone,” Nick said.
“No way. I’m going.”
“I just think it would be better if I—”
“Nick, I’m going.”
A short time later, we waited in a fancy hotel room in Park City that was scented with an aroma of pine and vanilla. Krista arrived right on time. I hid behind the door while Nick answered it. She walked in, set her purse down on the table, and removed her jacket. She folded it over a chair, caught a glimpse of me, and jumped.
“What is this? What’s going on? I don’t entertain couples.”
“This isn’t what it looks like.” Nick pulled a chair out from under a small table. “Take a seat, and we’ll explain everything.”
She did what he asked.
I stood in front of her, “I’m in a relationship with Shelby McCoy’s father. I believe you knew her?”
She crossed one leg over the other, nervously fidgeting with the hem on her tiny black dress. “I didn’t know her very well. What do you want?”
“The name of the woman you work for, and an address.”
She shook her head. “I’ll lose my job.”
“Not if we don’t reveal how we found out.”
“I ... I don’t know.”
I leaned in close, my face inches from hers. “We need the name of the woman you work for, and you’re going to give it to us.”
Nick glared at me like I needed to back down, so I stepped away, waited for her answer.
She brushed a tear off of her cheek and said, “You think we can help you, and we can’t. None of us can. We don’t know who killed Shelby. My boss called a meeting right after she found out what happened. She talked to us, and then she talked to all of Shelby’s former clients. No one knows anything.”
Or someone was lying.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Nick said. “Tell us who you work for and how we can find her, and I promise to leave your name out of it.”
“I don’t know you. You can say whatever you want right now.”
Nick pulled out his credentials and handed them to her. “My name is Nick Calhoun, and I’m a detective working on Shelby McCoy’s case. Please, we need your help. You can trust me.”
She rubbed her trembling hands together in her lap, considering his request. “Okay, I guess. I work for Delia Monahan.”
“And where does she live?”
She paused and then said, “Not far from here, actually.”
CHAPTER 22
A brisk wind whistled through the city, piping damp moisture into the cool night air. I reached for the zipper on my coat, closed it around me, and knocked on the door. Seconds later, a girl answered, her eyes wide with recognition.
She squinted and then crossed her arms. “You.”
For a moment I was too stunned to reply, overcome with shock that someone so young owned such a thriving, provocative business. It didn’t seem possible, but here she was. Nick looked at the girl and then at me, confused.
“Ahh ... do you two know each other?” he aske
d.
“This is the girl who came to see me the other night—the one whose name we’ve been trying to figure out.”
“The one who called herself Veronica?”
I nodded.
She moved a hand to her hip. “How did you find me?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and we need to talk.”
“No,” she whispered. “I need you to leave. You can’t be here.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Delia. It is Delia Monahan, right? You have some explaining to do.”
She attempted to push the door closed, but Nick wedged a shoe inside, stopping her.
“I can’t talk to you,” she said. “Not right now. I ... I’ll come to your friend’s house later. Any time after eleven o’clock. Pick a time and I’ll be there.”
“The time is right now,” Nick said. “There is no later.”
A woman descended the stairs, joining Delia at the door. She was around my age with long, auburn hair, piercing blue eyes, and milky-white skin. “Can I help you?”
I pointed at Delia. “We’re here to talk to Delia.”
A look of confusion spread across the woman’s face. “She’s not Delia. I am.”
I pointed at the girl. “If you’re not Delia, who are you?”
The girl blinked, said nothing.
“This is my daughter, Adele,” Delia said.
Her daughter. Her underage daughter. The ID I’d seen had been a fake—same first name, fake last.
Adele and Shelby must have been friends. When Shelby died, Adele wanted to warn me about what she knew while protecting her mother’s identity in the process.
Impatient to get the answers we were after, Nick said, “Ma’am, I need to talk to you about Shelby McCoy.”
Delia shrugged. “What makes you think I know anything about her?”
“We know about the business you’re running. We also know she worked for you as an escort.”
I expected Delia to flinch, deny it, or do something rash. Instead she held up a finger, indicating we needed to wait. Turning to her daughter, she said, “Adele, go start on your homework while I talk to our guests. I’ll be up to help you in a few minutes.”
“I want to stay,” Adele said.
Delia shook her head. “Do what I ask.”
Gone Daddy Gone (Sloane Monroe Book 7) Page 9