by Ray, Lexie
“Make sure you document everything he did to you,” Fitch said. “If you decide to press charges a week from now, you’ll want proof.”
“Believe me,” I said, eyeing my arms. “This is still going to be here in a week.”
Fitch let out his breath. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “And I kind of regret giving you Marlowe’s number.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Fitch said. “Marlowe’s a hard man. He’s seen a lot and done even more. I can’t say that he’s incredibly friendly, either.”
“I don’t need someone to hold my hand,” I said. “I need someone who’ll help me get results.”
“Then Marlowe’s your man,” Fitch said. “Be careful. Call me about those charges.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said. “Thanks for everything. You are, as always, a life saver.”
“I sure hope so.”
I ended the call and used my cell phone camera to take several pictures of my arms. If they looked even worse tomorrow, I’d photograph that, too. I was slowly building my arsenal of evidence against the Paxton’s and I hoped that this Tyler Marlowe was going to help me start putting nails in their coffins.
I called the number Fitch had given me and let it ring. It went to voicemail.
“This is Tyler Marlowe,” a deep voice recited. There wasn’t an ounce of emotion in it. “I am unable to take your call at this moment. Leave your name, number, and briefly state your business. I will reach you.”
Something about that last statement gave me pause. “I will reach you.” It sounded vaguely threatening. A beep sounded in my ear and I jumped, forgetting myself and what I was doing.
“Mr. Marlowe,” I began, “my name is Shonda Crosby. I was given your number by a mutual friend. He told me that you were a private investigator, and I’d like to hire you for your help in resolving a matter that is of great importance to me.”
I recited my cell phone number twice, slower the second time, even though I knew that the man’s phone would probably record it.
I waited about five minutes, but there weren’t any return calls. Instead, I called Jasmine.
“What’s going on, Shimmy?” she asked, picking up after the first ring. She was my biggest ally in all this, always making time for me. I really appreciated her.
“I was wondering about getting a lawyer,” I said.
“What for?”
“I guess you can say I’m engaged in a custody battle with the father of my child,” I said. Battle would be an understatement in this case.
“It just so happens that you’re in luck,” Jasmine said brightly. “We have partnerships with several firms around the city, and they all guarantee pro bono work with any of the clients of Sisters Together.”
“Pro bono?”
“Free of charge.”
“I can pay for it,” I protested, but Jasmine clucked at me.
“Accept help where you can get it,” she said. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll swing by your office after I run by the boutique.”
“You want to call it three?”
“Perfect.”
I climbed into the shower and turned the spray on as hot as it would go. After I’d gotten home yesterday, I’d done a lot of crying and a lot of thinking. I’d stayed up until the wee hours going over my options, and I was now sure that I had set the right plans in motion.
If the Paxton’s thought I was going to let them just have my son without a fight, they had another thing coming. I was going to leap into this fray with guns blazing. I just had to set up all my bullets.
I felt refreshed after the shower, and dried myself off with a fluffy towel, taking care around my upper arms. It was hard to raise my hands above my head, and I knew I’d be sore for days.
I put a button down shirt on, reminding myself that I couldn’t wear anything that would expose my bruises, and a pencil skirt before slipping into low pumps. I’d always had the ability to walk wherever in whatever shoes. My apartment wasn’t terribly far from the boutique, so I liked to walk the distance any time I left early enough to do so. And these pumps were some of my most comfortable.
I went minimal with my makeup, just sweeping on mascara and a layer of red lipstick, and I was out the door.
It wasn’t until I checked my phone about halfway to the boutique that I realized I’d missed a call.
“Ms. Crosby,” the deep voice said, “this is Tyler Marlowe. I don’t talk business on the phone, so we’ll have to meet in person. If this is as important to you as you say it is, you’ll find a way to be at the Braxton Speakeasy at 8 o’clock tonight.”
That was it. I replayed the message to make sure I didn’t miss anything. He was a curt son of a bitch, that much was certain, but it also brought me a little comfort. This Tyler Marlowe sounded like he was all business, and that was all I needed.
I couldn’t ask for better business at the boutique. Whether they’d read about it from the newspaper write-up or simply stumbled upon it while shopping, the customers kept coming in. I tried to help as many personally as I could, feeling like it gave the boutique a more intimate touch. I also like to see what different customers enjoyed the best out of the fashion I had in stock. I felt a little bit like a curator at a museum might feel. I was procuring the pieces that I thought would be most interesting, and my customers let me know through what they bought—or didn’t buy—how close to the mark I fell.
Working was a lovely distraction, and business was so good that I was considering hiring someone to help me with sales and inventories. I’d ask Jasmine if there were any Sisters Together clients who needed work once I went to the office to meet with the lawyer.
I closed the shop early, wincing at the sales I might get later in the afternoon. That’s why I needed another person to work with me, I told myself. I couldn’t do every single thing by myself. And I had a plan that might require me to be out of the shop for long periods of time. Yes, hiring one or two girls—or the right men—would have to become a priority.
In fact, the boutique was doing so well that I’d started considering expanding, or opening another branch of the boutique in another area of town. The thought made my eyes cross, though, so I knew that it was a long way down the road for me.
One quick cab ride later, I was sitting at a table across from Jasmine and a suit I could only assume was a lawyer.
“Shimmy, this is Charles Bloom,” Jasmine said, holding her hand out. “Mr. Bloom, this is Shonda Crosby.”
“Shimmy, please, Mr. Bloom,” I said.
“Then I must insist you call me Chuck,” he said, smiling. His grin was as shiny as his bald, white head.
“Chuck,” I tried, then smiled back. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “How about you tell me what’s going on.”
I wasn’t sure how forthcoming to be with this man about my situation, but Jasmine put all my suspicions to rest.
“Because Mr. Bloom is an attorney, anything you say to him is private,” she explained.
“Client-attorney privilege,” Chuck put in. “So don’t hold back.”
“Okay,” I said. “The father of my baby threatened my life yesterday and assaulted me. He is also keeping me from seeing my son. I also suspect that his family is doing something illegal. There were lots of boxes in their house, and a security camera outside that wasn’t there the last time I was there. In one of the boxes was a white powdery residue that I came to understand was cocaine. My son had access to this room with the boxes.”
Chuck and Jasmine stared at me.
“I thought this was just a custody case,” he said.
“It is,” I insisted. “The father of my child and his family are keeping me from my son. I’m trying to give you some weapons to use against them in court. Everything I’ve done has been to try to be reunited with my son. I gave him up with the understanding that once my life was in a good place,
I’d have the chance to take him back.”
Chuck let out a long breath and tapped his pen on a clean pad of paper.
“It’s hard to establish which parent is more fit to raise a child,” he said.
“His father is violent and likely doing something wrong,” I said, incredulous. “That should be all there is to it.”
Chuck shook his head. “We need proof,” he said. “Until then, it’s your word against his. A big part of proving your fitness as a parent is touting what you bring to the table, not detracting from the father of the child.”
I bit my lip. “I own my own business,” I said. “I’m—I’m thinking about opening a second location.”
“Shimmy!” Jasmine exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”
“And what are your potential detractions?” Chuck asked, not pausing in his staccato rapping of the pen against the pad. He still hadn’t written anything down.
I swallowed. “It was a teen pregnancy,” I said. “I don’t have any family to help support me. I was a prostitute in a nightclub that was raided by the NYPD.”
Chuck looked grim. “Can we go over the positives of the father’s family, just as an exercise?”
“They have a lot of money,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “And they’ve raised him these past four years. He—he seemed healthy when I saw him yesterday. And happy, I suppose. He didn’t know who I was.”
I felt like shit. I felt like it was four years ago again, and I wasn’t good enough to raise my son. Things had to be different now.
“Let me tell you something,” Chuck said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. “You’re the mother of that child, and no one can take that from you. Judges are very, very sympathetic to mothers in cases like these. You deserve to see your son again. Anybody can see that. It’s just not going to be as easy as I think you think it should be.”
“You should press charges against Ben,” Jasmine piped up.
“That’s a possibility,” Chuck agreed. “Cast some doubt on him.”
“Not an option,” I said. “I’m afraid of what he’d do. I’m afraid they’d disappear with my son.”
“Paxton’s can’t just disappear,” Chuck said, laughing. “They like the limelight too much. Which is why I just can’t figure out how you found cocaine in their house. Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true,” I said. “I wouldn’t like about something like this. It was part of a package in an open box within reach of my child. If he’d pulled down those boxes, or gotten a hold of what was inside of them …”
I shuddered violently as I trailed off, unable to think of the nightmarish possibilities.
“Here’s what I can do,” Chuck said. “I can get Child Protective Services over there—with a police escort—to check the place out. We can let that act as a preliminary inquiry into the parental fitness issue you have with the father.”
“Good,” I said, determined to stay positive. “I think that’ll be a good first step.”
“The wheels are rolling, Shimmy,” Jasmine said, smiling at me. “Things are going to get better.”
“I hope so,” I said, looking forward to the next meeting of the day.
I did a little shopping and had a light dinner out. I took a cab to the Braxton Speakeasy, a pub that ended up being fairly near my apartment. I was surprised that I’d never seen it before, but it was little more than a hole in the wall. I was usually too busy to go on too many strolls, and I rarely set out with the end goal being a bar. There were many reasons why I’d never stumbled upon the Braxton Speakeasy, but perhaps it was because my life was waiting until the right moment for me to get here. Something about it felt fateful, like Tyler Marlowe was going to actually achieve something for me.
I checked my phone. No missed calls, and five till eight. I decided to go inside anyways. I felt like I could use a drink.
I ordered a glass of red wine and sidled up to the bar, discreetly observing my fellow patrons. How was I supposed to know which one was Tyler Marlowe? I thought of all the private detective stereotypes I knew. Maybe he’d be carrying an enormous magnifying glass, or maybe he’d be in a khaki trench coat and matching fedora.
I wasn’t prepared for what Tyler Marlowe actually was, and that was incredibly sexy.
I knew he was who I was looking for the moment I laid eyes on him. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt, but he dressed it up impeccably with his neatly groomed appearance. He was clean-shaven with dusty blond hair trimmed to a near buzz cut. His blue eyes shone in the dim light, but I couldn’t guess what emotion they might be conveying. I couldn’t keep my eyes off his obvious muscles. They bulged from his T-shirt and his dark jeans.
And he was staring at me.
I checked my phone. Eight o’clock sharp. Carrying my glass of wine, I approached him.
“Tyler Marlowe?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Mistake number one, Ms. Crosby,” he said, not taking his eyes off mine. “Never ask a person who they are. If you don’t know, they could be anyone. What if I were a serial killer who decided to be whoever you were looking for? I’d let you chat for a while, figuring out what it was that you needed, and then I’d take utter advantage of you. Maybe I’d be cheeky about it—dinner and drinks first—but then I’d tell you that we needed to meet at my private office. You’d leave with me, and I’d have my way with you. Game over, Ms. Crosby.”
I cocked my head at the man’s monologue. There was some truth in what he was saying, maybe, but that’s not how I’d want to introduce myself to a person.
“Mr. Marlowe, I presume,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you regardless.”
“Follow me,” he said, standing and turning brusquely and walking over to a more secluded table in the bar. When we were seated, I could see that while we had a perfect view of the entire bar, there were very few people who even noticed us.
“Best seat in the house,” he said.
“Oh?” I asked. “Is this where you’re going to have your way with me?”
He laughed shortly. “No, unless you ask me to,” he said. “I have a weakness for pretty women.”
“If old Hollywood movies are any indication, that’s a fatal flaw in your line of work,” I warned, waggling my finger in mock disapproval.
“We’ll see how fatal we are, Ms. Crosby,” he said.
“Please. Call me Shimmy.”
He looked me up and down. “Ms. Crosby, you may call me Tyler, if you like. But I find that it’s best to maintain the most possible professional distance as possible. It will help us both focus on your case.”
Professional distance? The man had just told me that he’d have his way with me if I asked him. What game was he playing at?
“Mr. Marlowe, I completely agree,” I said. “Let’s stick to our professional distance.”
Even as I said that, I noticed how deliciously tan his skin was, as if he spent every available moment under the sun. I wondered if he was tan everywhere and blushed.
“Very good,” he said. “Now. Tell me about your case.”
I briefly explained to him about the Paxton’s and my son, the threatening and the issue of custody, the way that Ben had changed and the boxes and security camera.
“I don’t want to press charges,” I said. “I want to handle this as discreetly as possible. I’m trying to gather evidence here to get my baby back. Do you think this is something you can take care of?”
One side of Tyler’s mouth quirked up in a half smile.
“Take care of?” he repeated. “Ms. Crosby, this is right up my alley. One question: Who gave you my number?”
“NYPD,” I said. “Officer Fitch.” I hoped Fitch didn’t mind that I told.
“Ah,” he said shortly. “I worked with Fitch on a couple of cases back when I was still in the FBI.”
“Why did you leave the FBI?” I asked, curious, but he shook his head.
“Professional distance, Ms. Crosby,” he said.
Even the way he insist
ed on calling me “Ms. Crosby” felt like flirtatious teasing. It somehow frustrated me that he was holding me at arm’s length.
“I have to admit that I’m worried about the changes in Ben Paxton,” I said. “He used to be strong and caring. Now he’s strong … and unfeeling. When he told me that he’d kill me if he saw me at the house again …”
“You thought he meant it,” Tyler finished for me. “Tell me. Do the Paxton’s know where your new apartment is?”
“No.”
“That you know of.”
That gave me a chill. “No, not that I know of,” I said. “Would it be possible that they would know?”
Tyler shrugged. “If it’s public record or even something that could be discovered as easily as following you home one night, it’s possible.”
I shivered again, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Ms. Crosby.”
I lifted my eyes to meet his blue ones, which were shimmering again with an emotion I couldn’t place.
“This is why you hired me,” he said. “I’m sorry that I’m asking some difficult questions and forcing you to think about difficult things. I just want you to be as prepared as possible.”
“I think I need another drink,” I said, tapping my empty wine glass.
Tyler raised a finger and a server was there immediately.
“A red wine for the lady,” Tyler said. “Club soda for me.”
“You don’t drink?” I asked.
“Not when I’m on the job,” he said. “I don’t like to dull the senses.”
“All I want to do right now is dull the senses,” I said, taking a few big gulps of my wine. “Do you have any children, Mr. Marlowe?”
He only answered with a tight little smile, one that made him look pretentious and cocky and utterly desirable.
“Oh,” I said, returning the smile as best I could. “Professional distance.”
“Now you’re learning,” he said. “Are there any other details that you could tell me that might help? Even if you don’t think they’re of any consequence. You never know.”