by Sandra Brown
They hugged him, stroked him, kissed him on the mouth, told him he was gorgeous, the moon was awesome, the night air was divine, and life was beautiful.
They asked him to hold their clothes while they went skinny-dipping. He watched from the pier as they cavorted like water nymphs, occasionally pausing to wave and throw kisses up to him.
When they came out of the water and dressed—well, partially—he took them to his car and gave them each a beer.
One of the girls fixed her glassy eyes on him. “Do you like to party?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Clever answer. Noncommittal. Affirmation was only implied.
She fondled him through his shorts and giggled. “I believe you do.”
“We love to party,” the other drawled.
They did, too. Over the course of the next hour, in the backseat of his car, they showed him just how much the party girls they were. When he finally told them he must go, they were reluctant to say good-bye. They kissed and caressed him and begged him to stay for more fun and games.
He finally disentangled himself and made his departure. As he was steering his car through the makeshift parking lot toward the main road, he noticed a couple of guys looking at him with blatant envy. They must have seen him getting out of his backseat with the two babes, extricating himself from their clinging limbs and drug-induced affections.
Did these losers wish they were as lucky in love as he was? You bet your ass they did.
But he also marked a guy he recognized as an undercover narcotics officer. The cop was thirty, but didn’t look a day over eighteen. He was transacting with a known drug dealer through the open window of a car.
What’s the difference in the narc buying drugs and what I’m doing? John Rondeau asked himself.
Not a damn thing. To effectively fight a crime, you had to understand the nature and mechanics of it. Ever since his unit had discovered the Sex Club, he had appointed himself to do some research. After hours and on-site, of course.
His ambition was to get promoted to CIB, which was the pulse of the department. That’s where all the exciting police work was done, and that’s where he wanted to be.
Toward that promotion, he could really distinguish himself with this Kemp case. It had elements that received notice, namely, a celebrity, sex, and minors. Put them together and you had yourself a humdinger of an investigation.
To the computer crime unit, the Sex Club was old hat. They’d known about it for months and, realizing the futility of trying to shut it down, had more or less forgotten about it.
But the messages left on the discussion boards continued to blow Rondeau’s mind. He’d made it his duty to check out the situation, see if the members really did what they boasted or simply exchanged their wildest fantasies via email. He had discovered that most of the claims were not exaggerations.
And it was a good thing he had done the research. If he hadn’t had hands-on knowledge, he wouldn’t have been able to answer intelligently and thoroughly all the questions put to him by Curtis, Malloy, and Paris Gibson this morning. So it really was for the benefit of the PD that he’d been putting in this unpaid overtime, wasn’t it?
However, more investigative work was required. It was all about his getting a promotion to CIB. It was his job, his sworn duty. He was working undercover, that’s all.
• • •
Not surprisingly, Brad Armstrong wasn’t at home when Toni returned from his dental office. She explained to the startled babysitter that she didn’t feel well and that she and Dr. Armstrong had canceled their plans for an evening out. She paid her for five hours.
Three times she had called Brad’s cell phone. Three times she’d left voice-mail messages to which he hadn’t responded. She fixed the children hot dogs for dinner. After they’d eaten, she played a game of Chutes and Ladders with the girls while her son watched a Star Trek rerun.
They were trooping upstairs to take their baths when Brad came in with chocolate bars and bear hugs. For Toni there was a bouquet of yellow roses, which he sheepishly presented to her. “Can we be friends again? Please?”
Unable to look at the insincere apology in his eyes, she lowered her head. He took that as acquiescence and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Have you eaten?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Perfect. I’ll put the kids to bed. You get something on the table. I’m famished.”
What she had on the table when he returned to the kitchen wasn’t what he expected. The unappetizing display stopped him dead in his tracks. “Where’d you get all that?” he demanded angrily. “Never mind. I know where you got it.”
“That’s right. I found it this afternoon when I went to your office. Where you were conspicuously absent, Brad. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, and you haven’t answered your cell phone for hours. So don’t put me on the defensive. I refuse to apologize for violating your privacy when this is what your privacy is protecting.”
As soon as he was confronted with the evidence of his sickness, the fight went out of him. It was a physical diminishing, a deflation both of spirit and body. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, his shoulders slumping, his hands falling listlessly into his lap.
Toni took a plastic trash bag from the pantry and scooped the collection of sordid photographs and magazines into it. Then she closed it with a twist tie and carried it to the garage.
“I’ll take it to a Dumpster in the morning,” she told him when she came back in. “I would hate for the bag to come open accidentally and our neighbors, or even the garbage collectors, to see what’s inside.”
“Toni, I’m . . . There’s really no defense I can offer, is there?”
“Not this time.”
“Are you going to leave me?” He reached for her hand and clasped it damply. “Please don’t. I love you. I love the kids. Please don’t destroy our family.”
“I’m not destroying anything, Brad,” she said, pulling her hand free. “You are.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“Which is all the more reason for me to leave and take the children. What if one of them had found those pictures?”
“I’m careful about that.”
“You’re careful to conceal it the way a drug addict hides his stash or the alcoholic keeps a hidden bottle in case of an emergency.”
“Oh, come on,” he cried.
His contrition was gradually dissipating. Hostile defensiveness was setting in. Next would come an air of superiority. They’d played this scene many times before. His transition from penitent to martyr was virtually scripted and Toni knew to anticipate each phase of it.
He said, “Comparing a harmless hobby to drug addiction is ridiculous and you know it.”
“Harmless? Some of those pictures are of underage girls. They’re exploited by corrupt and depraved people for your entertainment. And how can you call it harmless when it affects your career, our family life, our marriage?”
“Marriage?” he sneered. “I don’t have a wife anymore, I’ve got a jailer.”
“If you continue, you may well wind up in jail, Brad. Is that what you want?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to jail.”
“You could, unless you admit to yourself and to others that you’re a sex addict and get the help you need to combat it.”
“Sex addict.” He snuffled a laugh. “Do you hear how absurd that sounds, Toni?”
“Dr. Morgan doesn’t think it sounds absurd.”
“Jesus. You called him?”
“No, he called me. You haven’t been to the therapy group in three weeks.”
“Because it’s a waste of time. All those guys talk about is whacking off. Now, I ask you, is that a productive way to spend an evening?”
“It’s court mandated that you attend the meetings.”
“I guess you’re going to tattle to my probation officer. Tell him I’ve been a bad boy. I haven’t been going to therapy with the other pervs.�
��
“I don’t have to tell him. Dr. Morgan already did.”
“Dr. Morgan is the worst sicko in the group!” he exclaimed. “He’s a recovering ‘addict’ himself. Did you know that?”
She continued unflappably. “Dr. Morgan is required to report more than two consecutive absences to your probation officer. You have an appointment with him tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. It’s compulsory.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter if I cancel patient appointments and get my partners pissed at me.”
“That’s a consequence you’ll have to pay.”
“Along with sleeping on the sofa, I suppose.”
“I would prefer that you did.”
His eyes narrowed into a glare. “I bet you would. Since you obviously don’t like anything we do in bed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair. It’s having a wife who’d rather snoop than fuck. When was the last time we did? Do you even remember? No, I doubt you do. How can you think of sex when you’re so busy spying?”
He came to his feet and advanced on her. He curved his hand around the back of her neck and gave it a squeeze that was too hard to be mistaken for affection.
“Maybe if you put out more often, I wouldn’t have to resort to looking at my dirty pictures.”
He yanked her forward. She turned her head to avoid his kiss and tried to push him aside. But he backed her against the counter and pinned her there. Shocked, she cried out, “Stop it, Brad. This isn’t funny.”
Her anger only seemed to excite him. His face suffused with color as he ground his lower body against hers. “Feel that, Toni? Feel good?”
“Leave me alone!”
She pushed him hard enough to send him reeling backward and crashing into the table. Covering her mouth with her hand, she tried to stifle her sobs. She was equally outraged and frightened. She’d never seen him this way. Her husband had become a stranger.
He regained his footing and collected himself, then snatched up his jacket and keys. The house shook with the impact of the slamming door. Toni staggered to the nearest chair and sank onto it. For several minutes she wept softly, not wanting the children to hear.
Her life was falling apart and she was incapable of doing anything about it. Even now she loved Brad. He refused to get help to rid himself of this illness. Why was he intent on destroying the love they’d once had? Why would he willfully choose his “harmless hobby” over her, over his children? Weren’t they worth more to him than his—
In a heartbeat, she was out the door to the garage. The trash bag in which she had placed the pornography was gone.
Brad had taken his first love with him.
chapter 13
Paris had an office at the radio station, which she worked in when she wasn’t on the air. Although “office” was an aggrandizing word for the small room. It couldn’t claim a single redeeming feature, not even a window. Decades ago the plaster walls had been painted an ugly manila color. The acoustic ceiling tiles sagged and bore generations of water stains. Her desk was made of ugly gray Formica, chunks of which had been gouged out, probably by a previous occupant who was hopelessly depressed over his surroundings.
Nothing in the office belonged to her. There were no framed diplomas on the walls, or posters of vacation destinations fondly remembered, no candid snapshots of grinning friends, or posed family portraits. The room was barren of anything personal, and that was intentional. Pictures and such invited questions.
Who’s that?
That’s Jack.
Who’s Jack? Your husband?
No, we were engaged, but we didn’t get married.
Why? Where’s Jack now? Is he the reason you wear sunglasses all the time? Is he the reason you work alone? Live alone? Are alone?
Even the friendly prying of coworkers could bring on severe heartache, so she tried to prevent it by keeping her relationships with them strictly professional and her office space devoid of any hints about her life.
The office wasn’t without clutter, however. The unsightly surface of her desk was covered by mail. Bags of it were dumped onto it daily—fan letters, ratings charts, inner-office memos, and the endless reams of material sent to her by record companies promoting their newest releases. Since there was no space for even a file cabinet in the room, she sorted and tossed as efficiently as possible, but it was an unending task.
She had attacked the pile of correspondence after making her music selections for that night’s show and entering them into the program log. She’d been at it for an hour when Stan materialized in the open doorway. His expression was petulant. “Thanks a lot, Paris.”
“For what?”
He came in and closed the door. “Guess who came to see me today?”
“I hate guessing games.”
“Two of Austin’s finest.”
She laid aside her letter opener and looked up at him. “Policemen?”
“And I have you to thank for it.”
“They came to your house?” She had thought that either Carson or the eager Griggs would have called Stan only to ask follow-up questions.
He moved aside a stack of envelopes and sat down on a corner of the desk. “They interrogated me and jotted down my answers in little black notebooks. Very gestapoesque.”
“Stop dramatizing, Stan.”
Because of her return trip to the police station, followed by the upsetting visit with the Kemps, she’d had no time to sleep. Before she could rest, she had to do a four-hour radio program and do it as though nothing was wrong. It was a daunting prospect.
Dealing with Stan’s wounded pride wasn’t the best use of her limited stamina or the time remaining before the evening deejay turned the broadcast studio over to her.
“This morning, I reported Valentino’s call to a detective,” she explained. “As it turns out, a young woman from this area is unaccounted for. The police are investigating to see if there’s a connection between her disappearance and Valentino’s call. They’re conducting routine background checks on everyone who’s involved, even remotely. So don’t take offense. They didn’t single you out. Marvin is also on their list of people to talk to.”
“Oh, great. I rank right up there with a janitor. I feel much better now.”
For once she felt his sarcasm was warranted. “I’m sorry. Truly. The police are being thorough because they’re as convinced as I am that this was no crank call. I hope we’re all overreacting and it turns out to be nothing. But if our hunches are right, a girl’s life is at stake. Nevertheless, I regret that you were dragged into this by happenstance.”
He was mollified, but only slightly. Stan’s first consideration was always Stan. “The police also talked to our general manager. Of course, he immediately called Uncle Wilkins, who in turn called the chief of police and, from what I understand, gave him an earful.”
“Then I’m sure you’ve been cleared of all suspicion.”
“I was actually under suspicion?” he exclaimed.
“Figure of speech. Forget it. Go out and buy a new gadget. There’s bound to be one on the market you don’t have yet. Treat yourself. You’ll feel better.”
“It’s not that easy, Paris. My uncle was even more incensed than I was. He’s been talking to the GM off and on all afternoon, wanting to know ‘what the hell is going on.’ I paraphrase, of course. You can count on being summoned into the inner sanctum yourself.”
“I already have been.”
The station’s general manager had called her on her cell phone as she was leaving the Kemp estate. He had asked for a meeting, but he’d put it in the form of a mandate, not a request. She’d received a dressing-down for not telling him about Valentino’s call before notifying the police. His primary concern was the station’s reputation.
“I played him the recording of the call,” she told Stan. “It disturbed him, as it’s disturbed everyone who’s heard it. He spoke with Sergeant Curtis, the detective who’s
heading the investigation.”
The GM had talked to Curtis via speakerphone, making Paris privy to their conversation. He had agreed that Paris and everyone at 101.3 should cooperate with the police to the fullest extent, but stipulated that if Janey Kemp’s disappearance became a big news story, he wanted the radio station’s involvement to be minimized.
Curtis’s response had been, “Frankly, sir, I’m more worried about this girl’s life than I am your radio station’s call letters showing up in the press.”
Before she left the GM’s office, he had peevishly reminded her that her precious anonymity might soon be blown. She had already thought of that, and hoped it didn’t come to pass. For years she had safeguarded her privacy with the fanaticism of a miser protecting his stockpile of gold. She never again wanted to be the pivotal figure in a sensational news story.
But she agreed with Curtis—rescuing Valentino’s victim superseded everything else. By comparison, the impact it would have on her life was trivial.
To further pacify Stan, she said, “Rest assured that I received a proper scolding for jumping the chain of command. You weren’t the only one who had his hands slapped today. Now, can I please get back to work?”
“It was a wristwatch with a built-in GPS.”
“What was?”
“The gadget I bought myself today.”
She laughed as he blew her an air kiss and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Oh, by the way, Marvin called in sick.”
“Sick?”
“Switchboard left a message on my voice mail,” he called back. “That’s all it said.”
To her knowledge Marvin had never called in sick before, making her curious about the nature of his sudden illness. She left the mail sorting for another time and headed toward the small employee kitchen at the back of the building.
At this time of night, the building was hushed and dimly lighted. Other station personnel were long gone, their offices dark. Paris was accustomed to the silence, the darkness, and the pervasive odors of dust scorched by electronic equipment, burned coffee, and carpet that had absorbed decades of tobacco smoke before smoking was outlawed in the workplace.