The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman

by Silkstone, Barbara

  “Your teeny closet gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  I took a big swallow of my Bloody Mary before I spoke. “I wonder about Croc. It’s hard to imagine his huge ego would allow him to disappear into thin air. And I can’t help wonder how that idiot talked investors into parting with their money.”

  Kit fiddled with the Tabasco, spicing his drink just this side of combustion. “He talked you into marrying him.”

  I cracked a big claw and dipped it in the mustard sauce. “I had an excuse. I’ll never get that tipsy again.”

  “Three of my salon clients went wonkers over their investment losses last week. They collapsed into crying fits while I was doing their nails. People aren’t coping well with the financial meltdown.”

  He took a slow, easy swig from his glass and then asked, “What exactly is a Ponzi scheme?”

  “A scam where a crook, a big kahuna, gets investment capital from Client A by promising him fat returns – like 20% – then gets Client B the same way, using his money to pay off Client A, making it look like he’s delivering on the investment promise. Then he needs Client C, D, and E to keep the circle of payoffs and influx of new cash going... you get the picture. It’s a ‘rob Peter to pay Paul’ that never ends. At some point, that big kahuna gets caught, but not before he’s ruined the lives of many, many people.”

  Kit thumped his forefinger on the table and drew 20% with the condensation from his glass. “You mean he’s using new money to pay the promised interest even though he’s not making anywhere near the 20%.”

  I rubbed out his markings on the table. “Exactly, except that number’s only an example.”

  “Is that what Croc was doing?”

  “Croc wasn’t running a Ponzi. He was running a hedge fund, which is pretty shaky in its own right, but him being lazy, and stupid, and worthless... Sorry, I digress. I know Croc. I hope he wasn’t foolish enough to be a feeder for some big kahuna. I’ve been worried ever since that Russian stopped us.”

  “Did Croc have a big kahuna?”

  Skipping over his double-entendre, I said, “I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Let’s change the subject, please.”

  He beamed a laser-white smile. “Well... my new show opens in two weeks.”

  Kit’s career as the reigning drag queen of Miami Beach was his passion. It was unnerving to watch him prance around in full makeup. He actually made a fairly good-looking giantess.

  “You definitely got my mind off finances. Let’s split one dessert. I have Treanna tonight. We’re ordering pizza and making ice cream sundaes. I’ll be a blimp before the weekend is over.

  We topped off lunch with a gooey key lime pie. Satiated, I dropped Kit back at his salon.

  * * *

  My real estate company Darlin Realty was located in an old house I’d taken great pleasure in renovating. It was a deep shade of putty green, two-story with a wrap-around front porch. We never used the veranda, but it looked inviting with a white wicker loveseat and two big rocking chairs.

  Linda, our receptionist, was out to lunch when I got back. I grabbed the phone on the second ring rather than letting the service get it.

  “Darlin Realty. Wendy speaking.”

  A raspy voice said, “This is Charlie Hook.”

  I knew the name but feigned ignorance. We’d almost met the night Croc disappeared.

  “How can I help you?”

  “The Charlie Hook.” He repeated with irritation and ego flooding out of the phone. “I’m in the market for a house on Miami Beach – private, walled, ocean view. I’ll go up to thirty-mil.”

  We were talking big commission dollars whether I made the sale or one of my agents did. I thought it over for a few seconds and agreed to meet him at a private hanger at Miami International in two hours. The little hairs on the back of my neck were dancing the no-no dance, but I ignored them.

  A few minutes later, Marni Kimble wandered into my office as I was packing my Louis Vuitton tote. She was one of my newly licensed agents and had yet to make a sale. She’d been clinging to me as though I could wave a magic wand and poof, she’d sell a beachfront mini-mansion. She settled her athletic body into a chair and flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She was a hottie in search of the good life.

  I smiled at her. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m starting to feel like I’m not cut out to sell real estate. I can’t get a decent client. New money wants to work with an agent they can identify with. Money likes to hang with money.”

  “No more of your limp excuses. Your mom did well when she worked for me, and she was going through chemo during most of that time. She’s smart and independent. You have her genes. We’re going to make you into Realtor of the Year.”

  She shot me an angry look. “I’m nothing like my mother. Cripes, who retires to Mexico?” Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she knotted it at the back of her head. “I was born to be taken care of.”

  Her complaining was wearing thin. There are millions of reasons why something can’t be done, but I never let them stop me. Stepping into my mentoring mode, I said, “Grab your things. I’m on my way to meet a buyer. If he’s for real, I’ll give him to you. That’s how much confidence I have.”

  She was still thanking me as we buckled up in my Jag sedan and headed for our meeting with fate.

  It was easy enough to find the private hangers in Miami... They were the buildings that tried hardest to be inconspicuous. Charlie Hook timed his entrance for our arrival. He strutted from his jet as if he’d just won Best In Show. He was about six-feet tall and weighed about one-sixty. Lean and lanky, he had a thick shock of gray hair, a George Hamilton tan, and perfect white teeth that had to cost a small fortune.

  First words out of his thin lips grated on me. “Gotta trade in this Gulfstream. No damn leg room.” He eyed Marni and then put his arm around me like we were old friends.

  I choked down a gag and introduced him. My young agent’s doe eyes doubled in size when he invited her into his plane for a drink. I got the crazy feeling the hotshot was trying to make me jealous.

  “Marni’s on a tight schedule. She’s working with a number of clients,” I lied.

  Hook clenched his jaw and the pupils of his gray eyes became the size of BBs. “I want her exclusive attention or not at all.”

  I’d show him who was in control. I motioned Hook to follow us. “Marni’s laptop is in my car. She can give you a virtual tour of a couple of properties.”

  “I don’t do virtual. That’s for lookers. I’m a buyer.” He followed us to my Jag.

  Marni grabbed her computer and jacket from the front seat. “I’ll go with Mr. Hook in his limo if he doesn’t mind.” She twisted the corners of her mouth in a suck-up smile.

  Pulling her aside, I whispered in her ear, “What are you doing? Call me if he gives you any trouble.” I had an uneasy feeling.

  “What about you? ‘Hook said. “My money not good enough?”

  Ignoring his remark, I waved them off. “Cheers!”

  * * *

  Ten days and twenty mansions later, there were no offers from Hook. Things were going circular, and he was taking gobs of Marni’s time. She was at the front desk setting up viewing appointments when Hook slithered into my office.

  “So, why did you shuffle me off to an underling?” he asked.

  “Marni’s a good agent. She needs this sale.”

  “And you don’t? Did your ex leave you with a secret fortune?”

  “Who told you I was divorced?” My skin felt crawly.

  “You’re a workaholic with one ex in your closet and no kids.”

  Marni-big-mouth must have given him the skinny on me. I needed to have a serious talk with that girl about discretion.

  I was used to new-rich, high fliers who thought everything came with a price tag. Hook was shopping in the wrong store if he was looking at me. I couldn’t afford to tell him exactly what I thought of him. Besides it wouldn’t have made a dent in his brain. There are some
things money can’t buy; one is class.

  “Are you really in the market for a house, or are you just trolling?”

  Hook stood up like he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. “I don’t need to troll. I can have any woman I want.” He narrowed his snake eyes at me. “I’m taking Marni to see my yacht this afternoon. Want to play chaperone?”

  I was in no rush to complicate my life again, and certainly not with another wheeler-dealer. But now I knew what Hook’s little game was, I couldn’t resist baiting him. It would be fun to taunt this predator with my unavailability and goad him into buying a property from Marni – which would bring money into Darlin Realty.

  Stepping over his crass remarks like a pile of warm dog poop, I said, “I’ll be there. Where are you moored?”

  “At the Million Mile Marina near Key Biscayne. Just ask for the Predator.”

  “That figures.”

  He managed a half-sneer as he turned and walked away.

  I called Kit. “Want to tour a super-yacht?” I wasn’t going without protection.

  To read more of Wendy and the Lost Boys, you may purchase it at the sites listed below:

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  Bonus excerpt from

  London Broil

  sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys

  Chapter 1

  Sunlight ricocheted off the waters of Biscayne Bay piercing my tears like painful daggers of light.

  Officer Burger put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s pretty much a lost cause.”

  My stupid, stupid, pointless lunch meeting with Pierre Delmonico cost me dearly. While I was trying to convince him to make an offer on a garish old beachside mansion, some low-life scum bag took off... My cell phone rang.

  “Wendy?”

  “Goldie’s gone,” I sobbed to Roger Jolley, my private version of Indiana Jones.

  “Oh, my god. Are you okay?” The concern in his voice was comforting. “Wait... who’s Goldie?”

  I sniffled. “My Jag.”

  “You’re crying over a car! Were you in an accident? Did you hurt your head?”

  “No I didn’t hurt my head,” I hissed. “I was in the Au Poivre Hotel meeting a buyer... a potential buyer, and a guy stole her. I handed him the keys and he drove away.”

  “Why did you hand over your car keys?” Roger asked in a snarky tone.

  “He was dressed like a valet and gave me a receipt. After my meeting, I looked at the ticket. It was for a dry cleaner.”

  I could hear the smirk in his voice as he blathered on, completely unsympathetic, “You still want to be part of the recovery of the thirteenth Lost Boy?”

  It had been almost two months since Roger and I rescued the Lost Boys from Charlie Hook. “I’ll make it worth your while when I get the reward for the complete set.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be paid for the twelve boys we found? I mean... you found?”

  “The deal was for the all the Boys. My client’s withholding payment until all thirteen are safely resting in the British Museum.”

  Roger’s lack of sympathy for my loss was irritating. I didn’t carry replacement value insurance on my gorgeous champagne-colored Jaguar. I hadn’t made a sale in almost a year. Money was going out, and none was coming in. The market for Miami Beach mansions was on its knees, and the few real estate agents who remained with me were praying for a sale.

  And as much as I hated to admit it, Roger’s Johnny Depp eyes were on my mind and fanning some dormant embers of lust.“Okay... deal.”

  I was back on the trail of the Egyptian antiquities known as the Lost Boys, the Shadows, or death icons of the infant sons of the sixth dynasty pharaoh, Kjoser. Roger and I had rescued twelve of the Lost Boys; the thirteenth was in the hands of the thief Hook hired to steal the collection for him. She kept one Lost Boy as her going away present.

  “Get yourself over to London on the early morning flight out of Miami and meet with my client Benny Hannah. I’m stuck in Cairo for a few days. Benny has a hot lead on where the missing Lost Boy might be. His chauffeur will meet you at Gatwick.”

  Geeze, he was so annoying. “Just what am I supposed to do?”

  “Insert yourself into Hannah’s life until I get there. If someone else finds that last Lost Boy, the museum directors could force Benny to pay the reward money to a stranger. We could lose the entire finder’s fee.”

  “So it was all or nothing? Why didn’t you tell me that before I risked my life on Hook’s yacht? And how, Mr. Indiana Jones, do I ‘insert’ myself?”

  “Benny’s got a weakness for blondes. He’ll love you. Let him feel we’re on the trail. Just check into the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel on Knightsbridge. I’ll find you there. We can stay at my flat after that.”

  “Whoa... you have a flat in London? You never mentioned that.”

  “We didn’t have a lot of time to chat when we were captives on Hook’s yacht. There’s gobs you don’t know about me.”

  I hesitated, “I can’t disappear on Treanna again. I have to spend some time with her. I can be in London the day after tomorrow... Sunday.”

  “Guess that’ll have to do. I’ll email you further details. In code.”

  “What code? How will I know what I’m reading?”

  “Circle every third word.”

  “You maroon. Is that what they teach you in archaeology school? Draw a ring around every third word? Kindergarten stuff. Just send it. I’m so dead in the real estate market, nobody looks at my e-mails anymore. I wish someone would snoop ... at least I’d feel noticed.”

  “Get the flight. I’ll cover it.”

  “Business class?”

  I heard him exhale. “Yeah sure. Keep the receipts.”

  “What’s my title?”

  “You don’t need a title. You’re undercover. You’re Roger Jolley’s Assistant, how about that?”

  “That sucks. How about Assistant Tomb Raider?”

  He laughed. “Please get it through your head. We’re the opposite of Tomb Raiders. We put back, not take out. See you in London.” He clicked off.

  Dumping my phone into my purse, I walked back into the hotel, and plopped into a chair in the lobby with my legs shaking from adrenalin and humiliation. The contemporary neutral palate of tan, white, and black eased my fried nerves. I stared out a three-story wall of glass that faced the marina. Yachts were moored bow to stern like parade elephants.

  A herd of sappy memories flooded my brain. Peculiar how cars can become an extension of our beings. I hoped Goldie’s transmission fell out on the thief’s feet. Officer Burger said she’d probably be chopped up for parts. My poor baby. I’d never be able to smell new leather again without tears. But now it was time to call for a rental car and get on with my life. I gathered my things and headed out to the valet’s desk. They’d know the numbers for a good rent-a-car shop.

  I noticed an elegant sign standing on the marble floor near the reception desk. Lured by the Feng Shui photo with the words Harmony Spa in scrolling silver letters, I moved closer. High-energy sound waves liberate skin congestion while delicately pushing super-antioxidants deep into the dermal matrix. This therapy superbly combines the latest technological modalities achieving visible age-defying results.

  It would be nice to be glowing when I saw that annoying Roger again. We’d exchanged sweaty goodbye hugs and a pretty sexy kiss in a private hanger at Miami International the last time we were together. Then he was off to return the twelve Lost Boys to the British Museum, while I brought the orphaned poodle Tinkerbelle to Treanna.

  The dimly lit lounge next to the spa sign beckoned. How best to spend my mad money? A glassful of the best scotch the Au Poivre could offer or stimulate my pores in preparation for my rendezvous with Roger? My dermal matrix could use some attention, but so could my nerves.

  When in doubt, opt for both. I got a double Glenfiddich Special Reserve Scotch at the bar and took it with me. I pressed the elevator button and rode to the spa on the 20th floor.


  * * *

  Roger’s email arrived that night. I circled every third word. Benny Hannah lived in the South Bank area within sight of the London Eye. He’d been the director of antiquities for Idi Amin’s private collection and had escaped from Uganda one step ahead of a machete. Benny was Roger Jolley’s special client, and I was about to enter his world. I felt a rush of monkey-energy. Wendy Darlin, Assistant Tomb Raider, was about to leap into action... after I played Big Sister.

  Chapter 2

  Treanna and I shared garlic bread as we waited for our spaghetti and meatballs at her favorite, The Spaghetti Factory. We’d been coming here since our first get-acquainted lunch almost a year ago. We’d recently celebrated her sixth birthday here. I couldn’t imagine not spending Saturdays with her. She brought me such joy and put my problems in perspective as only a child can do.

  Grandma Matty had done up Treanna’s black hair in tiny tight braids ending in two purple barrettes at the back of her head. She was wearing a lavender and purple party dress with full crinolines and lace edging. She looked like a little doll.

  I approached breaking my travel news to her with trepidation. My last jaunt was supposed to have taken only a few days. Being kidnapped had not been on my radar. I was gone for weeks. Treanna was sure I’d abandoned her.

  “Tinkerbelle looks like she loves living with you. You’re a good mama to her.” It must have been the tone of my voice, because Tre flashed me a darkened glare.

  She looked from under her long black lashes. “People who go away from me don’t get to read me a story. They might not even get to read me two stories. I have to think about it.”

  I jerked back. “Are you a mind reader? I have to go help a friend.”

  We finished our lunch in kid-grumpy silence. Treanna rolled her last meatball around the edge of her plate, ignoring me. She pulled out her oversized sunglasses and slipped them on, her signal that she was shutting down.

  I had to go. She had to learn to trust me. Treanna had been unable to get close to anyone. Her short life had been one of abandonment and solitude. Grandma Matty did her best, but she lacked the energy to spend time with the child. They spent their days watching old movies on the Turner Classic Movies; it was the only world she knew. Tre fancied herself Audrey Hepburn.