I fixed myself an Alka-Seltzer and sat down in front of the TV. I tried to watch Sanford and Son, but laughing made my headache worse, so I turned to Iron Chef. What would today’s secret ingredient be?
As I lounged on the recliner, waiting for the secret ingredient to be revealed, my mind wandered. Two Gods had been murdered, children of Zeus and Hera. Who was the killer? What was their angle? And what did they hope to gain out of all this? Those were the questions of the hour.
But they weren’t mine to answer.
When the sun came up, I showered, got dressed, and headed over to the Stone residence. Collin didn’t work weekends. It was afternoon before he finally came out of the house, wearing a green polo and khaki shorts. A pair of sunglasses hid the black eye Enyo had given him. I wondered how he’d explained the injury to Bellanca. I bet he told her that he’d been mugged again, or that he had fallen down a flight of stairs. Or maybe he went with the ever-popular I-ran-into-a-wall story.
I followed him to Enyo’s mansion and parked on the parallel street. I turned on my dashboard camera and waited for the action to start.
Collin rang the bell. Enyo answered the door wearing a black bra and tight red sweatpants. Without so much as a hello, she grabbed Collin by the collar and yanked him into the house. The door slammed shut.
After an hour, the door burst open and Collin ran outside in his boxers. The rest of his clothes were bundled in his arms. Enyo ran out after him, in a pair of black panties and no bra. Her breasts were all but nonexistent. Metal rings flashed in both her nipples. In her hand, she clutched one of Collin’s brown loafers. She shouted something and flung it at him.
The shoe struck Collin in the back of the neck and caused him to stumble and fall. The clothes tumbled out of his arms. Picking them up never seemed to cross his mind. He scrambled to his feet and ran like a frill-necked lizard to his car. He started the engine and screeched out of the driveway.
Enyo chased him down the road and out of view of the camera. It would have been nothing for a Goddess to catch up with a speeding car. So when she returned to her driveway without a mangled bumper in hand, I assumed she had let Collin escape. She snatched up Collin’s shirt, ripped it in half, and threw the pieces onto the lawn. She then stormed into the house, slamming the door behind her.
I shut off the camera. A grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. Collin’s dirt was finally catching up with him. Unfortunately for him, his problems were about to get even worse. It was time to show Bellanca the footage.
16
Monday morning, I was editing the footage of Collin in my office when Hermes made another impromptu appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
“What do you want now?”
“You should know the answer to that by now.” Hermes sat down and crossed his legs. “I told Zeus about your involvement in last weekend’s investigation.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. He was pleased. He strongly insists that you reconsider helping us.”
I closed my laptop. “Is everyone on Olympus hard of hearing? I am not—I repeat—am not investigating the murders.”
“I think you will,” Hermes said with a straight face.
“Zeus pays you to think now?” I said. “You do everything your daddy tells you to do?”
Hermes returned a humorless laugh and stood up. He removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. “At first I found your impertinence to be quite amusing. But now you’re starting to piss me off.”
I shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Hermes reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. He slid one onto his hand. I felt a twinge of fear in my gut. Inconspicuously, I opened my desk drawer, where I kept my gun.
“You are, as they say, a tough nut to crack.” Hermes tugged the other glove onto his hand. “Zeus suggested that I come up with more . . . creative forms of persuasion.”
Every muscle in my body tightened. The pulse in my neck throbbed. My hand was poised above the open drawer.
“You think that by roughing me up, I’ll agree to help you?” I asked.
“Some individuals only seem to respond to violence.”
“I thought you didn’t like fighting.”
Hermes smiled darkly. “This won’t be a fight, Mr. Jones.”
We stared at each other for an interval. Motes of dust floated through the sunlight, the only movement in the room. Then I blinked and he was gone.
Terror flooded me. I grabbed my gun and glanced around the office for something to aim at.
Gloved hands appeared out of nowhere and caught my arm in a crushing grip. I thrashed wildly as I was lifted into the air and thrown across the office. I slammed into the wall and crashed hard onto my side. Air burst from my lungs.
I struggled to my feet, coughing and wheezing. The next thing I knew, Hermes was pressing me against the wall. His fingers closed around my throat.
“So, Mr. Jones,” he said, still smiling. “Have you started to rethink your position?”
I pressed my gun under his chin. “Go to Hades.”
Hermes laughed.
Emilie came into the office wielding a large revolver. “I think you should leave now.”
Hermes ignored her.
My voice cracked with fear; it was embarrassing. “Let me go, before I put a bullet in you.”
Hermes smirked. “Exactly what would that do, besides make me angry?”
“It’d ruin that snazzy suit of yours,” I said.
Hermes tightened his grip on my throat. I grunted.
Emilie cocked her gun.
No one made a move. Everything was silent except the hum of the air conditioner. Should I shoot him? Could I pull the trigger before he crushed my throat? I knew he was fast. But how fast?
“I should kill you right now,” Hermes whispered.
“But you won’t,” I said. “You need me.” The words seemed to grind against the inside of my throat.
Hermes’s smile widened. He let me go and backed off slowly.
Emilie moved away from the door, her gun still trained on him. “Are you all right, sir?”
I nodded, clutching my throat. “Yeah.”
Emilie covered me as I returned to my desk and sat down. My hand shook. The Desert Eagle felt glued to my palm.
“I’ll ask you again,” Hermes said. “Have you reconsidered? Or shall I resume trying to convince you?”
“Beat me up all you’d like. Answer’s still the same.”
Hermes removed the gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. “Are you sure this is the route you wish to take?”
“Sure as I’ll be,” I said.
Hermes reached into his pocket and produced a white business card. He placed it on my desk. “If you change your mind.”
“Not gonna happen.”
He chuckled and turned to leave. He stopped near the door and glanced over his shoulder. “A word of warning, Mr. Jones. There are consequences for disrespecting the Gods. Grave ones.”
I pointed at the door.
“Have a nice day.” Hermes tipped an invisible hat and walked out.
Emilie lowered her gun and straightened. She cleared her throat. “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the assist.”
Emilie nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what was that all about?”
I shook my head, putting my gun back into the drawer. “Nothing. Just Gods being Gods.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“An icepack would be nice. And some of those little chocolate cookies. The ones with peanut butter in the middle.”
“Yes, sir.” Emilie left my office.
I let out a long sigh and rubbed the nape of my neck. The adrenaline coursing
through my body began to die away, and I suddenly felt tired. My back and throat felt like they were on fire. They’d feel worse tomorrow morning. But none of that bothered me. Physical pain was something I could deal with. What did bother me was the fact that I had gotten roughed up by a guy with plucked eyebrows and manicured hands.
17
After I finished editing the footage of Collin, I swung by the Stone residence to review it with Bellanca. She and I sat in the living room across from the big-screen TV. Sunlight poured through the skylight.
Bellanca watched the recording as if in a trance. As bad as I felt for her, I couldn’t help cracking a smile during the part where Collin ran out of Enyo’s house in his tighty-whities.
When the recording ended, Bellanca said nothing.
“It looks like you were right,” I said.
Bellanca continued to stare blankly at the television screen. When she finally spoke, her voice emerged as little more than a whisper. “He cheated on me.” There was no emotion in her tone. No sadness or shock or anger. Nothing. “I asked him if he was cheating on me,” she continued, “and he said no.”
We were sitting next to each other on the red sectional, about a foot apart. I looked at her. She looked back. Her lips parted, as though she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t get the words out.
“You okay?” I asked.
Bellanca gave a partial nod. A few seconds passed. Then she started crying. She bent forward and covered her face. Tears squeezed between her fingers, dripping onto the checkered tile. Being a PI, I had seen this type of thing dozens of times, and it always made me feel awkward.
I patted her on the back. It was the only thing I could think to do. She looked up at me. Her face was flushed and mascara ran down her cheeks.
“I loved him,” she sobbed. “How could he do this?”
I wanted to say, “Your husband’s a selfish asshole, and you should get a divorce ASAP.” But I didn’t. My job was to give people the truth. What they did with it was up to them.
“I’m sorry,” I said, truthfully.
Bellanca threw her arms around me and buried her face in the crook of my neck. I stiffened. Her hair smelled like fresh coconut. A knot of desire formed in my belly.
“He told me he loved me,” Bellanca said, her voice muffled.
I rubbed her back. She gave a shuddering sigh as her tears dampened the collar of my shirt. Comforting clients wasn’t in my job description, but today I made an exception. I liked Bellanca. I liked being this close to her. She was a beautiful woman in a vulnerable position. But she was also a customer. And Plato Jones, PI, is all about customer service.
Bellanca stopped crying after a while. But she continued to embrace me. Her lips brushed the side of my neck. At first, I dismissed it as an accident. But then it happened again, and this time it was more than a brush.
Bellanca tightened her hold on me and started kissing my neck. My heart raced, and I suddenly felt light-headed. Feeling her warm body against mine, I found it hard not to close my eyes and go with it. But I knew I had to put a stop to this. Hugging a client was fine, if not ethical. But having sex with one, especially a married one, was a line I refused to cross.
“Bellanca,” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t you think you should stop now?”
She ignored the question and kissed me again. Her soft lips searched the bare flesh on my neck. I fought the impulse to her kiss back.
“This has to stop,” I said, my voice coming out huskier than I intended.
“No. Not yet.” Bellanca leaned forward and tried to kiss me on the mouth. I turned my head. Her lips pressed against my cheek.
“Stop.” I pried her arms away and stood up.
Bellanca stared at me, her brown eyes large and dark, her lips flushed. Then she blinked and her sanity seemed to return. She gasped and shot upright. “I am so sorry!”
I shook my head, still light-headed. “Don’t worry about it.”
Bellanca started crying again. She covered her face and turned away from me.
“I think I should go now,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
I saw myself out and got into my car. I started the engine, cranked the air conditioner on high, and drove off. The excitement never stops, I thought. In less than eight hours, I had been beaten up by a God and molested by a client. I didn’t know whether I needed a hot bath or a cold shower.
18
After my divorce, my mom reclaimed the title of most important woman in my life. I paid her a visit at least once a month. She was the nurturing type. Generous, kind, willing to bend over backward for family. She was protective too. Fortunately she never got too crazy with it.
Early Saturday morning, I drove to the docks and took a ferry to Skiathos, an island northwest of Athens. It was a popular tourist spot, with lots of resorts and restaurants. My mom lived in a beachside villa on the southwestern part of the island. I bought her the house after my second year with the OBI. A white one-story with reddish-brown shingles, it was plain as plain could be. I wanted to get her something fancier, but she wouldn’t have it. She said I had already spent more than enough money on little ol’ her.
I knocked on the door. A minute later, my mom answered, out of breath and wearing a red-and-black salsa dress. Her long gray hair was pulled back in a bun. When she saw me, her brown eyes lit up.
“Hi, Mom.” I smiled when I saw her.
“PJ!” She wrapped her arms around me like I was soldier coming home from war. She felt smaller than I remembered. More fragile. I had to be careful not to hug too hard for fear of breaking her.
Mom released me and poked me in the stomach. “You’ve put on weight.”
I looked myself over. “Maybe a little.”
“You’d better be careful,” she warned me. “Once you get too much on, it’s almost impossible to get off.”
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
“Famous last words.”
I laughed. “So, what’s with the getup?”
“What, this?” She glanced down at her dress. “James is teaching me to salsa dance.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Who’s James?”
“My new friend. Didn’t I tell you about him last time we talked?”
“No. You neglected to mention him.”
“Well, come on in and meet him,” Mom said, pulling me through the door.
I didn’t like this. Didn’t like it at all. In the past six years, my mom had gone through four boyfriends. The first three were alright. But the fourth was a real ass. A smooth talker with a nice car and lots of cash. He had this cheese-eating grin that grated on my nerves. One time he took my mom skydiving. Another time, the two of them went bungee jumping. When I caught wind of their little escapades, I was royally pissed—so pissed, in fact, that Alexis had to talk me out of going after the guy. What my mom saw in that loser I’ll never know.
She led me into the living room. The space had a tropical theme going on. The furniture was wicker, with bright floral cushions. The fan blades were shaped like banana leaves. The patio window looked out onto the Aegean. Salsa music played on an old record player that had belonged to my dad.
James danced by himself near the fireplace. He was tall and dark, with curly gray hair, a thin mustache, and a bad suntan. His build was impressive, for an old guy. He had on a black button-up with long puffy sleeves and a pair of tight black pants. Beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt, his chest looked like it had a family of chinchillas glued to it. The only thing he was missing was a rose clenched between his teeth.
“Eleanor, is this your little boy?” His voice was smooth, but not in a good way. It was that cheesy kind of smooth. The kind that screamed used car salesman.
“Sure is,” Mom said, her face bright.
Ja
mes salsa-danced up to me and shook my hand. He smelled of cologne and aftershave. The combination made my nostrils burn.
“James Hodges,” he said.
I offered him a fake smile. “Plato Jones. Good to meet you, Mr. Hodges.”
“Please, call me James.”
“Sure.”
“Your mom has told me a lot about you.”
I wish I could say the same. “Nothing too incriminating, I hope.”
James grinned. His veneers were too big and too white for his mouth. They reminded me of piano keys.
“You hungry, PJ?” Mom asked.
“Starving.”
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something.” She glanced at James. “Would you turn off the music, dear?”
Dear? Gods, how serious were they?
“Of course.” James walked over to the old record player and turned it off. I felt a thump in my chest. I didn’t like the idea of another man touching my dad’s stuff. He was dead and couldn’t care less, but still.
“Come on, slowpoke.” Mom tugged my arm.
Like the living room, the kitchen also had a tropical theme. But with white floors, blue walls, and lime-green cabinets, it more closely resembled something out of Pee-wee’s Playhouse. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my mom to death, but an interior designer she is not.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Is there anything in particular you want?” Mom asked.
“Nah, just whatever you got.”
While Mom rummaged through the fridge, I looked around the kitchen. A picture of me and Socrates sat on the bakers rack. I was eleven and he was thirteen. We had our arms around each other’s shoulders, like we were best friends or something. That was as far from the truth as you could get. In reality, I couldn’t stand my brother. Just hearing his name made me angry.
Our dad died of prostate cancer when I was fourteen. A few days after the funeral, Socrates took off without saying a word. No goodbye note. No nothing. He abandoned me and Mom when we needed him the most.
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