by Polly Iyer
“He insisted we call Cindi Baby Sissy and that Mommy―me―should spank Sissy like I spanked him. I think Mommy might have been abusive, and Cindi brought back bad memories. Maybe Mommy spanked Rick but not Sissy.”
The robe belt loosened. Melody didn’t notice. Benny did.
“You know I was a psychology major, but I bet if you delve into Rick Martell’s history, you’ll find something to explain last night’s behavior.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He got up, closed her robe, and looped the ties tight, then he pecked her on her forehead. “I want you to go home and take it easy, and when you feel better book a vacation. Anywhere you want to go. I’ll pay for everything. Meanwhile, try to put this ugly mess out of your mind. Colin will reschedule anyone requesting you, and when this blows over you can come back, if you feel up to it. If not, I’ll understand.” He pinched her chin in a fatherly manner. “Okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks, Benny. What happened to―oh, my God, I can’t say it.”
“We took…care of it. If we called the police, everything would come out in the open. I doubt we could have kept you out of it. Do you know anything about her parents?”
“They’re both dead. If she had siblings, she never mentioned them.”
Benny breathed another sigh of relief. Of course, that didn’t mean Cindi didn’t have other family to come looking for her. There could be siblings somewhere. Still, it sounded positive. Maybe his luck was changing after all. Listen to me. I’m happy to hear Cindi’s parents are both dead. What have I turned into?
Melody sniffled, wiped her tears, and blew her nose.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you’re paid until you decide what you want to do.”
“Oh, I really hadn’t thought about money, but thanks. You’re the best, Benny.” She finished her coffee and poured half a cup more. “It’s awful. First Serena, now Cindi.”
Awful doesn’t come close. “If Cindi’s found, the police might think there’s a serial killer out there. It happens, you know.”
“At least we know what happened to Cindi. We’ll never know about Serena.”
“Probably not. Now go take your shower and get yourself pretty. I’ll order you some breakfast.”
“Okay, thanks. Oh, one other thing I forgot to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Cindi had a boyfriend. He knew what she did on the side. I’m not sure he knows about this place, though. She just told me about him.”
Benny’s eyes looked up at the heavens to see his lucky star explode like a firecracker. This was why he stipulated his women should be free of ties. Boyfriends were problems waiting to happen. A nagging pain erupted in his chest. Gas. He’d take an antacid as soon as Melody left. He didn’t want her to get the impression he was upset. He wasn’t. He was way beyond upset, moving into hysterical.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we have to. Don’t worry.”
She shuffled back to the bedroom to shower and dress. He wanted a scotch in the worst way, but it was ten o’clock in the freaking morning. He settled for another cup of coffee. That would calm his nerves, right? That’s all he needed. A frantic boyfriend threatening to go to the police.
“Benny?”
He turned around. The belt on Melody’s robe fell loose to her sides. She slipped it off her shoulders, and it crumpled to the floor, leaving her beautiful body as Nature had intended. She gazed at him like an appreciative puppy. “Anything I can do for you? You know.”
“Hard to believe,” he said, “but I’m not in the mood.”
* * * * *
Eileen Cooper had busted her ass to insinuate herself into the local clubs and other society organizations of the Hamptons. Some of the hoity-toity ladies shunned her in the beginning, causing her to wonder if they knew her past profession. How could they? She was class personified, and she was married to a wealthy ex-hedge fund manager.
Today’s schedule included lunch with the women of the garden club, a board meeting at the hospital, and a drop in to the school auditorium to check the decorations for the charity fundraiser. Then she’d go to the club for a game or two of tennis. So much to do.
Benny hadn’t called, which was unusual. Whenever he stayed in town, he always touched base in the morning to let her know when he’d be home. She wondered which of the girls he feasted on for dessert the night before. Angie’s small cup size meant an immediate elimination, although Eileen heard rumors she possessed other more exotic talents. But Benny liked jugs, and the bigger the better. Cindi, the newest one, might have caught his attention. Tessa still had a lot to learn, although Benny prided himself on his tutoring. Marsha never worked on Friday. A Jew whore who held the Sabbath. Who’d figure that? It could have been any one of half a dozen girls, all bereft of sense when it came to men, especially Benny. But Eileen put her money on Melody, with her ample chest and tight ass. Yup, Melody for sure. Still, Melody was no competition. She couldn’t compare with Eileen’s rack. Not on her best day.
In a rare moment of insecurity, Eileen stood naked in front of the mirror and studied her breasts. Hmm, still good muscle tone for their size. It wouldn’t be long before gravity took hold and she’d droop like an old bag lady. Triple Ds didn’t stay perky forever. She could get a lift, but that went against Benny’s sensibilities. All natural, no preservatives, like goddamn Ben and Jerry’s. When things really start to slide, Benny might think about turning her in for a new ice cream cone.
But thinking is all he’d do. They were bound by business and secrets, and he knew it. She liked her life too much to lose any part of it, and she’d do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen.
She could deal with his need for variety; that was part of their marriage agreement. The important thing was that he came home to her. In bed, she could compete with any woman. After all, she taught the young ones everything they knew. She’d tricked long enough to know what men liked, and she didn’t share everything. Some things she kept for Benny alone.
She cupped her hands under her breasts and lifted them. Keeping her eyes on the mirror, she turned one way, then another. Hmm, flat stomach, no cellulite on her thighs, ass still where it was twenty years ago. Face unlined, neck smooth. The way he exercised it, Benny’s dick would give out long before her triple Ds hit the floor.
Enough self-adulation. She chose a Versace suit out of the walk-in closet and dressed, still wondering why she hadn’t heard from her husband. It wasn’t like him not to check in. What if something happened to him? She’d have heard by now, wouldn’t she? She should call him. No, he probably had too much of his precious scotch and slept late, that’s all. He’d be home. They had plans for the evening―dinner at the van Sykes’. Benny wouldn’t miss hobnobbing with the beautiful people.
Brushing any thought of disaster from her mind, she put on her three-carat diamond studs, planted her pedicured feet into her four-inch Manolos, and dashed out the door.
Chapter Eight
Apology Not Accepted
The next morning, Tawny didn’t see Walsh in the lobby. If he was going to arrest her, he’d better show himself or else she’d have breakfast and taxi to the airport. And that would be that. Screw him and the IRS.
She wasn’t about to run away and be on the lam for the rest of her life. She owned her loft, a few pieces of original art and sculpture, some signed first editions by authors she respected, and a treasured collection of Etruscan and Greek artifacts. Then there was her other life—the one she loved and that the IRS knew nothing about. But they knew where to find her.
She asked the hotel concierge to hold her things while she ate, then she’d settle up. Looping her satchel straps over her shoulder, she entered the coffee shop. Vacationers filled the place, dressed, or undressed, for their day at the beach. And there was Walsh, sitting at a table set for two. He put down his coffee cup and rose.
She stopped in her tracks. So did her heart. Damn him. Why did he have to look so good—rested and rel
axed, like he’d slept twelve hours. She woke with puffy eyes and a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up. The bourbon had knocked her out. She wouldn’t do that again.
“Morning,” he said as she approached.
She pulled his razor out of her tote and dropped it on the table. “I missed this.”
He rubbed his bristly chin. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
With the Hollywood stubble, he looked even less like a cop and sexier than ever in faded jeans and a sea-green, open-neck dress shirt. His dark hair, damp from the shower, curled onto his collar. He smelled like herbs and lime. She took the chair he held out and tried to ignore the physical impact he had on her, but her cheeks grew hot in spite of her efforts.
The waiter came to take her order. After a quick perusal of the menu, she ordered an egg white omelet and a bagel. “Lite cream cheese, if you have it. And coffee.”
“Pot’s on the table, ma’am.”
She spotted the carafe. “So it is.”
The waiter trotted off with a smile, and Walsh poured her coffee. He acted contrite, and so he should.
“I wasn’t sure you drank coffee, health food nut that you are.”
“Can’t give up everything.”
“About last night―”
“Forget it. What else could you have expected?” She put cream in her coffee, no sugar, stirred, and sipped. “I wouldn’t have charged you full price. You don’t make enough to pay for me without a discount.”
“Stop, damn it. Don’t make it something it wasn’t. I wasn’t taking advantage. I wanted you, no strings.”
“Yeah, glad to hear prison isn’t a threat these days.”
“If you thought I was hanging that over your head for sex, I wasn’t. I can’t remember wanting a woman more then,” he polished off his coffee, never taking his gaze off her, “or right this minute.”
The man was as slick as black ice and as dangerous. Well, he’s not going to get me again. “You don’t have to say that. You need me; you’ve got me. You can call it no strings. I call it blackmail. Now, tell me how I get Benny to contract me, and let’s get this over with.”
“Jesus, you’re hard.”
“Yes. I am.”
He didn’t say anything else. The breakfasts came. Walsh had ordered a western omelet and pancakes. Tawny hoped it settled like Play Doh on those magnificent washboard abs of his.
Both ate without speaking until Walsh said, “Cooper comes into town twice a week. He eats lunch at the bar at Gruber’s Deli on 87th and yaks it up with the owner. When I know which day, I’ll call you in enough time to get there. From our observations, he’s short a couple of girls these days. When he sees you, he won’t be able to resist making an offer. This time you’ll take it.”
“Sounds simple enough. I’ll have to give him a hard time or he’ll be suspicious. One thing: I won’t be one of Benny’s after-hour playthings. Got that? That’s non-negotiable. If he balks, either find yourself another potential jailbird, arrest me, or let me off the hook.”
“It’s not up to me. I’m just a worker bee. But if you skip town, we’ll find you and the feds will indict you on tax evasion. Find out what we want to know, and they’ll cut you a deal. You’ll probably get off with probation and, oh yeah, a nice tax bill.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less. Let me ask you this. You could get Cooper on charges right now. Why go through all this?”
“Because without proof, all we’d get him on is running a brothel. His girls might roll on him, but maybe not. I’ve had both male and female undercover cops get chummy with a few of the ladies, but no dice.”
“Bet you could get one to talk.”
Walsh smirked. “Too many of them know me.”
“I bet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He wagged his head. “Never mind. I know.”
Why was she being so snarky? He was doing his job. Then she remembered last night and wondered how many women Walsh had made love to the way he almost made love to her.
“Benny’s a smart guy,” Walsh said. “I’m sure he’s covered his backside. We’ve got no proof he’s blackmailing clients or if he even knew the dead girl. That’s what you have to find out.”
“Now it doesn’t sound so simple.” She checked her watch. “I have to pay my bill and catch a plane.”
“Bill’s paid, courtesy of your government, and I’ll drive you to the airport. Plane leaves in two hours.”
So he did pay the bill. Wonder of wonders. “You guys know everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything.” He started to say something else but didn’t.
They finished breakfast and Tawny went to pick up her things. The desk clerk couldn’t have been more helpful. Walsh carried them out to the car parked in the drop-off circle. On the way, three men ogled her, even turned their heads to watch her from behind. She turned and gave them a teasing smile. Walsh frowned. She noticed.
It took forty silent minutes to get to the airport. Walsh parked and carried her bag inside.
“I’ll be back in the city later today. I’ll call you when we know something.”
She took her ticket out of her bag, slapped it in the palm of her hand, and turned toward the counter. “I’m sure you will,” she said over her shoulder.
* * * * *
The woman infuriated him, strutting off in her high heels and designer suit that must have cost four figures. He’d met plenty of working girls in his job but never one like Tawny Dell. Smart and intuitive under her tough-talking exterior, she showed genuine warmth after the bathtub fiasco when he’d nearly lost it. She saw his weakness and didn’t capitalize on it. He doubted her clients ever saw her hard side. They didn’t back her into a corner to do what he was asking. Then he thought about the corner he had her in last night.
He’d been kicking himself ever since he said those three stupid words. He didn’t even know why he said them. In the middle of that unbelievable sexual chemistry, it hit him what the woman had done for a living. That she never gave it away—no birthday gifts, no Christmas presents. Maybe he was just another john.
Business is over for the night. Or is it? Her hurt reaction to those three words proved he wasn’t another john, not a pay fuck.
He slapped his head. He wasn’t lying when he said she turned him on like no other woman. He wanted her so much it hurt.
Could he be putting Tawny in harm’s way? Was Benny Cooper nothing more than a high-class pimp, or was he a blackmailer, or worse, a murderer? The reality struck Linc that maybe he lacked objectivity where this assignment was concerned, and if he were being honest, he should remove himself as the go-between. He should, but he wouldn’t.
Chapter Nine
The Fat Man Speaks
Rick Martell hunkered into his office desk chair with all the energy of a dead battery. He couldn’t think of anything other than his night at Upper Eighties. He wasn’t a violent man. Never hit his wife or kids, even when they deserved a good whipping. He was a freaking accountant, for chrissakes, not a murderer. What had come over him?
It was that little bitch Sissy back in his life again. Always watching while Mommy played with his pecker. Then, when she told Sissy to play with it, Mommy spanked him with a belt for being a bad boy. Can’t let a little girl touch your wang, she’d said. But he was only doing what Mommy told him. Sissy laughed. She laughed at everything, and Mommy never spanked her.
He’d lost it big time last night. Black memories resurged, and it was like he was underwater, struggling to reach the surface. He couldn’t control the nightmare he’d spent years in therapy trying to understand. He was nine years old again, and confusion cluttered his brain. Sissy was laughing, calling him fat names. Then Mommy was undressing him while Sissy gave him a lick of her sucker. The difference between real life and memory whirlpooled into one big blur. He wanted to spank this Sissy like he’d spanked the real one that day long ago. So he spanked her.
Then he crushed her like a bug. Splat! The same way he had
crushed his little sister. When he realized what he’d done, he felt for a pulse, but there was none. Baby Cindi wasn’t breathing, and Melody, sweet Melody with the beautiful tits, was out cold. He ran. What else was he supposed to do?
Why hadn’t the cops come to arrest him? Surely the owner of the club called them. Melody would tell, and his life would come tumbling down again like it had after the first time. What he’d done would be all over the news. His wife would leave him. His kids would have to endure their classmates’ taunts that branded their father a kinky role-playing pervert and child murderer. He’d go to jail, and they’d be scarred for life.
Uncle Mario would probably put out a contract on him for fear he’d expose the mob boss and the family in exchange for witness protection. Martell would be a dead man either way. Hard to hide a four-hundred-fifty-pound man with a price on his head, except maybe in a sumo wrestling commune in Japan.
He had one thing in his favor: the man who ran Upper Eighties wouldn’t want the notoriety of a murder. The place was a tightly-held secret, with business conducted through a secure site on the Web or, in his case, through a trusted associate. Even if the cops knew about it, which he figured they did, they didn’t much care about people getting off when they had more egregious crimes to deal with. Martell never thought paying for a fuck and a little theater constituted a crime. A doorman let him in, a beautiful woman took him to a room, and another beautiful woman did anything he wanted.
Deep in his musings, he heard an almost otherworldly sound. It took him a moment to comprehend that it was his desk phone ringing. Caller ID said Private Number. His boss’s line was private too. Could he have found out already? He punched on his phone.
“Hello.”
“You were a bad boy last night,” the electronic voice said. “A woman is dead and another woman knows who did it.”
Martell sucked in a breath and held it. Shit, fuck, damn. “What do you want?” he asked, knowing full well the caller’s intentions.