White Offerings

by Roberts, Ann

  4:13 PM

  When Ari returned to her office, Biz Stone was waiting in the reception area talking on her cell phone. Their eyes met, Biz said good-bye, and she followed Ari to her office. “I want to take a look at your computer.”

  “I thought you said it was untraceable.”

  “It probably is, but it doesn’t hurt to try. There’s a function on your computer called Restore, and I might be able to find where the e-mail originated, but if this woman’s smart, she’s used a proxy server, and I’ll hit a dead end. Then I want to show you some stuff I dug up on Courtney Belmont and Isabel.”

  “There’s also another suspect,” Ari said, thinking of Teri.

  Biz halted and put her hands on her hips. “Another one?”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Her name is Teri Wyatt. She does remodeling for Jane, but she doesn’t have a strong motive. She rejected Jane already, but she’s connected to Cavanaugh Flowers.”

  “You mean the place we went to the other day?”

  Ari nodded, and Biz shook her head in exasperation. She dropped into Ari’s desk chair and pulled up her e-mail. Ari watched her click on several different screens that she either didn’t know existed or never bothered to access. She knew how to create and delete messages and that was enough for her. After fifteen minutes of poking around, Biz leaned back in the chair, shaking her head. “I’d say this is definitely a dead end. I can’t figure out where it came from. And your antivirus software isn’t giving any clues either. I could have H.D. come over and take a look at it, but he told me it could take weeks to track down the proxy server. At any rate, you definitely need to install some anti-spyware software. I’m worried about keystroke loggers.”

  Ari’s mind drifted to Biz’s Web site, but a glance at her intense expression as she studied the screen gave Ari comfort. She couldn’t imagine that Biz was staging a performance now, and her flirtations made it even less likely that she was the stalker.

  “I don’t think we have weeks. I think the stalker will reveal herself soon. She’s getting impatient, and it’s obvious that she’s capable of violence.”

  “Let me show you what I’ve got.” Biz grabbed her messenger bag and moved to the couch. She set two folders on the coffee table, one labeled Isabel Collins and the other Courtney Belmont. “Like I told you on the phone, Isabel is a prime suspect, but I’m not sure how Courtney figures into all of this.” She picked up Isabel’s file and withdrew several news clippings and some surveillance photos. “These clippings are articles about flower shows. She’s won a lot of different awards in various categories, including orchids, and she’s a respected horticulturalist. She even created a flower that I can’t pronounce.” All of the articles announced Isabel Collins as the winner of several prizes and praised her for her talent. “She lives in a gated community over in North Scottsdale,” she said. “Her routine on most days is rather usual, except for yesterday. She didn’t go to work. I called just to see if she was there, and when I found out she wasn’t, I headed over to her place and waited. The security guard and I are becoming buddies, and she was quite helpful.”

  “She?” Ari teased.

  Biz colored and she wouldn’t look at Ari. “It’s all in the line of duty. Anyway, when her cute little red sports car finally passed through the gates, I followed her for a few hours. Her first stop was a pawn shop on McDowell. She was in there for about forty minutes and left carrying a small bag.”

  Ari’s eyes shot up from the photo she was holding. “Was it large enough to hold a gun?”

  Biz smiled in admiration. “You think so much like a PI, Ari. Why don’t we go into business together?”

  She frowned. “Why don’t you stop flirting?”

  The smile vanished and Biz cleared her throat. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit I’m trying to break. After she left the pawn shop she went to the Scottsdale Tribune building near the Civic Center. She left with some papers.”

  “Probably taking an ad out.”

  “Maybe. Her last stop, though, was the most interesting.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She went to Emerson’s. She was there for at least an hour and a half. I couldn’t stay because I had another appointment, but I can’t figure out what could possibly tie Isabel to Aspen.”

  “Maybe nothing. It could be entirely coincidental. A wealthy woman stops at an upscale restaurant for lunch. That might be the whole story.”

  Biz clearly didn’t buy it, but she said, “Maybe. Now, Courtney Belmont is a mystery woman. I went through several search engines to find her in L.A., which was where she went after Albuquerque, right?”

  “That’s what the girl at the paper told me.”

  “Well, she didn’t stay there very long.” Biz opened the file, and Ari glanced through the downloaded newspaper and magazine articles written by Courtney Belmont. An article discussing how to clean your espresso maker, published in Good Housekeeping, included a photo of C. Belmont, and Ari studied the picture of a rather attractive woman in her early thirties with a short, dark pageboy. All of the articles were about food, either restaurant reviews or helpful hints in the kitchen. She saw the obvious connection between Aspen and Courtney.

  Biz held up two different printouts. “As you can see, Courtney left L.A. These were written for two different newspapers, the San Diego Tribune and the Yuma Daily Sun.”

  Ari noticed the dates, which were four months apart. “Two months ago she was working in Yuma. She’s clearly moving closer to Phoenix.”

  Biz nodded. “There are no other listings for the past few months. I’m not sure what Courtney Belmont has been doing lately, but I also checked all over Yuma. Her last known address was an apartment near the newspaper offices. The manager said she gave no forwarding address when she left. She had a month-to-month lease, too.”

  “So she wasn’t planning on staying very long,” Ari said, her gaze returning to the small photo. The eyes that met hers were self-assured and strong. There was nothing within the contents of the articles that would help. She put them back in the folder and set it aside. She relayed her conversation with Teri to Biz and showed her the picture on the Cavanaugh Web site. Biz sighed and rubbed her jaw. Ari knew what she was thinking. There were too many suspects. Biz went back to the couch and stretched her legs across the coffee table. She didn’t ask permission to put her feet on the furniture, and Ari wouldn’t have been surprised if Biz kicked off her work boots and took a nap. She looked good in her tight jeans and Heart concert T-shirt.

  “See anything you like?” Biz asked seductively.

  She looked away. Damn! She couldn’t stop staring at Biz, and she was sending all of the wrong messages. “I was thinking,” she said weakly. “Maybe the way to narrow the suspects is to think about my connection to Jane. If I’m being targeted as well, then who would have a grudge against me?”

  Biz laced her hands behind her head and looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t think of a single person.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Seriously, I think they all could have something against you. It’s obvious you and Jane are incredibly close. I’m surprised you’re not lovers, considering how you act with each other and the amount of time you spend together. Anyone who wants to be close to her could perceive you as a threat.”

  “But I don’t have any romantic interest in her,” Ari argued. “We’re best friends.”

  “And how many friends become lovers? I’ve gone to bed with most of mine. Haven’t you?”

  The question disarmed her, and she had to admit that she’d dated many of her friends—except Jane. “Yes, but Jane’s the exception. We could never be lovers. There would be too many explosions.”

  Biz laughed. “I can imagine.” Her eyes locked on Ari’s. “But you are missing out on some incredibly hot sex.”

  Ari heard the regret in Biz’s voice, and the nagging doubt of Biz’s innocence resurfaced. The sound of a car pulling up drew their attention to the doorway.

&n
bsp; Jane eventually appeared, carrying a paper bag from AJ’s Fine Foods. She smiled at Ari and turned to Biz. “Hey, this is a good surprise. Have you caught my stalker?” she asked with a grin.

  Ari knew that on a superficial level, Jane was enjoying this attention. She probably recognized the risks, but the fact that she continued to hit the bars and bed total strangers suggested that she couldn’t bend her ways, even when she was clearly in danger.

  “Working on it,” Biz murmured from the couch. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’m not on the clock right now.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Ari asked.

  Jane smiled and looked inside. “Oh, nothing. Just a few things I’m bringing along for the party tomorrow night.”

  Ari returned the playful smile and studied Jane, who wore an adorable pink-and-white checked dress with matching checked pumps. She tried to see Jane as others did. Her breasts were perfect, not too large and not too small. She had a terrific ass that looked incredible in a bikini, and Jane never missed an opportunity to wear a thong swimsuit. Jane was beautiful, and Ari thought of Biz’s comment. Could I ever be interested in Jane?

  Jane turned to Biz and pointed her finger. “You are coming, right? Either to work or hopefully just to party.”

  Biz nodded and Ari felt a lump in her throat. Molly would not be pleased to see Biz at the party—even if she was on assignment.

  Jane noticed the files on the table and started thumbing through the information on Isabel. “I told you Izzie was amazing,” she said, waving one of the newspaper articles. She opened the file on Courtney Belmont and froze. “Who is this person?”

  “That’s somebody who knows Aspen,” Biz said. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve seen her at Smiley’s, and I think I slept with her last month.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thursday, October 19th

  6:03 PM

  Molly and Andre fought rush-hour traffic to the edge of Phoenix. The High Life, a ritzy gentlemen’s club, sat on Scottsdale Road, the dividing line between urban Phoenix and glamorous Scottsdale. The location afforded the strip club easy access to the richest clientele in Arizona and the lenient zoning codes of Phoenix. Valets dressed in tuxedos carhopped the BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes and Lexuses that strung around the building to the street.

  Molly pulled into a spot and flashed her badge at an eager lot attendant already advancing toward them. At the sight of the shield, he raised a hand in submission and returned to his post while they proceeded through the thick double doors into the smoky main room. She didn’t want to think about the amount of illegal activity occurring inside. She imagined the drug usage in the back rooms alone would be enough to shut the place down. They wandered through the gauntlet of cocktail tables, almost all of them filled with the after-work crowd, businessmen hoping to catch a little entertainment before heading home to the wife and kids. One man leaned over the stage, waving his money toward a gyrating dancer. His wedding ring glistened against the spotlight as he tucked the bill down the front of a brunette’s G-string. Six dancers wrapped themselves around poles, moving to the blaring music and thrusting their mostly naked bodies toward the salivating men.

  They had barely arrived at the bar when they were greeted by two muscular men in security polo shirts. One whispered in Molly’s ear, “The manager will be out in a second.”

  She nodded, certain that the lot attendant had radioed inside, informing the staff that law enforcement was present. Within another minute an attractive redhead in an expensive suit appeared and shook their hands, introducing herself as Sandra Payton, the manager. They followed her down a hallway toward a massive oak door with a gold sign bearing her name. Unlike so many of the seedy strip joints, the High Life was highbrow, and Sandra Payton’s office was larger than Sol Gardener’s and smelled of expensive perfume. Molly sat down on a comfortable leather sofa, and her body melted into the plush cushion.

  Sandra Payton sat across from them in a matching chair. She smoothed her finely manicured hands over her suit pants and gracefully crossed her legs. She painted herself as a classy business executive, but her breasts bulged against the seams of her dress shirt, which revealed much more cleavage than corporate America would ever allow. Molly couldn’t help but let her gaze drift southward during the conversation. She was sure Ms. Payton was a former dancer who’d worked her way up the food chain.

  “What can I do for you, detectives?” Sandra asked.

  “We need to speak with one of your dancers,” Molly said.

  Sandra raised her eyebrows in inquiry and leaned back in her chair. “Who would that be?”

  “John Rondo’s girlfriend,” Andre answered.

  Her face drained of color and she sat forward, grasping the arms of the chair. “Has something happened to John? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Molly said. “Well, as fine as someone can be with a possible murder charge hanging over his head.”

  Her eyes widened and she fingered the cross dangling between her breasts. “What murder charge?”

  Andre glanced at Molly. “I take it you’re rather close to Mr. Rondo?”

  She smirked at the term and her eyelashes fluttered. “I’m his other half. I know he lives with Jennifer and the kids, but we’ve been together for twelve years, longer than that little Yale snob.”

  Molly instantly pieced the story together. John Rondo had married an upstanding woman who would give him credibility in the community while he continued to bed his girlfriend on the side. “Does Mrs. Rondo know about you?”

  “Oh, please,” Sandra said with a wave. “She counts on me to keep John happy. All she wants is the money and the kids. She’s got the perfect life, and she can see whoever she wants.”

  “Is she having an affair, too?” Andre asked.

  She smiled slyly. “In a sense. John’s aware of her other life, and he’s fine with it. There’s no competition.”

  Molly shook her head. “What do you mean?” Sandra continued to stare at her, as if she should understand—and then she did. “So she likes women?”

  Sandra’s smile widened. “Very much, detective. Jennifer discovered her lesbianism in college, but she knew her wealthy East Coast family would disown her if she came out. Then she met John, who gave her the freedom to be who she was and the respectability to keep her family happy. All she had to do along the way was pop out a couple kids.”

  Molly sensed Sandra felt a level of appreciation for Jennifer Rondo amid the disdain. “Have you ever been with her?” Molly asked.

  Sandra looked away and recrossed her legs. “Jennifer and I experimented together a few times while John watched, but it never turned into anything. She’s got her life and I’ve got mine.”

  Andre stood and went to a bookshelf. A few photos of Rondo and Sandra were prominently displayed. “Did he set you up here? Is this your life?” He gestured to the enormous office, disgust in his voice.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this life, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said defensively. “I’ve got everything I need.”

  “Except the guy,” Molly interjected. “You know he’ll never leave his wife. You’ll always be the other woman. That’s got to bother you some of the time, doesn’t it, knowing that he’s out at a fundraiser or on vacation with the family when he could be with you?” She watched Sandra’s foot bop up and down nervously while she fumed silently. “And Jennifer Rondo certainly can’t complain. Talk about a woman who hasn’t had to make a single sacrifice.”

  Her gaze snapped toward Molly. “What do you mean?”

  “She gets it all. Family goes on vacation. Nanny takes care of the kids. They both meet someone in the bar afterhours and have a great romp in the sack before dawn. Then it’s back to the perfect picture.”

  “John doesn’t cheat on me,” Sandra said evenly.

  Molly leaned forward. “You’re kidding, right?” She almost felt bad about what she did next, but it didn’t stop her from reaching into her jacket pocket and
withdrawing the surveillance photos the FBI had taken during the past week. She dropped them on the coffee table in front of Sandra and sat back in the lush leather couch.

  Sandra stared at the picture closest to her, one of Rondo and a young blonde about to climb into a limousine. Curiosity forced her to pick up the pile and stare at her lover’s other life. The second photo showed him at an outdoor café, engaged in a romantic conversation with a long-haired brunette. His arm was wrapped around her bare shoulder and she touched his cheek. Molly watched Sandra set the stack down, not bothering to flip through the rest of the photos, including one that depicted Rondo surreptitiously stroking the breast of a dancer at a competing strip club. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes downcast. When she looked up at Molly again, it was with resolve.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked evenly.

  “Tell us about his business dealings. Have you met many of his associates?”

  “I’ve met lots of his associates, especially the ones from out of town. He brings them here for a good time.”

  “Have you ever met Vince Carnotti?”

  Her face showed no sign of recognition. “Maybe. They’re all Italian or have stupid nicknames, and they look like goons.”

  “Does he ever talk to you about what he does?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t talk about it, and I try to stay out of it.”

  Molly didn’t believe her. She was too smart, and she’d been around Rondo too long. “You mean to tell me that after having a decade-long affair with the man that you’ve never overheard a phone conversation you weren’t supposed to hear, or found him carrying a gun—”

  “Or had him arrive at your place with blood on his hands?” Andre interjected.

  Sandra looked away, her discomfort evident. Molly watched her struggle between the affection and the anger that were no doubt surging through her system. She picked up the pictures again, flipped through them and stopped suddenly. Molly glanced at the photo in her hand and saw that it was the one of the stripper. Sandra stared at it for a long time before asking, “May I keep this?”