by Sean Black
“Like they said, honey, I didn’t want to worry you.” At last Nate seemed to be getting into the swing of things.
“Industrial espionage is a major area of business for firms like ours,” Aidan chimed in. “Mostly it never gets reported but the business world is even dirtier than most people imagine.”
“So what’s been going on with the company?” asked Mrs. Kaufmann. “You have been kind of distracted lately, Nate.”
“I didn’t want to worry you, but some of our billboards have been getting vandalized. I called in . . .”
“Maloney Investigations,” offered Sofia.
“Exactly,” said Nate. “I called in Maloney Investigations to see if it was just regular vandalism or if it was maybe organized by one of the company’s competitors.”
“Or maybe someone trying to shake you down,” Aidan added.
“Oh, my God! You mean like the Mafia?” shrieked Mrs. Kaufmann.
“We haven’t found any evidence of organized crime,” said Sofia, trying to offer some reassurance.
The suspicious look Mrs. Kaufmann had worn when she’d first opened the door had returned. “So why are you visiting Nate at the house rather than at his office?”
It was a good question.
“We were in the neighborhood anyway,” said Aidan.
“Plus,” said Sofia, “as an agency we prefer to do our client liaison face to face whenever possible. Because we’re a small agency we pride ourselves on offering a more personalized service.”
That seemed to dial down Mrs. Kaufmann’s suspicion level. But not all the way. “So, what have you found out that couldn’t wait?”
Aidan gave a gee-shucks shrug. “It’s regular old vandalism. Kids. The LAPD have picked up three of them. No Mafia shakedown. No business competitor up to no good. Just old-fashioned low-level juvenile delinquency. We knew your husband had been worried about it so we wanted to deliver the good news in person. That’s all.”
As stories went, Sofia reflected, it was fairly slick. There was only one problem. Aidan’s wrapping up of the fictional case made it difficult to have any further contact with Nate Kaufmann without his wife getting really suspicious.
Sofia dug into her purse and whipped out a Maloney Investigations business card. She handed it to Nate. “We’ll have to get a report from you that we can pass on to the LAPD. It’ll save you the hassle of dealing with them. We have direct channels that’ll make your involvement go a lot faster.”
“Thanks,” said Nate, puzzled.
Mrs. Kaufmann wasn’t so much puzzled as questioning. “Doesn’t he already have your number?” She would have made a great detective, thought Sofia. Or interrogator. She could pick out the weak point in someone’s story from twenty yards away.
“Never hurts to check. I’m sure your husband gets given dozens of cards a week,” Aidan chipped in.
“If you call us we can wrap this up. You don’t want the LAPD, or anyone else, turning up on your doorstep out of the blue. Can give the neighbors the wrong impression,” said Sofia.
“The LAPD would show up to get a statement about some kids vandalizing billboards?” said Mrs. Kaufmann, always the skeptic. Yeah. She’d definitely be an asset to Maloney Investigations if the trophy-wife thing didn’t pan out. Although from the color of Nate’s face or, rather, the lack of it, it looked like she had her current gig firmly nailed down.
Sofia was counting on his wanting to avoid any further embarrassment to get a DNA sample from him. If he really had been careful and used protection when he’d slept with Candice, he should be in the clear. In every regard. Plus Sofia didn’t see any resemblance to Daniel in Nate’s face. The nose, eyes, lips, hairline, everything was different.
Nate studied the card before tucking it away in the back pocket of his slacks. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with this today.”
“Didn’t we have plans to play tennis with the Leesons later?” asked Mrs. Kaufmann.
“I’m sure it won’t take long, honey.”
“Not long at all,” said Aidan. “But don’t forget to call us. Okay?”
“Absolutely not.”
CHAPTER 22
A idan and Sofia waited at a donut shop on La Brea for Nate to arrive with his DNA sample. He had called less than ten minutes after they had left to his house to arrange a rendezvous. As Sofia had suspected, he was eager to rule himself out of their paternity investigation and get back to his life before Mrs. Kaufmann started asking any more questions.
While they were waiting for him, Sofia got some juice and Aidan ordered coffee. “Pretty slick back there,” Aidan said, when they had sat down with their drinks.
“Thanks,” said Sofia. “The power of improv.”
“The power of bullshit more like.”
“Improv. Bullshit. Same difference.”
“Anyway,” said Aidan, “we’re going to have to come up with some better cover stories ahead of time, if we’re going to keep turning up unannounced and surprising these guys. A few of the others on our list are married, and a few more are probably shacking up with someone. No point in us causing them unnecessary heartache unless we absolutely have to.”
Aidan was right. It was always better to prepare ahead than try to wing it. If she had to lie it was way better to have a story ready than make it up as she went along.
“So what do you think about Nate?” Sofia asked. “Is he our boy?”
Aidan stirred some half-and-half into his coffee. “Doubt it. Looks nothing like the kid. Sure he was nervous, but I’m guessing that was only because he had his other half standing there with him.”
“Yeah, that was kind of weird. Don’t you think? I mean, he would have been with Candice years ago. Long, long before he met his wife.”
Aidan shot Sofia one of the world-weary looks that always made her feel patronized. “Women always care. They might say they don’t. But they do.”
“I don’t. I couldn’t care less who a guy dated before me.”
Aidan folded his arms. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. It’s none of my business.”
“You’re lying to yourself.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re really telling me you’re totally comfortable with dating a guy when you know he’s slept with a ton of women before you?”
Okay, maybe she wasn’t. If she was being totally honest. But she didn’t like backing down in front of Aidan.
“Take your friend José,” said Aidan. “You weren’t dating him seriously. If you’d been dating him, or hoping for a relationship, your attitude would have changed. Plus if you don’t care about a man’s behavior why are you always busting my balls?”
“I do not bust your balls,” Sofia protested. “Me and your balls are two separate things.”
Aidan smirked. Sofia was digging herself a hole and she knew it.
“So, Nate,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “I don’t think he’s our man. I kind of believed him when he said he always wrapped up.”
Aidan nodded toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”
Nate had come into the café and was glancing around furtively. If Mrs. Kaufmann would have made a good cop, her husband would have made a terrible criminal. He just looked guilty. Aidan waved him over. Nate was carrying what looked like a man’s small black leather washbag.
He slid into the booth across from them, and slapped the leather washbag onto the table in front of Sofia. “Here you go. Sample,” said Nate, wiggling his eyebrows. “Go ahead, open it.”
Gingerly, Sofia picked up the bag and unzipped it. She pulled it open. “Eew,” she said, dropping the bag onto the table.
“What’s the problem?” said Nate. He looked injured by her reaction. “It’s in a cup. It’s not like you can get it on your hands or anything. I even put a dry ice pack in there too.”
Aidan reached over and picked up the bag. Sofia had to look away as he pulled out a small plastic lidded cup with about a half-inch of milky-white
fluid sitting in a pool at the bottom. “Dude,” said Aidan, “please tell me you didn’t just whack off into this cup.”
It was Nate’s turn to look injured. “You said you wanted a sample.”
Aidan massaged his temples with his fingertips. “It didn’t have to be a sperm sample. It could be some hair. A tiny piece of skin. A swab from the inside of your mouth. Anything that has your DNA. Don’t you watch, like, any crime shows on TV?”
“No, not really. The only time I watch TV is when the Lakers are playing and I can’t get to the game. Anyway, I thought this would be a better way of proving I’m not the kid’s father. Y’know, go right to the source.”
Aidan dropped the cup back into the washbag and zipped it up. He pushed away his freshly creamed coffee cup. “This’ll be great,” he told Nate.
* * *
AS THEY WALKED BACK OUTSIDE, Sofia asked, “How do we even know those are Nate’s little guys in that cup?”
The question had only occurred to her after Nate had dashed back out to go play tennis with his wife and their friends. The DNA test would be useful only if Nate’s swimmers were in the cup, not someone else’s.
Aidan didn’t seem overly troubled by her question. “Where’s he going to get some other guy’s sperm at short notice?”
Sofia wasn’t sure. “West Hollywood?”
“What? He drove to Boys Town, got some random dude to jerk off into a plastic cup, then came back to meet us with the sample.”
“It’s possible.”
“Don’t be absurd. That’s, like, a thirty-minute drive each way. Without traffic. He wouldn’t have had the time. You’re overthinking this, Salgado. But we should definitely factor in someone trying to use a ringer to throw us off the scent in future.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“We’ll have to insist on being there when they provide the sample.”
They both looked down at the washbag.
“Mouth swabs,” said Sofia.
“Definitely,” agreed Aidan.
Sofia reached her Tesla. “So who do we have next?”
“Closest guy is Dr. Tom Busch. He’s in Beverly Hills PO.”
The post office might not have been precisely in Beverly Hills but it had the zip code and some of the cachet. The residents of less upmarket parts of Los Angeles were constantly claiming PO status so they could bathe in the reflected glory of their more affluent neighbors.
“Dr. Thomas Busch?” said Sofia.
“With a c. Like the beer company.” Aidan smiled. “Want to ask me what he does?”
“Go on.”
“He’s a plastic surgeon.”
Sofia didn’t get why that was so funny to Aidan. Of course he was. He was a doctor based in Beverly Hills. At least half of the doctors in that part of town were plastic surgeons. If someone needed a tummy tuck or a boob job, they were in the best place in America to find a doctor to do it. If they had something seriously wrong, though, good luck.
“So what?” she asked
Aidan’s grin had gotten even wider. “Wanna know his specialty?”
“I’m guessing from your expression that it’s boobs.”
“Nope.” Aidan laughed. “He specializes in vaginoplasty. You know that’s when they make a woman’s―”
Sofia cut him off. “I know what a vaginoplasty is.” They’d become all the rage in the past ten years. Women who weren’t happy with their vajayjay could get it tightened, molded and sculpted to be more aesthetically pleasing.
“Dr. Busch. Vaginoplasty.” Aidan looked up at the clear blue sky. “Don’t you just love this town?”
CHAPTER 23
When they arrived at his office on Wilshire Boulevard, Dr. Busch’s receptionist asked them to take a seat. Thankfully, apart from them, the waiting area was empty. Aidan leaned over and picked up a black three-ring binder lying next to the magazines on the coffee-table in the middle of the room. He flipped it open, took a quick look, paled and put it back on the table.
Her curiosity well and truly piqued, Sofia picked it up. Aidan refused to make eye contact, and grabbed a copy of Vogue. It took him a moment to realize what he was reading. He put it back down and dug out a lone copy of Sports Illustrated from the magazine pile.
Meanwhile Sofia flicked through a smorgasbord of before and after vajayjay shots. With a couple of the before shots she had to turn the binder sideways to make sure she was seeing the correct angle. Holy guacamole. Not that hers was picture perfect, but some of these ladies really had needed the services of Dr. Busch’s skilled hands. One before picture looked like a lasagna with a hole punched in the middle. The after shot made the same lady garden look like a lush orchid. All perfectly curved petals and neat edges. Okay, there may have been some soft lighting and Photoshopping involved, but the man was still a freaking miracle worker. The Leonardo da Vinci of vaginas. Sofia had walked in completely skeptical and halfway through the folder she had experienced something akin to a religious conversion. St. Paul on the road to vajayjay heaven. She wondered if women who’d had the full Busch treatment actually walked out of his office or whether they floated on a pink cotton-candy cloud.
Sofia passed the open binder to Aidan. “Check it out. Amazing.”
He pushed it away without looking. “Do you mind? I’m reading Sports Illustrated.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I was just trying to broaden your horizons.”
“Believe me, you’ve seen one broad’s horizon, you’ve seen them all.”
“You’d think, right?” Sofia flicked forward a few pages. “But check this out,” she said, trying again to hand him the binder.
He shoved it away so hard that it fell to the floor.
The consultation door opened and a short, bald man with a mustache walked out. “Ms. Salgado?” he said.
This had to be Dr. Busch. He didn’t look at all like she’d imagined a man of his talents would. She’d have guessed Italian, with flowing hair and a rippling chest, a bit like Fabio in his prime. This was definitely not Fabio. Though she noticed that he did have nice hands. Long fingers, neatly manicured and well moisturized. She also noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which, given their last visit, had to make their job easier.
Maybe, thought Sofia, if you spent so much time delving around a woman’s most intimate parts it kind of put you off dating. Plus, a lot of plastic surgeons were perfectionists, and even pickier about the opposite sex than Aidan, which was saying something. One of Sofia’s girlfriends had dated a plastic surgeon and he’d spent most of their time together suggesting various procedures she could have to improve on what God had given her. It had been kind of creepy, especially as her friend was already stunning.
Both Sofia and Aidan got up. Dr. Busch walked across to greet them. “Don’t worry, I deal with a lot of celebrity clients,” he said to Sofia. “Discretion is our watchword.”
“Ours too,” said Aidan. “Shall we talk in your office?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Busch. “Follow me.”
His consulting room looked much like any other, with medical books, journals and framed certificates. There was a desk with three chairs for patients, and, in one corner, an examination table, complete with stirrups.
“What the hell is that thing?” whispered Aidan. The penny dropped before Sofia could explain. “Oh, yeah, right.”
“Maybe I should have taken this one on my own,” she whispered back.
“No way would I leave you alone with a freak like him.”
That was like a tender admission of love from another man.
“Wow,” she whispered back. “You care.”
“Please, take a seat,” said Dr. Busch, waving a hand at the chairs opposite his. “It’s always nice when someone involves their partner in the process. Though, of course, I’m always very keen that the person undergoing the procedure should be front and center when it comes to the decision-making.”
No kidding. So was Sofia. It would be just like a guy to try to pic
k out the car he would take for occasional weekend spins and leave the woman to use it for commuting Monday to Friday, deal with the servicing and any oil leaks.
“I’m not here to get work done, Dr. Busch,” said Sofia. “Though if I ever consider any adjustments in that area, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.”
“We’re from Maloney Investigations, a private-investigation firm in Malibu,” said Aidan. “We’ve been retained by Candice Collins to find the father of her son.”
“Candice has a son?” said Dr. Busch, completely unfazed by the sudden change of subject.
At least they were past the first possible roadblock. He hadn’t denied any knowledge of Candice. In fact, so far, he seemed relatively relaxed about the whole thing.
“Yes,” said Sofia. “Daniel. He’s thirteen.”
“Candice told us you would have known her around the time he was conceived,” said Aidan.
Dr Busch’s mustache twitched. “Let me see. Yes, that sounds about right. Candice was an incredible woman. The most perfect labia I’d ever seen. Of course, I’ve reconstructed some that one could argue were most aesthetically pleasing, but hers in its natural state was simply joyous. Perfectly symmetrical. Which is a lot rarer than you might think.”
“I’m sure,” said Aidan, shifting in his seat.
“Sorry, I tend to go on a bit too much about my work. I have a habit of waxing lyrical about certain aspects. But, yes, labia like hers might come along once in a lifetime.”
Those labia had come along in a lot of people’s lifetimes.
“No kidding,” muttered Aidan.
Dr. Busch scowled at him. “I hope you’re not someone who finds humor in what I do, Mr. Maloney. I may not work at the fashionable end of the human form, but my procedures have utterly transformed the lives of thousands of women. Given them new-found confidence. Restored their self-esteem. Lifted a weight from their shoulders, psychologically speaking.”
Sofia spoke before Aidan could say anything else to upset Dr. Busch: “I’m no expert, but from looking at the examples in that binder out there, I totally believe it. I’d say you’re more an artist than a doctor.”