Vixen Investigations: The Mayoral Affairs

by Ashley Papa

  Advance Praise for

  Vixen Investigations

  “A fast, fun read. With her inquisitive mind and bold attitude, Paige is one investigator no cheating heart wants to cross.”

  –LIS WIEHL, New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Ashley Papa’s Vixen Investigation has all of the elements you want in a story. It’s got intrigue, glamour, an admirable, charming star character, and a seductive and captivating plot line, to make the narrative even more enticing.”

  –DR. ROBI LUDWIG, Psychotherapist, Author, and TV Commentator

  “…vivid relatable characters, Papa takes modern mystery writing to a fresh new level.”

  –COOPER LAWRENCE, Author of The Yoga Club

  “In her debut novel, Ashley’s heroine is not only funny, inquisitive, and a romantic herself, but one investigator no cheating heart will want to mess with.”

  –KEVIN MCCULLOUGH, Syndicated Radio Host

  “The book will have you hooked from the minute you read the first page until you finish the last sentence.”

  –LYSS STERN, CEO Divamoms.com

  and Founder of the uber-popular DivaMoms Book Club

  “Smart, savvy and sexy, Paige Turner, the Vixen Investigator, is a force no vow-betraying lowlife wants to mess with.”

  –JENNA MCCARTHY, Relationship Writer, Author, and Speaker

  “Ashley Papa has written a book where romance and mystery come together… Vixen Investigations: Mayoral Affairs captures the heartbreak and self-reflection needed to pick yourself up and move on after being in a toxic relationship.”

  –LORI BIZZOCO, CupidsPulse.com

  “A unique blend of self-discovery, empowerment, mystery, and laughter…A sizzling and riveting novel that will light a fire in your soul...”

  –BRIAN CLAYPOOL, Defense Attorney and Legal Analyst

  “After years of doling out relationship advice in her articles, Ashley Papa has now created Paige Turner, the ultimate defender of love and relationships. The Vixen Investigator is strong, smart, sexy…I was hooked until the very end!”

  –LESLIE MARSHALL, Host of the Nationally Syndicated

  “The Leslie Marshall Show”

  “Paige Turner is the vow-enforcing, cheater-busting, no-nonsense infidelity investigator the real world needs. Readers will relish Papa’s wry wit and learn a thing or two about relationship red flags in the process.”

  –MARCY CLARK, Women’s Mafia Founder

  THE MAYORAL AFFAIRS

  A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

  Vixen Investigations:

  The Mayoral Affairs

  © 2017 by Ashley Papa

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-68261-437-2

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-438-9

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Cover Design by Christian Bentulam

  Interior Design and Composition: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect

  Post Hill Press

  New York • Nashville

  posthillpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  To Mom and Dad. Because of you, I feel nothing can stop me from reaching new goals. From those morning figure skating practices to moving me out to Nebraska for my first job, you’ve been my partners in all my adventures. I love you both so much.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  If there is anything that makes a New Yorker feel like packing their bags and saying good riddance to the Big Apple, it’s the dating scene. I’ve had my share of bad dates and failed relationships, like most girls and guys here. I’ve gone through phases where I figured, why even bother trying? I spent my twenties wrapped in my new broadcasting career and had made a name for myself as a local reporter. What did I need a significant other for anyway? After I came to realize that the bitterness wasn’t helping anybody, I knew it was up to me to take that negative energy from the reoccurring heartache and use it for my benefit and be a hero of the lovelorn. By combining the bad blood and frustration I developed towards men and romance with my journalistic know-how, I built a business like none other. I go after heartbreakers, love fakers, and vow betrayers, for a price. And I am pretty damn good at it.

  Only a few days into the new year and I am already neck deep in my current case, which involves 29-year-old Molly Carlson. Molly moved to New York City from Atlanta five years ago. She is the epitome of a sweet, Southern belle, with a Pollyanna attitude. She thinks everyone is big-hearted, just like her, and believes as long as she is nice to someone, they’ll be nice back. New York City is different, and it’s taken her a while to realize this. Here, there are a lot of people who only go out of their way to be nice unless they want something. Arrogant businessmen, like her current fiancé, typically just want sex, power, and arm candy. She’s finding this out the hard way.

  Her fiancé, Steve Benson, is a 49-year-old hedge fund manager at Perry & Strauss. He’s also a divorcé because of Molly. She says she never slept with Steve until his divorce was finalized, or at least when he told her that it was. They met in the Hamptons in the summer of 2013 while Molly was celebrating her 27th birthday at The Black Market, the trendiest bar that summer. The night of Molly’s birthday, Steve was there with some of his banker friends, who all rented giant estates for July and August. Steve was instantly drawn to Molly’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and lengthy legs, as she danced on the glass table in the corner of the club. Molly was so taken by his charm, success, and George Clooney looks, she fell hard and fast.

  They got together several times over that summer while Leslie, Steve’s wife at the time, was out shopping for Chanel bags and David Yurman rings. They’d meet for dinners, brunches, and hookup sessions on rented sailboats. Right after Labor Day that year, Steve broke it to Leslie he met someone new. Some would say Steve did the right thing by being honest. But, he is far from deserving sainthood. He was known around town as having a wandering libido. My experience in dealing with these sorts of investigations has proven time and time again that those who’ve cheated before are more inclined to cheat again.

  Steve proposed to Molly less than a year later but part of his proposal was that there was to be no church, no guests, and no tented dinners, just a courthouse wedding downtown. It was quite the sacrifice for the girl who always dreamed of the fairy-tale wedding complete with crystal glasses, baby’s breath floral displays, and an ice sculpture. While the engagement seemed quick, Steve still never settled on a wedding date.

  Molly had become so quickly invested in him and their relationship that she had ignored all the red flags. That is, until just after Thanksgiving. I got an email from her, asking to m
eet. My name was given to her by her friend and one of my ex-clients.

  I first met with Molly in a quiet coffee shop, not far from her apartment on the Lower East Side. It was there, in that petite, five-table establishment, that she divulged everything about this dangerous, love-at-first-sight relationship and her concerns.

  “One night, while I was hanging up Steve’s coat, a business card fell out of the pocket. It was for a woman who ran events at The Hotel Versailles on the Upper West Side. There was a cell phone number scribbled on the back of the card in bubbly writing.…We barely have sex anymore because he’s so adamant about getting to the gym. Even the type of underwear he wore changed. When I questioned him, he shrugged it off and called me crazy,” she explained.

  Molly could’ve just walked away and avoided the marital drama that was waiting at the end of the aisle, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She wanted proof. She wanted my help.

  I couldn’t seem to be working fast enough for her. Her emotional outbursts had become so bad, I had to let her stay at my place some nights. My Hoboken, New Jersey, apartment was also Vixen Investigation headquarters. It’s where I sleep, as well as analyze video, do research, interview clients, and hold meetings with my assistant, Adam. My clients enjoy the fact they get to meet with me in the comforts of an apartment rather than a stuffy office.

  However, at times, Molly’s appearances was starting to feel like a Seinfeld episode. She’d just come over, unannounced, like Kramer. This past weekend, she stopped by crying like a puppy. Meanwhile, I had just wrapped up a night with my once a year, friend with benefits, John, and was still in a sex-daze trying to make sense of what day and time it was. Her wailing at eight in the morning was hard to take. All I wanted to do was shake her and ask, “Why would you want to be with someone who clearly doesn’t want to be with you?”

  “I will get to the bottom of this,” I told her and handed her a copy of The Vixen Investigator’s Love Manual. “Read this. It’s a series of articles and reports I’ve written in the past about relationships. Look,” I said and flipped to the middle of the book. “Are you dating a psychopath? Here I explain what to look for and where they like to prey. And this article was one of my first on lovesickness.”

  “Thanks Paige…I mean Detective Turner,” she said while wiping away a tear.

  No matter how much concealer and blush she used, there was no hiding the pain she was feeling. Her eyes were stained red from the constant crying and she was developing track marks down her cheeks from the flow of salty tears. I advised her to stop by Dr. Gail Marks’s office for a therapy session, who was actually my former therapist, about ten years ago. It was just after my 26th birthday. I was at a crossroad in my journalism career and couldn’t decide if I should leave the loyal, yet ancient, New York Day newspaper for the brighter lights of network news. At the same time, I was dealing with a breakup from my realtor boyfriend and a growing credit card debt due to my late-night habit of ordering delivery and booking spontaneous weekend trips I couldn’t afford. She was easy to confide in and as time went on and I launched Vixen Investigations, Dr. Marks was one of several people with whom I could reveal minor, if any, details about a case I was working. The thing is, after four years running the agency, I barely make a mention of the types of cases I really work on to my family and many of my friends. For a while, I wanted the practice to be more covert. But once word got out of my specialty business, it became hard. Now I do all I can to maintain a lower profile and try to stay out of any spotlight.

  It’s the first night I’m shadowing Steve and it’s absolutely frigid. The high was supposed to be 17 degrees and forecasters were calling for six inches of snow by midnight. Adam and I were heading to The Hotel Versailles on 60th and 8th Avenue with the goal of catching the suave banker with whoever this “Caitlin” was, on that business card.

  “Check this out,” Adam alerted to me as we sat in the back of the ordered Lincoln town car. “I found a Caitlin Boyd on Instagram. And, look here,” he continued while pointing to one specific picture on his smartphone. “Who does that look like?”

  “Steve,” I answered.

  It was a photo of a man with salt-and-pepper hair, a snow white smile, and leathery tanned skin. He was sporting a pair of Gucci sunglasses.

  Kudos to Adam for finding the picture. He was everything I could ask for in an assistant. I snatched him up, right in his prime. He had interned with me right before I quit “United America News” for passing me up for the Senior Investigative Correspondent promotion and giving it to the scandal-ridden, more famous news face, Dax Delgado. I nearly died for the network while covering the Chicago serial sniper story and that was the thanks I got. After five years and that big slap to the face, I decided it was time to leave, even if I didn’t have a job lined up.

  Perhaps it was meant to be, as the timing was just right to start my own business. I knew I was a good investigator since all my assignments at UAN were investigative reports. The connections I amassed covering crime and corruption cases were worth more than any dollar amount. I developed such good relationships with law enforcement over the years that now I consult with certain officials for Vixen Investigations.

  Adam and I stayed in contact after his internship; it was natural he’d go on to be my right-hand man when we’re out on the hunt for cheating lovers. He was exactly who I needed, with his impeccable tech and social media skills.

  “How are you going to walk in those heels in the snow, Paige?” Adam questioned after noticing I was in my highest-of-high black pumps.

  Adam also embodied traits of a little brother. He was cute with his rosy cheeks, brown shaggy hair, and scrawny frame. He rocked a pair of square-framed glasses that fit perfectly on his childish face. If he weren’t six feet tall and 25 years old, he could probably pass for my son.

  “I’ve dodged bullets and escaped quicksand in heels and a skirt. I think I can handle a lightly dusted sidewalk,” I defended.

  It seemed like the snow was falling faster when we exited the Holland Tunnel. Our Uber fishtailed around every corner as we made our way up the West Side. It was 5 p.m. and traffic was slowly starting to build. It’s nights like this that make me wish I lived in the city for convenience, but I was too in love with New Jersey. It was my home state and Hoboken was an ideal spot where I could afford a two-bedroom with water views and a garage. I had easy access to the city and the ability to make a quick getaway should I need to hop in my Jeep Wrangler to get to the scene of a tryst.

  “Did you find anything else about Caitlin or Steve besides the Instagram photos?” I asked.

  Social media is just as useful as DNA tests for investigators these days. Everyone seems to have an account, even me with my multiple aliases. Maintaining my numerous Facebook pages is Adam’s job. He’ll upload edited photos to make it look like “Bethany Fry”—the alter ego I used when sniffing out dirt on Pastor Flannery—is still flipping cocktails at the make-believe bar, Grapevine, down the shore.

  The snow was sticking more as we pulled up to the hotel. Given the premonition that I’d slip on the sidewalk, I made the driver help me out of the car. Adam was often aloof to such chivalrous mannerisms. I watched as he entered the hotel ahead of me like an unchaperoned child.

  I had heard about The Hotel Versailles before but had never been. It was only two months old and already had the reputation for being a boutique, luxury brothel. Although I was invited to the grand opening night, I was forced to decline because of a bad case of pink eye I had caught from my niece. When I found out that New York City Mayor, Walter Wilcox, and some of his male staffers were there, I regretted missing it. It would’ve been worth appearing there with bloodshot, crusty eyes to catch a glimpse of Walter outside his normal setting. I was not a fan of him and the way he ran the city. I would’ve liked to get into a heated debate with him, just like I used to in my reporting days. I may have had an unfavorable opinion of the mayor, but not
his wife, First Lady Victoria Wilcox. I found the ex-wedding gown model to be just as philanthropic as she is beautiful. Victoria launched three charities within the first two years of being the first lady. One involved free recreational sports leagues for all children, regardless of their family’s financial status. Another charity took in homeless pregnant women and another organization she founded helps handicapped children get a chance to perform on Broadway. She was a busy woman, but always put her husband and their 18-year-old daughter, Piper, first.

  The smell of new paint and lavender potpourri lingered in the air of the hotel’s lobby. The entranceway even resembled the real Versailles in France, with gold-trim moldings and mirrors and antique chandeliers everywhere.

  “Wow, this place is amazing,” Adam proclaimed when I finally caught up to him.

  The lobby was so dim I could barely tell if the velvet-covered couches were black or burgundy. Adele faintly played overhead as the after-work crowd started to trickle in. Now I knew why it had the reputation it did. It was a very fitting ambiance for those who wanted to conduct a little outside-the-marriage business.

  “Good evening. Welcome to The Hotel Versailles. Are you checking in?” the clerk asked.

  He was a stunning young man with green eyes and blond hair. He spoke with a French accent, which, having studied the language, felt fake. I’ve seen guys like him before: an up and coming model, living with a few other dudes in the East or West Village. Like many, he was probably waiting for his “big break” and dated older women specifically to mooch off of them.

  “Bonjour, Claude. I’m Paige Turner and this is Adam. I am actually meeting with Caitlin Boyd about an event,” I said and proceeded to lean over the lobby desk just enough to let the cleavage protrude a bit more from my red silk blouse.