Devil in Dress Blues

by Karen Foley

  Sara turned the pages until she reached the next weekend, and read the entry for Friday night.

  W.W.—Dominant alpha. Likes bondage and rough play. Bring blindfold and silk stockings.

  She raised her eyebrows and moved to the next entry.

  P.D.—$$$$. Only Four Seasons Hotel. Champagne and caviar. Red-carpet gown with open-toed stilettos. Craves attention/pampering/full-body massages. Foot fetish. Likes doggy-style.

  And so it went, entry after entry, weekend after weekend for several consecutive months. Sara returned to the date of the car accident and read the entry once more. Thinking back on what she had witnessed in the car in the moments before the crash, she realized the notation regarding E.Z’s preferences was accurate in every detail, right down to Colette’s red lipstick. Stunned by the implications of what the little book contained, Sara sat back against the seat and stared blindly through the windshield. No wonder Colette—if that was even her real name—hadn’t wanted Sara to know her true address. The law tended to frown upon women who provided sexual services for money, especially when those services were rendered to one of the most powerful men in Washington.

  Opening the book again, Sara studied the initials of Colette’s other appointments and wondered how many of them were also political powerhouses. The journalist in her shifted restlessly, wanting answers. Wanting to know everything. Did Colette work alone, or was she part of a bigger operation? Had she realized that her planner was missing, and if she did, how badly did she want it back? She must be a little frantic at the thought of it gone. Even now, the reporter in Sara considered the possibilities of pursuing the information, of exposing not only Edwin Zachary, but the other clients in the little book as well.

  Breaking this story would certainly guarantee that her name would become nationally known, but suddenly the prospect of being that journalist had her heart beating faster. While she’d dreamed of one day uncovering a story of this magnitude, she’d never actually considered the human element behind the headlines. Sex scandals weren’t uncommon in Washington, but something like this could destroy a lot of people. Could she accept that kind of responsibility? Did she really want her name connected with that kind of notoriety?

  On the other hand, a story like this one could be her ticket to her own byline on any number of major publications. This was the kind of lead that could make her career.

  With a small groan of frustration, Sara was about to close the book when she glimpsed handwriting on the inside of the back cover. Peering closer, she realized it was a telephone number, although she didn’t recognize the area code. She doubted that Colette would leave her own telephone number in the book, but what if by some chance the number did belong to her? Retrieving her cell phone, she quickly dialed the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

  “This is Juliet.” Her voice was low and cultured.

  “Hello,” Sara responded, her heart beating fast. “I’m looking for Colette.”

  There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “My name is Sara Sinclair. I met Colette last night.”

  “Really?” The voice sounded amused. “And what makes you think that I know your friend, or her whereabouts?”

  “Well,” Sara explained, “your number is written in the back of this little black book that she left in my car. I don’t know Colette, but I gave her a ride home last night, after she and Edwin Zachary were involved in a car crash. You recognize that name, I’m sure. I can’t help but think that Colette might want this particular book back, since it lists her appointments for the next several months. In great detail, I might add. You wouldn’t believe what she wrote about Mr. Zachary. Shocking, really.”

  There was another brief silence and this time, when Juliet responded, her voice was chilling. “I want you to listen carefully, Miss Sinclair. I recommend you burn that book and forget you ever met anyone named Colette. Now be a good girl and hang up the phone right now, and don’t call this number again. I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  Her words caused goose bumps to rise up on Sara’s arms, and there was a part of her that was more than tempted to do as the woman directed. She was in over her head.

  “Who are you?” she finally asked. “And what are you involved in?”

  There were several seconds of silence, when Sara thought the other woman might actually hang up on her. “Who I am isn’t important,” she finally said. “What is important is that you destroy that book and forget whatever you saw written inside.”

  Sara’s glance flicked to the book. She recalled the incident with Edwin Zachary. There was no way she could ever forget what had happened, or how he had tried to bribe her into silence. She might not be an investigative reporter, but every instinct told her she needed to pursue this. Lauren would never forgive her if this story ended up on the evening news courtesy of another reporter. As distasteful as she might personally find the situation, and as much as she might want to take Juliet’s advice and hang up the phone, the journalist in her couldn’t do it.

  “The thing I find most interesting,” she mused, as if the other woman hadn’t spoken, “is that Colette used initials to identify each of her…appointments. I’m pretty sure that I could figure out whose initials they are. By the way, did I mention that I’m a feature writer for American Man magazine?”

  There was another silence, longer this time. “I can meet you Tuesday afternoon,” Juliet finally responded.

  Sara quickly checked her calendar and realized that she’d already agreed to meet with Rafe Delgado on Tuesday afternoon at three o’clock.

  “I’m free for lunch on Tuesday, if that works for you,” she countered. “How about one o’clock at the Pavilion Cafe? It’s located at the west entrance of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.”

  “I know where it is. Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule and won’t have time for lunch. I can meet you at two o’clock, but I can’t stay long.”

  Sara breathed a sigh of relief. At least her meeting with Juliet wouldn’t conflict with the time she’d already allotted for her interview with Rafe Delgado.

  “That would be fine.” She paused uncertainly. “How will I recognize you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Juliet said drily. “I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding you. I’ll just look for the woman who looks especially…hungry.”

  As Sara ended the call, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a fatal mistake.

  3

  SARA ARRIVED AT THE CAFÉ thirty minutes early on Tuesday afternoon, still trying to convince herself that she didn’t feel the tiniest bit paranoid or nervous about meeting the mysterious Juliet. She chose an outdoor table where she had a clear view of the walking paths that meandered through the gardens and an easy escape route over the decorative chain that separated the tables from the passersby, if required. She told herself that she was being overly imaginative, but if Juliet really was involved in something illegal, there was no telling what she might be capable of, especially if she considered Sara to be a threat.

  The afternoon was clear and cool, scented with the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the café. Sara ordered a steaming mug of hot chocolate and sipped it as she watched the people walking past on the sidewalk. A gust of wind rustled through the small trees along the nearest path, catching a handful of golden leaves and swirling them along the ground. Sara’s gaze followed them, until her attention was arrested by a man standing beside the nearest garden. He was leaning against a decorative lamppost and was studying what looked to be a Washington, D.C., guide book, but Sara had the distinct impression that he was watching her from behind his dark glasses.

  Unsettled, she picked up the menu and pretended to be absorbed in reading it, feeling conspicuously alone despite the comfortable buzz of people all around.

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  Sara looked up and saw a woman standing by her table. She was older than Sara,
probably in her mid fifties, but was one of the most elegant women that she had ever seen, with sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail, and exotic dark eyes. She oozed wealth, wearing boots and a pair of fine woolen slacks, and a leather coat that looked buttery soft.

  “Yes, I’m Sara,” she said, rising to her feet to take the other woman’s extended hand. “Please, sit down.”

  When Juliet had ordered a cup of coffee, she turned to look at Sara with a shrewd, assessing gaze. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

  “And you’re older.”

  A smile touched the other woman’s lips. “Touché. But age is no deterrent to a youthful spirit.” She glanced at her watch, an expensive piece of jewelry that glinted with what looked like real diamonds. “Shall we cut to the chase? I have a plane to catch this afternoon and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Of course.” Withdrawing the small black book from her purse, Sara laid it on the table, but kept one hand on the cover. “This is the book that Colette left in my car, after she was involved in a car accident with Edwin Zachary. It contains detailed descriptions of Colette’s appointments. Salacious descriptions.”

  Juliet’s eyes gleamed. “Were you also involved in the car crash?”

  Sara shook her head, watching Juliet closely. The other woman didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the fact that Colette’s book contained potentially damaging information. “No, I wasn’t involved. I was driving behind them and let’s just say there was a reason why Mr. Zachary was unable to concentrate on his driving,” Sara said drily. “Considering what Colette was doing to him, it’s a miracle neither of them were killed.”

  Juliet didn’t look surprised or shocked. Instead, a knowing smile curved her lips. “I can only imagine.”

  Sara picked the book up and as Juliet sipped her coffee, opened it and began to thumb through the pages. “No, I don’t think you understand. Here, let me read a sample entry to you.”

  She flicked her gaze to the other woman’s face. Juliet looked patiently composed, but Sara didn’t miss how her hands curled tightly around her mug. She gently cleared her throat and began to read.

  “‘T.F.—Prefers group activities with toys, likes to watch g-g action.’” She slid Juliet a blandly innocent look. “I assume that means girl-girl action.”

  Juliet briefly raised one hand from her mug. “That’s very nice. I’ve heard enough.”

  “Wait, there’s more. ‘Sometimes brings a friend to watch.’” She turned to the next day and quickly scanned the entry. “Oh, this is a good one. It involves food items. I wonder who L.P. is? Hey…isn’t there a cabinet member named Lawrence Palmer? Of course, he’s pretty old, but you never know…”

  “Okay, stop.” Juliet leaned across the table, and although her smile never wavered, her dark eyes glittered dangerously. “I don’t need to hear anymore.”

  “Why is your number written in the back of this book?” Sara glanced around to ensure they couldn’t be overheard, and lowered her voice. “Are you running a sex ring?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what is your connection to Colette? You can’t deny that you know her.”

  “Colette does work for me,” the other woman acknowledged, “but it’s not what you think.”

  “Then explain it to me, please, because from where I’m sitting, it certainly looks like she was selling her services.”

  Juliet sighed and then sat back in her chair to consider Sara for a moment. “I run a business that caters to an exclusive clientele, men who are willing to pay outrageous sums of money to have their fantasies come true.”

  Sara raised her eyebrows. “Sexual fantasies?”

  Juliet gave a dismissive wave of her fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be illegal. We sell fantasies, but our services only include role-playing. Our clients pay a fee for us to create a realistic illusion of romance or seduction, but the girls are expressly prohibited from having sex with the clients.” She shrugged. “And if they do, it’s strictly consensual and has nothing to do with the business arrangement.”

  “What’s the name of this fantasy-come-true business?” Sara asked drily.

  “I called it the Glass Slipper Club,” Juliet replied. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Sara smiled faintly, recalling Colette’s observation that she had resembled Cinderella running from the ball on the night of the car crash. “You’re speaking in the past tense.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve wanted to travel for some time now, and I’ve decided to put the fantasy-come-true business behind me.” She gave Sara a meaningful look. “It’s not worth ruining my life for.”

  Sara looked at the other woman, noting the fine webbing of lines around her dark eyes. While there was no question that Juliet was still a beautiful woman, she wasn’t getting any younger. Despite her composure, there also seemed to be a vulnerability to her, as if she’d been through some tough times. Did she really want to publicize a story that could destroy her life? Who was Sara to pass judgment on what occurred between consenting adults?

  She sighed deeply and passed a hand over her eyes, undecided. After a moment, she pushed the little black book across the table toward Juliet. “Look, why don’t you take this?”

  Juliet’s eyebrows lifted, and Sara thought she saw grudging admiration in their dark depths. “Really? Why would you want me to have it? After all, you could have some of the most powerful men in Washington eating out of your hand with the information this book contains.”

  Sara gave a self-deprecating smile. “Let’s just say that I’m not as hungry as you believed me to be.” She gave the book a small nudge. “Please. Take it.”

  To her astonishment, Juliet pushed back from the table with both hands raised. “Oh, no. Thank you very much, but as I said, I’m putting the fantasy-come-true business behind me.”

  Sara frowned. “Because of me?”

  Juliet laughed. “Goodness, no.” She sobered. “I have people much scarier than you to worry about. People who tap my phone and watch my townhouse from the comfort of their big, black sedans.”

  Sara felt a frisson of alarm shoot through her and she was helpless to prevent herself from glancing over to the spot where she had seen the stranger. He was still there, but now he was talking on his cell phone and looking out over the gardens. Had she imagined him watching her? Was he just another tourist, or did he have a more sinister reason for lingering near the café?

  “Who do you think is watching you?” she finally asked, dragging her gaze away from the man.

  Juliet shrugged. “The Feds, most likely.” Sara watched as she opened her pocketbook and reached inside. “Which means it’s time I put the Glass Slipper Club behind me and move on with my life. But you’re involved, now, whether you want to be or not.”

  Sara gave an astonished laugh. “I’m not involved with anything, trust me.” She picked up the planner and thrust it toward the other woman. “And if you’ll just take this back, I’m going to pretend none of this ever happened.”

  But Juliet refused to touch the book. “Darling, you became involved the moment you called my number. Even if you hadn’t provided your name, the people who are monitoring my phone will have traced the call back to you.” She gave Sara a sympathetic smile. “Trust me—you’re involved. As for that book, I really don’t want it, and since it’s unlikely I’ll ever see or hear from Colette again, there’s really no point in giving it to me.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late and I have a plane to catch.”

  She rose to her feet and Sara did the same. “Where will you go? And what should I do with the book?”

  “Personally, I’d love to see the contents of that book printed on the front page of the Washington Post, but that’s just me.” Seeing Sara’s expression, Juliet gave a small laugh that had a bitter edge to it. “Don’t look so scandalized. Why shouldn’t the men involved bear some of the censure? History has shown that it’s never them who suffer when their indiscretions are exp
osed, it’s the women.” She drew in a deep breath. “As for where I’ll go? Someplace far, far from here. I’m sure you recall what happened to the last madam who threatened to expose the names of her clients. Well, that’s not going to be me. I’ve no intention of being found hanging in some backyard shed.”

  Juliet reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a set of keys, but they slipped through her fingers and dropped onto the flagstoned terrace. Sara bent to retrieve them in the same instant that Juliet also crouched down, and as she reached for the keys, the other woman thrust something into her hand.

  “Take this and put it somewhere safe,” she whispered fiercely. “A safety deposit box, perhaps.”

  Sara opened her fingers to see a small computer memory stick in her palm. She frowned. “What is this?”

  Juliet smiled and picked up her keys. “Consider it a form of insurance.”

  “Insurance for what?”

  Standing up, Juliet pulled her purse over one shoulder, watching as Sara pushed to her feet. “For your life, my dear.” Without another word, she turned and made her way across the crowded terrace and disappeared through the front exit of the café.

  Slowly, Sara sat down at the table and considered the memory stick. What secrets did the small device hold, and why did Juliet want to share them with her? She considered Juliet’s claim that the Feds were watching her. Were they now watching Sara?

  Involuntarily, her gaze slid back to the man in the sunglasses. The late-afternoon sun had dipped just low enough to slip beneath the edge of the patio umbrella, and Sara had to shield her eyes to see where he stood. He was still there, but he’d been joined by a woman and a little girl. Even as Sara watched, he lifted the child into his arms, wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and walked away, following the graveled path deeper into the gardens.

  Sara gave a huff of laughter, feeling a little foolish over her earlier suspicions of being watched. She was letting Juliet’s flair for the dramatic get the better of her. There was nobody watching her. Her life was in no danger. Leaning over, Sara opened her handbag and tucked the memory stick into a small, zippered side pocket where it wouldn’t get damaged or lost. She’d take a look at it later, when she got back to her apartment.