by Ashley Papa
MARCH, THREE WEEKS LATER
Mayor Wilcox’s behavior to date has left me with very little suspicious evidence to go on. Though Victoria was adamant about his secrecy, at times I found myself worrying that I would come out of this with nothing but a bad reputation. Even sex appeal, which I considered a valuable tool in my trade, had failed to sway his press secretary. Several throws at him and I got nothing but a bruised ego. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I learned Jimmy never would accept my advances because he’s gay. While scouring the streets last Friday night in search of an open pizza parlor after some heavy boozing with my ex-NYPD buddies, I saw Jimmy making out with another man while they waited in line to get into “Out” nightclub. I nearly slammed into the back of a police cruiser at the sight.
Within the past two weeks, besides learning about the press secretary’s sexual preferences, the only other big revelation was that the former New York attorney general, Henry Parker, was found dead of an apparent gunshot wound to the head. Investigators were quick to determine that he killed himself in his Bronxville home. Mayor Wilcox expressed his sympathies in a statement after having worked with the guy his first few years as mayor.
Now, when I wasn’t digging for clues, I was spending more time with Liam. It felt exclusive and nice. If we didn’t see each other, we’d talk on the phone. But, my reluctance to open up was starting to bother him. After countless dates, I still wasn’t ready to have sex with him. It was the longest courting phase I’ve had so far without sex.
To take advantage of the warm March weather, I decided to spend the morning honing my aim at Duke’s Shooting Range. I hadn’t gone shooting in a long time and for some reason, I woke up with the insatiable urge. The mayor’s agenda was clear today with the exception of an undisclosed dinner. Victoria knew that as soon as she found out where her husband was going to let me know.
I had alerted my ex-FBI contacts that I was heading to Dukes in hopes that they’d feel like meeting me. Not surprisingly, they had been there since 8:30 a.m. I consider my three shooting buddies, and former FBI Special Agents, my Vixen Investigation consultants. There was “Chin Chin,” who got his name after capturing a notorious Chinese spy back in the ’80s and “Mack,” who got his name from being a real life “MacGyver.” He could probably fight off a bear with a paper clip, a penny, and a lighter. And Mike, my ex-agent on speed dial. I met Mike early on in my journalism career and got to know Chin and Mack when I thought about joining the Bureau. It was the physical fitness requirements, like trekking through waist-high mud and carrying a 180-pound colleague on my back while running uphill, that ultimately deterred me. That’s when I realized I was better suited for an investigative job where high heels, tight dresses, and cleavage would work to my advantage. Mack, Chin, and Mike were human lockboxes. It went without saying that any information I shared with them was highly confidential. They also gave me sound advice like telling me “do it this way,” “look for this,” and “pay attention to the obscure.” Chin would always tell me “the truth can always be found in what may not be so obvious.”
“Paige!” I heard Chin yell, while I turned into the dirt lot.
Mike and Mack were prepping their machine guns and putting on their goggles when I arrived. There was nobody at the range except for them and the range guard.
“Good to see you again. It’s been a while. We putting you on the M5 or the AR15 today?”
“Both!” I said, giving him a quick hug.
Chin escorted me from the Jeep over to the shooting grounds while filling me in on his wife and children. He left the agency one year ago, after 25 years working for them. His kids were off to college and he had more suburban dreams of opening a BBQ restaurant. Originally from Houston, he was stationed at the FBI headquarters in New York City most of the time, and ended up just settling and staying in central New Jersey.
“How is the business going? I always think about you whenever I read or hear about some sex scandal in the news. I always wonder if it was you who uncovered it,” he commented.
“It likely was. I have been so busy. The last case involved one man and four women. Now, I am working on a case with a very high-profile client.”
“That’s a huge deal. Those are the cases that take a lot of bending over backwards,” he added.
“It’s my hardest case to date. There is only so much information and access I have to this guy. I have to rely on his wife and all his staff the most. It’s already so frustrating.”
Mack and Mike had already begun firing rounds when we approached. I shoved the earplugs in my ears, which turned the semi-automatic bangs into muffled pops. Chin said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. I just gave him a thumb up. The force of the bullet as it propelled itself out of the barrel of the gun was orgasmic. With the four of us all firing in synchronicity, I imaged that we were all part of the same SEAL team, shooting at terrorists and rescuing hostages. I didn’t have the best firing form but still managed to hit the target about 75% of the time.
“Nice shooting today, kid,” Mike said.
“Thanks, Mike. Not my best. I felt a bit off.”
Mike was the oldest of the group. Retired after 30 years, he used to be based in L.A. before returning to the New York office. Mike has been calling me “kid” since he met me a decade ago. I guess I earned that title because of how obliviously immature I was trying to get information from the FBI for a story. He was the only agent who never told me to “get lost.” Instead, he mentored me and helped clue me in on what to ask and how to address law enforcement. Though he was significantly older than me by a good 20 years and had kids in college, I used to fantasize about him. Maybe it was the way he resembled Harrison Ford in those Indiana Jones movies or the fact that he embodied everything that made a man super manly.
A few more rounds on the AR15, a beer and some advice on the “Federal Bureau of Infidelity”—as they liked to call it—later, I decided to pack it in and head back east. It was almost 1 p.m. I had neglected my phone the entire time. When I saw several missed calls from Victoria, I assumed she had learned where her husband would be dining later. There was also a missed call from the “unavailable” number with a new voicemail.
First things first, I called Victoria back. A frantic and eager first lady picked up.
“You told me to call you if I noticed anything suspicious,” she blurted before either of us could give a proper “hello.” “Well, a large amount of money has been withdrawn from our bank account again.”
The excitement of a new clue seemed to impair my ability to operate the Jeep as I nearly swerved off the side of the windy and wooded road.
“Fifty thousand dollars. I logged on to our account summary. I never had really looked at the transactions before and that’s when I noticed the amount today,” she informed.
“Any idea on what is was for?”
“It didn’t say. It just showed a negative sign.”
“Have you spoken to Walter about it yet?”
“No. I didn’t know if I should before talking to you. Plus, he gets irate when I bring up money to him.”
That’s unsettling. Why does he keep her so out-of-the-loop on their finances?
“Okay. Good job on not addressing it to him. I don’t want him getting suspicious or lock the account. Copy and paste it in an email to me. Any word on where Walter will be tonight?”
“He said he wasn’t going out anymore.”
What?!
“I have one of my charity shopping events to raise money for ovarian cancer research. He said he’d stay home since I’d be out.”
Bullshit. When the cats away the mouse will play.
Feeling defeated, I stepped on the gas. I had to get home. There was no way in hell he was staying home, at least alone, while his wife is out for the night. I texted Adam, alerting him, that we may need to stake out Victoria’s and Walter’s place for the ni
ght.
With Route 78 relatively empty, I let the Jeep gracefully increase its speed from 65 mph to 85 mph. I was cruising way above the speed limit.
“Play voicemail,” I ordered the Bluetooth.
Now I was dying to hear what message this mystery person left me.
“Hello, Paige. You’re quite the sleuth, aren’t you?” The robotic voice reminded me of KITT from Knight Rider. “I know all about you. Do you think you’re smart enough to solve this one? See you at Chez Régine at nine.”
The phone clicked off and my heart pounded hard. My body tingled at the feeling that I was being spied on.
How do they know what I do? Were they trying to help me or throw me off course? Chez Régine? Tonight? What was happening there tonight?
My detective instincts told me I had to be there, regardless of what happened.
“Shit! My date with Liam!” I blurted out, having just remembered that we had a date. “It’s Thursday! I can just move the location. He’d understand, right? If not, I’ll just have to make him,” I continued to converse with myself.
Chez Régine always required a reservation a month out. It was an upscale New York City restaurant that was nothing but hype. The food was lousy as I recalled going on a really bad date there once with a man named Pierre, who I needed to let wine and dine me for some inside information on his brother, with whom he co-owned the family Champagne business. Pierre’s brother-in-law hired me after he found a duffel bag full of BDSM paraphernalia buried in the couple’s closet. Raymond, my client, was devastated at the thought of Lucas (Pierre’s brother) cheating on him after all they went through to get their families to accept their gay marriage. I had learned from Pierre—after I let him fuck me—that Lucas was involved in an underground BDSM ring in Chelsea. So, I went undercover as a leather-and-chain-wearing sex kitten, let some Goth chick named Selena slap my ass with a paddle and tickle my nipples with a feather, all to find out that Lucas wasn’t cheating on Raymond at all. Lucas was secretly teaching classes on the correct and safe way to whip and torture someone for sexual pleasure. I took my sore ass and findings to Raymond the next day.
It was almost 2 p.m. now and I was getting closer to Hoboken. Certainly Liam had the evening all planned out. Hopefully he wouldn’t feel too emasculated if I changed them on us.
“Chez Régine reservations. Can I help you?” An elegant, French-sounding woman picked up the phone.
“Yes. My name is Paige Turner. I am calling to confirm my reservation for tonight.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” I could sense a hint of snobbery in the female voice.
“Paige Turner. I made the reservation about six weeks ago. I told the hostess I had a very important Hollywood executive in town and needed one of those really private tables in the back of the restaurant.”
It took the girl a while to respond again. I could hear her flipping through pages of a book.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t see anything reserved under that name for tonight.”
“I’m sorry? Are you serious? I booked this over a month ago. How does something like this happen?”
“I’m not sure. Whom did you speak to?”
“I don’t know. Another woman. I told her how important it was that we come to Chez Régine tonight because my guest is French and she was very accommodating. It’s a billionaire movie investor’s favorite restaurant.”
There was a moment of silence before she placed me on hold.
My act better work.
Restaurants as high profile as Chez Régine typically call you to reconfirm reservations. If I could make them feel like they goofed, then it upped my chances of us getting a last-minute reservation. Danny had attempted this with me once on Valentine’s Day and it worked! He had surprised me by coming home early from one of his sketchy business trips, but we had no reservations. He pretended that he held a table for two at Yoko and got the hostess to admit that she lost the reservation, even though we never really had one. It was sneaky, but successful.
“Ms. Turner. I’m so sorry about the confusion. I don’t seem to have a reservation for you, but I will make one now. Please plan on coming at nine as requested and we will have a table ready for you. We are very sorry about this.”
Ha, the Vixen Investigator succeeds again!
Feeling overly confident with my skills, I stepped on the gas even more, pushing the Jeep to its limits while deliberating the mystery phone call and who it might be, as well as the $50,000 withdrawn from Victoria’s account. I was eager to find out where that money was going as I waited for Victoria’s email. It sounded like Walter was “pulling a Danny”—a term I use when I suspect money fraud, cheating, and pretty much any kind of suspicious activity.
When I finally got back to my apartment, Adam was already inside with all my spy gear out and ready to go. Since I couldn’t be certain the mayor would be at home or at Chez Régine, Adam and I would have to split up for the night. The plan was for him to start watching Walter’s digs at 6 p.m. while I went to the restaurant at 9 p.m. as instructed by the anonymous phone call.
“Won’t Liam become suspicious if you’re barely talking to him and paying all your attention to Walter?”
“Adam, who do you think you’re talking to? You know I’m the queen multitasker.”
“What if it’s a setup and someone is out to get you? I think you should bring your gun.”
Adam’s concern was appreciated and cute at times, but sometimes he gets a little too overprotective as if he were my boyfriend. Speaking of which, I still hadn’t discussed the plans with Liam. Surely he had reservations for sushi by now.
Adam left shortly after gathering what he needed for later tonight while I hopped into the shower. I could tell by my assistant’s reluctance to get close to me that I was in desperate need of washing the stench of sweat and smoke from my body. I placed my phone on the corner of the sink.
“Text Liam,” I voiced. With my hands filled with suds, I scrubbed my face while the phone pulled up Liam’s number.
“Hi, Liam,” I started. The phone began inscribing my voice. “Can we go to Chez Régine tonight instead? A good friend had to drop her reservation and wants to give it to us. Such a good place. Let me know.” I finished with beads of water running into the sides of my mouth. “Send.”
Thinking I had spoken as concise as possible, when I looked down at my phone, what was actually sent to Liam was nothing but nonsensical garble. Liam had actually been sent a message that read: Hi Lime can we go squeeze tonight instead egg good friend has to drop her inclination and wants to give to us such a good ace.
“Fucking technology!” I quipped. “What is the point of this dictation feature if it can’t even translate right?”
I dried off my hands and face to call him instead but Liam had beaten me to it. He must have been so confused because he was calling me back within what seemed like two minutes.
“So, ignore that last text,” I said as soon as I answered.
Liam laughed. The steam from the shower was fogging up the mirror to where I couldn’t see how much I was blushing.
“I thought it was funny. I had no idea what you are talking about. So I just figured I’d call you. What’s up?”
“That’s what happens when you try to dictate into your phone while your face is covered in soap. What I meant to say was that my friend got us a reservation at Chez Régine in SoHo for tonight. Would you mind if we went there instead? She had to cancel her reservation and if she does it last minute, the place will blacklist her. It’s a really good place,” I cringed internally knowing how much of a lie I had just told.
Liam agreed and we planned to meet there right at 8:55 p.m.
Now that that’s all sorted out, what the hell am I going to wear?
“CASE REOPENED: Feds now looking into foul play in death of ex-NY AG,” the headline of the
Gotham Post read.
I had a good two hours to kill before leaving to meet Liam and I had yet to read the paper I lied about freelancing for.
Odd. They were so quick to dub it a suicide.
According to reports, Parker’s family just didn’t buy the conclusion and hired a private homicide detective of their own, who was none other than the world-renowned Dr. Michael Bradnon. I had interviewed him numerous times. If anyone could get to the bottom of Parker’s death, it was Dr. Bradnon.
A buzz on my callbox.
Who could that be? I wasn’t expecting anyone, was I?
“Coming,” I yelled.
I heard some rustling from outside and through the peephole I saw that it was Victoria.
Victoria?
She was holding a manila folder in her hand and was donning her Chanel shades and a Tahari shearling coat.
“Victoria? Hi? What are you doing here? Is everything alright? I thought you had a charity event tonight.”
She didn’t answer until she was completely inside my apartment with the door closed. She handed me a file and walked over to the couch but didn’t remove her coat and sunglasses. I quickly flipped through the papers in the file. It was a credit card statement. There were lots and lots of charges on one particular credit card. It was evident that Victoria definitely liked to shop: $12,000 at Bergdorf Goodman, $3,000 at Chloe, and then the $50,000 withdraw she mentioned. Except, it wasn’t a withdraw. It was a transfer to another account.
“Sorry for just popping by like this and looking like such a wreck,” she began, although even sans a hint of makeup, she was gorgeous. “I wanted to bring you that statement personally rather than email.”
“Don’t worry about it at all, Victoria. I am going to hold on to this. I need to check some of the numbers.”
I didn’t want to alarm her to the fact that Walter hadn’t taken money out, but rather moved it somewhere else.
Was he paying someone for something?
“Do you know if Walter linked this account to any others? Your daughter’s or an emergency account?” I asked.