by Mary Campisi
“Get to the point.” She scrubbed the emotion from her voice, just like Derry had told her to do.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Cyn.”
When she said nothing, he laughed and said, “I guess a drink is out of the question, too.”
What would Derry do? And then the words came. “I’m not interested in being one of your desperate housewives.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than sure.”
He smoothed his wavy hair with both hands and tilted his head to one side, as if considering his next move. “I look at it like this, if a woman’s here alone, she’s looking for something she’s not getting at home.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why?”
“Everything is not about a man.”
“It’s always about a man. You think the woman in the stilettos and leather skirt is doing that because she likes stilts and animal skin? She wants a man to see her and want her. Same with the ignored wife who totes her Louis Vuitton bag full of designer clothes and perfume off on vacation. She wants a man to notice her, any man if she’s desperate enough. And the poor bastard husbands don’t get it, which is where I come in.”
“That’s sick.”
“Why? I’m providing a service, call it marriage counseling. I snap a few pictures, threaten to send them to the husband, collect a little pocket change, and bam, they’re running back to their old man’s bed faster than a bitch in heat.”
“And then you send them little reminder notices every few months?”
“Sometimes.”
God, she felt sick. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“I don’t have that.” She stopped before she said more. It was her turn to smile. She could take care of this all by herself, and Derry wouldn’t even have to get involved. “Give me the pictures and the negatives, and forget you ever saw my face. You do that”—her smile deepened—“and I’ll give you fifty thousand.”
***
Why in the hell was Cyn waving to her like that? Didn’t she know this was a covert operation? Damn, the woman would never make an investigator.
Steve Miller pulled away in his black Spider and headed west. Derry merged into traffic, tossing a wave to Cyn who stood with her arms extended like a referee.
She puttered along in Tula Rae’s shitty brown station wagon, trailing several hundred yards behind Steve Miller. When they reached the outskirts of town, traffic thinned and she fell further behind.
The Spider turned down a secluded road, kicked into gear and disappeared. Derry followed, passing houses buried between trees and winding drives. She’d just rounded a wide bend when she spotted Miller’s car easing into a two car garage attached to a gray contemporary. Derry drove past and parked in a vacant lot two houses away.
When she stepped out of the LTD wagon, her stiletto’s sunk in the soft dirt. Great. She unstuck one heel and then the other, working her way onto the paved road. It would be too obvious to say she just happened upon his house, miles from the main road, dressed in a low cut dress and three inch heels. Only a hiker would travel these roads.
So, Derry opted for plan B. The truth.
She trudged up the long drive, admiring the hedge of red roses. Even scumbags enjoyed beauty. She stopped to smell one of the clusters, and then walked the ten steps to the arched entrance and rang the bell.
Within seconds, the front door opened and there he was. “Well, hello.”
Steve Miller was handsome, she’d give him that.
“Hello. Steve, is it?” She extended her hand. “I’m Derry.” She paused. “A friend of Cyn’s.”
He hadn’t expected that. His dark brows inched up just enough to indicate his surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Well, come in, Derry.”
She flashed him a smile to match the one he’d given her, and crossed the threshold.
“I must admit, I’m a bit surprised to see one of Cyn’s friends here.”
“Why?”
“Cyn and I concluded our business earlier.”
Derry removed her leather jacket and smoothed her royal blue dress. “Cyn’s never been much of a businesswoman.”
“I guess that depends on which side of the table you’re sitting at,” he said.
“What did she offer you?” Derry followed him into the living room and sank into a leather chair. Is this where Cyn sat?
“Fifty thousand to disappear.”
“That’s more than generous.”
“It is, considering I was only asking for twenty.”
“She knew you wouldn’t go away for twenty.” Derry crossed her leg and let the dress ride high on her thigh. “Will you do it for fifty?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He had a way about him, Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Damn convincing, if one weren’t on alert.
“Why would you?” she countered.
His laugh spilled over them. “What is it you’re offering?”
“Insurance. I want to see you destroy the negatives. And the originals. And I’m assuming you’ve got a darkroom here somewhere, since I doubt you’d want to advertise your trade to the local drugstore film developer.”
“You’re very astute.”
“I want to see the darkroom, too.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll write you a check today.”
“Really? Why does every woman love to toss around their husband’s money?”
“It’s not his. It’s mine.”
He studied her with renewed interest. “I like that. Let’s talk business, but first, how about a drink?”
“The same kind you fixed Cyn? No thanks.”
He laughed. “No. A celebratory drink. What’ll you have? You look like a scotch woman.”
“Dewar’s on the rocks.”
“Dewar’s it is.”
He poured two scotches and handed one to her. “To the culmination of a successful business deal. May both sides get what they want.”
“Cheers.” She clinked her glass against his, pretended to sip. “Now, how about getting those pictures?”
“What’s the rush?”
“No rush. Curiosity.”
“Ah, I see.” His lips pulled into a wide smile. “A little voyeurism, huh?”
Derry wanted to kick his balls but she held his smile and shrugged.
“I’ll be right back.” He rested his scotch on the glass table and left the room.
As soon as he’d disappeared, Derry opened her purse and pulled out the crushed valium she’d placed in a baggie. She dumped the powder into Steve Miller’s scotch, swished it around with her finger, and hurried back to the couch.
“Why don’t we look at these together?” he said, carrying a large manila envelope into the living room.
“A little foreplay?” She forced the words out of her mouth.
“Yeah, I think so.”
She grabbed their glasses and stood. “Sounds like my kind of fun,” she purred, handing him his scotch.
“Thanks.” He took a drink, pulled her to him. “Kiss me.”
She blotted out images of Alec and Charlie, and stuck her tongue in his mouth.
“More,” he groaned, throwing the pictures on the couch and grabbing her ass with his free hand.
Derry sucked his tongue, moaned in his mouth, then eased away. She wanted to puke, but Cyn needed her. “We have to slow down or this is going to be over way too fast.”
His breathing came in quick, uneven gasps as he lifted his glass and gulped. “You ever have a threesome?”
“A few times.” What was one more lie?
“You want one now?” His eyes glittered with sex.
“No.” She sipped at her drink. “I want you all to myself right now.”
“I want to screw you from behind. Let me see that ass.”
She threw back her head and laughed. Go
d, knock him out! “What about the pictures?”
“We’ll save those for round two.”
She almost gagged as she said, “Cyn’s my friend, but she’s hot.” And then, “She makes me hot.”
“Have you done it with her?”
“No.” The words rushed out. “She’s too straight.”
“Not like you, huh?” He smiled.
She smiled back. You sick bastard. I will make you pay for what you did. “Not like me.”
He swiped up the pictures and sat on the couch. “Sit, here.” He pointed to his lap. “Touch me.”
Derry picked up his drink which was a third of the way gone, pretended a sip from it and handed it to him. “Drink up.”
“I don’t need to get loosened up to screw you,” he said.
“It’s not about loosening up, it’s about enjoying.”
He stroked her breast through the thin jersey of her dress. “Well put.” And with that, he downed the rest of his scotch.
He unclasped the manila folder and slid the pictures out. His hand faltered as he rifled through the photos. “Shit,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead.
“What’s the matter?” She ran her fingers through his hair. Night-night, you sick piece of shit.
“Just give me a minute.” He fell back against the sofa, his eyes drifting shut. “Just a… minute.” His hand flopped forward and the photos slipped to the floor.
“Steve?”
His head lolled to the side as he groaned and passed out.
Derry climbed off him and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “There you go, you bastard.” She scooped up the photos and slid them back into the envelope. If Cyn wanted to see them before Derry torched them, she could but Derry didn’t need proof to see what a sick freak the guy was.
Asshole. He looked like such a decent guy, innocent even, with his clean-shaven face layered with sleep, and his lean body decked out in Ralph Lauren.
You just never knew. She’d like to give him one swift kick in the balls for what he did to Cyn, but then he might wake up. Besides, she had a better plan.
Derry snatched up her purse and the envelope as she hurried to the back of the house. She opened doors and flipped on lights until she found the dark room. There were tables and trays lined up in the middle of the room with a few random proofs hung from a line overhead. She scanned these, but they were all shots of the various stages of a butterfly landing on a flower, drinking nectar and flying away.
Two steel-cased file cabinets sat side by side in the corner of the room. Aha! She tried to yank them open but they were both locked. Damn! Derry ran to the foyer where she’d seen him drop his keys. If this was where he kept the jackpot, maybe the keys stayed with him. Derry scooped them up and rifled through—a key to the Spider, a few house keys, another car key, and two identical small, flat keys. Like the kind that fit filing cabinets.
She rushed back to the darkroom slicing a glance at the body slumped on the couch. Maybe she should’ve crushed one more in his drink…
Derry jammed the first key into the drawer and waited for the click. She yanked it open and found a drawer full of Pendaflex folders labeled alphabetically, beginning with Janice Applewroth. One peek inside the Pendaflex revealed several glossies of a nude and near-nude woman she guessed was Janice Applewroth. She scanned the folder behind this one. Carla Altons. More of the same. The man certainly loved the wide-angle crotch shots.
Drawer two housed the C’s. Cynthia Cintar sported a fresh label. Derry pulled out the folder and threw it on the floor beside the manila envelope. She continued rifling through the files until she’d gone through both cabinets. These were no butterfly shots. They were all blackmail. Derry closed the second cabinet, locked it and pocketed the keys.
Now to find the rest of the evidence. If Steve Miller were an innovative man, he’d have his payments logged in a quick, efficient, easily updated manner, aka a computer.
Derry raced into the next room and logged onto the computer that sat on the edge of a massive cherry desk. Within fifteen minutes, she’d gathered detailed accounts of clients, including payment amounts, increases, phone numbers, husband’s name, and correspondence. She’d also discovered that the man passed out in the other room wasn’t Steve Miller. His real name was Bart Matteson.
Derry scrolled to the C’s and found Cyn’s name, address, phone number and Sam’s name listed under the husband heading. She deleted the entry, popped in a floppy disk, and saved the information.
She’d do everything possible to keep this from Sam but the asshole in the other room had to be stopped. Cyn would have to understand.
Derry sucked in a long breath and reached for the phone.
Chapter 18
Sam rolled over and buried his head under the pillow. What was that noise? Go away! God, but it wouldn’t stop. Was that a phone ringing?
Christ! He jerked awake and grabbed for the phone.
“Hello?” Something had happened to Cyn; he felt it deep in his gut.
“Dad?”
“Kiki?” He squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:47 a.m. Why was she calling him from her bedroom?
“Dad, Janie’s been in an accident.”
“What?” He snatched his glasses and jammed them on his face. “What are you talking about? Janie’s asleep.”
“No Dad,” she stammered. “She’s at the hospital.”
“What? Where are you?”
“At Mercy Hospital with her. Dad, can you please just come down? I’m scared.”
“What happened?”
There was a half-second pause and then, “I snuck out to meet Brad and Janie said she’d tell if I didn’t take her with me. So I did.”
“You snuck out? How? When?” He was wide awake now. Sam slid off the bed and walked down the hall to Janie’s room. The door was locked. He reached for the key above the door frame, jiggled it in the lock until it clicked. Sam opened the door and stared at the cluster of heart and circle pillows resting on top of the lavender comforter where Janie’s head should be.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Kiki’s tears filled the line. “I lost control and took out a street light on Bexler Road.”
“Is Janie okay? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Janie’s with the doctors.” She sobbed, “Please, Dad, come now.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Hmmhmm.” Pause. “Dad? Please don’t tell Mom.”
***
The young girl lying on the examining table didn’t look like Janie. His Janie didn’t wear black eyeliner and blue mascara. She didn’t tease her hair into a big ponytail or wear orange-size silver earrings. And his Janie would never shrink wrap herself in a tiny pink T-shirt and too small jeans that invited viewers to three inches of belly.
Not his Janie.
But when she spoke, it was her.
“Dad,” she said, reaching for his hand.
Her fingernails were two inches long, coated bright pink. His Janie bit her nails. Where’d these claws come from?
“Honey,” he said, reaching for her hand, careful to avoid the nails, “the doctor says you’re going to be fine. Just a sprained wrist.” He squeezed her hand. “Good thing you’re left-handed. You were awfully lucky.”
She nodded, skirted a glance at Kiki who stood at the foot of the examining table. “I’m sorry.”
Beneath the makeup and nails he caught a glimpse of his Janie. “What’s all this?” he gestured to her face and clothes.
“It was stupid. I just wanted to make Kiki miserable. She’s always on me about being such a goody-goody.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t even want to go, but I made myself so I could show her.” She turned her head toward Sam, avoiding her sister’s eyes.
“It could’ve been much worse,” Sam’s said, his voice gentle. “You could’ve been banged up bad, thrown against the windshield, or through it.”
“The airbag helped.”
“Airbag? The Camry doesn’t hav
e an airbag on the passenger side.”
Janie’s eyes darted to Kiki. “I know, Dad,” she said, dragging her gaze to meet his. “But I was driving.”
“Driving?”
“Kiki said not to tell the police or I won’t get my license until I’m eighteen. But I had to tell you, Dad. You won’t tell them, will you?”
What would Cyn do?
That’s the question Sam asked himself hours later as he replayed the conversation. What would Cyn do? Would she stand by silently as her oldest daughter told the reporting officer that she’d been driving down Bexler Road when a deer ran out in front of her, causing her to swerve into a street light? Or, would she tell the truth and admit her fifteen-year-old daughter was the one behind the wheel?
Twenty-six days ago he would’ve sworn there were no secrets between them, but now he knew better. And that made it easier to go along with the girls’ story, and much easier to honor their plea to not tell their mother the truth.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t tell Cyn about it until the next night. He practiced the speech so many times that when the words fell out of his mouth, they almost seemed true.
“There’s something I want to tell you. Now, don’t get all upset, but Kiki had a little accident.”
“A car accident? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She swerved to miss a deer and hit a street light.”
“Where?”
“On Bexler Road.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“And you’re just calling me now? Sam, why didn’t you let me know?”
“It was late.”
“How late?”
He shaved off a few hours. “Around ten, I think.”
“Her week night curfew’s ten. She knows I don’t like her roaming around on school nights unless it’s school related. And what was she doing on Bexler anyway?”
“Dammit, Cyn, give it up. The kid was half hysterical when she called me. I don’t know if it was five minutes before ten, or five after. What does it matter?”
“Because maybe if she was at home, like she should’ve been at that hour, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I don’t need this right now, I really don’t.”