by Maisie Dean
“Just like that?”
“It’s worth a shot. Rich people love to play games like this with each other. They need something to break up the boredom of never needing to work for a thing again.” Lucky spoke easily as he wove between lanes on the freeway. “The easy life gets dull.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that kind of a life,” I said.
“Me, neither.” For a moment he seemed to drift away, frowning over some thought.
“Except for this Mercedes you’re driving,” I said.
Lucky’s grin returned. “This old thing? It’s just part of the job, Chance. In this town, you need to drive a quality car if you want anyone to take you seriously. You must know that. I bet you’ve brushed shoulders with a few successful types. Tell me they didn’t all have classy cars.”
“It takes more than a fancy car to be successful,” I replied. His comments were getting to me. My own car was anything but classy. Was that a sign of my failure to make it as an actress or part of the reason why? Maybe I was just being sensitive.
Lucky seemed to sense the shift in my mood. He gave me a sidelong glance. “There are many types of success,” he said.
I leaned forward and stroked the smooth console of the Mercedes. “This type seems nice to me.”
The sound of traffic took over for a while.
After a moment, Lucky said, “The car isn’t mine. It’s a lease, and an expensive one that Harrison doesn’t approve of. He’s more of an economy vehicle kind of guy.”
“He sounds sensible,” I said, thinking of my practical shoes.
Lucky said, “You’d better not switch over to Team Sensible with Harrison. I really need an ally on Team Fun.”
“Team Fun? Is that what being a real detective is all about?”
He winced. “We try not to call ourselves detectives. Most investigators stay away from that word, since it has a lot of connotations. In fact, Harrison tried to rebrand us as information consultants once, but the phone stopped ringing because people didn’t know what that meant.”
“Okay. So, is being an investigator fun?”
“It is when you’re on Team Fun with me.”
“How about this case? Is it a typical one? It doesn’t seem like a very big job. Once we get the painting back from Portia, we’ll be done. Is this usually the way things work?”
Lucky shrugged. “Like I said, rich people play their games. We get paid to play along. As long as we play the roles they want us to, we have a gig. They get to play their games, we get to charge by the hour. Everyone wins.”
“That sounds a lot like acting,” I said.
Lucky glanced over at me. “You seem sharp,” he said. “It’s a shame you’ll be off Team Fun when the next audition comes along.”
I stifled a sigh. There was no point in trying to convince the Bookers of how much I wanted to stay. I would just stick around, no matter what, and eventually they’d see.
“Harrison likes you,” Lucky said.
I snorted. “He doesn’t even know me. He barely said two words to me so far.”
“But he agreed to let you come along with me,” Lucky said. “Which means he trusts you to babysit me. Pretty soon you’ll be watching my back all the time, making sure I don’t break any of his many rules.”
“Such as?”
Lucky had a cheeky gleam in his eye. “If I don’t tell you the rules, you won’t know when I break them,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. I was beginning to see why Harrison thought Lucky needed a babysitter.
After a moment, Lucky said, “I know you’re only a temp, but I might as well pass on some of my sage wisdom while we have the chance.”
I adjusted my position in the creamy leather passenger seat so I was partly facing him. “Okay, shoot,” I said. “Hit me with your sage wisdom.”
“The business of investigation comes down to three things: technology, hard work, and getting people to talk. As for the technology and hard work, a robot could do those things. That’s why we have Owen and Harrison.” He waved a hand at me. “You haven’t me Owen yet. He’s our younger brother.” He put his hand back on the steering wheel. “That last thing, getting people to talk, is the most important investigative skill by far.”
“Are you calling your brothers robots?”
“I’m saying they could be replaced by robots.”
“But not you.”
In a tinny robot voice, Lucky said, “That-is-what-I-am-saying-to-you.”
“Not bad,” I said. “Have you considered acting?”
He snorted. “Don’t mock your boss.”
I held both hands up. “I’m not mocking. I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing these investigative skills of yours in action.”
“You’ll see,” Lucky said confidently.
The GPS interrupted with more directions. We exited the freeway, and soon were on a street lined with typical LA palm trees. He pulled the Mercedes up to Portia’s address. She lived in an elegant, four-story condo building.
Parking in LA was never this easy, so I scanned for signs. Sure enough, there was a sign.
“This is a loading zone,” I said.
Lucky shrugged nonchalantly and reached into the back seat to grab his jacket.
“If you leave the car here, you’ll get a ticket,” I said. I had personally experienced the efficiency of the LA parking enforcement agents. Too many times.
Lucky leaned over toward me and popped open the glove box. I got a whiff of his cologne, and it was not unappealing. I held my breath and tried not to enjoy the smell. Breathing deeply would only give my brain the wrong ideas. He was my boss. Never mind that he was only seven years older than me, and his cologne smelled nice. He was my boss.
He finally found what he was rummaging for in the glove box. It was a decal with the word PRESS on it. He slapped the decal on the dashboard, and climbed out of the car.
“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe the nerve. The decal didn’t look like it would fooled anyone. Or at least not anyone who wasn’t living in the 1950s.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I do it all the time.” He gestured for me to get out of the car, so I did. He locked the Mercedes with the press of a button.
I stood staring at the press decal. If he did this all the time, that would explain the stack of parking tickets that he and Harrison had been arguing about that morning.
Lucky waved for me to come with him into the luxury condo building.
“But that press decal...” I couldn’t leave the car.
“It’s fine,” he said. Then he held a finger to his lips and said, in a serious tone, “Don’t tell Harrison.”
Don’t tell Harrison? I had a feeling that if I continued working for the Booker brothers, I’d be hearing that a lot.
He was already at the front door of Portia’s building waiting for me. I hiked my purse on my shoulder, tucked my legal pad under my arm, and ran to catch up.
CHAPTER 4
Portia Fitz opened the penthouse door and greeted us with an elegant smile. She hadn’t been warned that Lucky and I would be showing up at her place that morning, yet the older woman looked anything but surprised. In fact, she looked ready for anything.
Lucky did the introductions while I stared at at Portia, taking in her appearance and looking for some sign she was a criminal who stole paintings from ex-husbands. Her age was somewhere between forty and eighty—it was hard to tell due to the unnatural smoothness of her face. Plastic surgery? Without a doubt. She certainly was a striking woman. Her hair was white-blonde, twisted into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. Her eye makeup was dark, shades of navy and charcoal. The smoky eyes seemed out of place. Dramatic makeup would suit an evening cocktail party, but it wasn’t even noon. Then again, what did I know about the world of LA’s well-to-do wives and ex-wives?
Portia Fitz’s clothing was striking and dramatic. Over her thin frame, she wore a black sequined suit with a white silky blouse. Her suit sparkled and looked particularly
dazzling as she walked us across white carpet into an all-white room.
She waved for us to take a seat on a white leather sofa, then thumbed at the multiple strings of pearls at her neck. She wore several jeweled rings on her thin fingers.
“Refreshments,” she said, as though making an announcement. “Gin or vodka? Unless you’d prefer scotch?” She walked over to a well-stocked rolling cart.
“None for us,” Lucky said. “I wish we could, but we’re on the clock.”
“Just a single, then.” She reached for a tumbler. “A single serving of gin is refreshing any time of the day.”
Lucky didn’t refuse further, so I cut in before she started pouring. “Water would be great,” I said. “For both of us.”
She set the tumbler down with a clunk, then called over her shoulder, “Water, please! Three glasses!”
A moment passed. Nobody spoke or moved. There was no response from whichever servant she’d been calling.
“We don’t need the water,” I said.
“Don’t be silly, dear. One must stay hydrated in LA.” Portia chuckled and gave us a tight smile. “What’s the expression? You simply cannot find good help these days.” She raised one finger. “One moment, please.”
She left the room, her designer heels clicking on the white marble floor before she reached the silent white carpet of the hallway.
With her gone, I was free to look around the room, gawking like a tourist.
Lucky murmured out of the side of his mouth, “Some place, huh?” He rubbed his forearms and tugged at the short sleeves of his Hawaiian-print shirt. “Jeez. It’s like an igloo in here. The air conditioning must be set to Antarctica.”
“It’s exactly like an igloo,” I gushed. “A very elegant one.”
All of the hard surfaces were white marble or glass. Every piece of furniture was white leather or white lacquer. I had never seen anything like it that wasn’t a film set. For an igloo, it was well lit. The windows were over ten feet tall, filling the room with natural light. There must have been a swimming pool outside, because ripples from the reflection of sunshine on water danced across the penthouse’s white walls.
While I looked around in amazement, Lucky’s gaze never strayed far from the elegant silver cart topped with crystal carafes and glasses.
Portia returned and took a seat across from us, on a high-backed white leather chair. She watched us with a blank expression I couldn’t read. Was she even capable of expressing emotion through her face? Or had the combination of Botox, fillers, and surgery rendered her permanently blank? Her lack of expression was disconcerting, yet I did feel sorry for her. It was hard being a woman in LA, let alone an older woman. Leo had mentioned that Portia worked in the film industry. She must have felt pressured to keep her skin smooth in order to be taken seriously in her work. Or to get dates.
Lucky said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us Mrs. Fitz. My colleague—”
“Portia,” she said crisply. “Call me Portia. I may have the Fitz name on paper, but I don’t want to hear it said out loud.”
“Of course,” Lucky said. “Portia.”
We were interrupted by a twenty-something woman entering the sitting room with glasses of water on a silver tray. She was pretty, with dark blonde hair and lush eyelashes. Her eyes locked onto Lucky as she placed the drinks on the glass table in front of us. The water had thin slices of cucumber floating in it.
Lucky flashed her a particularly big smile. “Cucumber slices,” he said huskily. “It must be my lucky day.”
The young woman’s cheeks filled with color. Lucky lifted his glass in her direction and took a sip of the cucumber water.
Portia cleared her throat and gave the young woman a sharp look. Miss Cucumber Water quickly disappeared.
Lucky said to Portia, “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
“One must always be prepared for surprise visits,” she said cheerily.
I took a sip of the cool cucumber water, watching the gracious woman over the top of my glass. Despite her stretched-flat features, she was smiling—the kind of genuine smile that goes from the mouth to the eyes. She was happy to be entertaining us, no matter what our business was. It had to be lonely living in a huge penthouse by one’s self. Hired staff wasn’t much company.
Portia crossed her legs and leaned forward. “This is all very lovely, but we should attend to the matter at hand. What business may I help you with?”
“As I mentioned at the door, we’re here on behalf of your ex-husband, Leo Fitz.”
She nodded. “Is this another one of Leo’s pointless crusades you’re on? One of his wild goose chases?” She flashed her eyes, becoming more animated by the minute. She wasn’t at all worried about why we were there. She was excited! By the gleam in her smoky-shadowed eyes, she was enjoying herself very much this morning, even without gin.
Lucky leaned back and affected a relaxed pose, one arm stretched across the back of the sofa between us. “Mrs Fitz—I mean Portia, my client wishes to keep things civil. And, to tell you the truth, I do, too.” Lucky wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to be the bad guy. All Leo wants is to get the painting back.”
“The painting.” Portia’s posture remained stiff. Her nostrils flared. “The painting,” she said again.
“Do you know the painting I’m talking about?”
Portia’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes.” She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Leo’s painting, of course,” she said. “His most beloved painting?” For someone who’d stolen the painting, she sure sounded uncertain.
“That’s the one,” Lucky said.
“Mmm.” She nodded thoughtfully.
Lucky continued. “I understand you were not a big fan of the artist who made the painting. A woman by the name of Hannah Otto.”
Portia’s smooth forehead furrowed. Hannah Otto was not a name she enjoyed hearing.
“I’m aware of the so-called artist who calls herself Hannah Otto,” Portia said. “Such a silly name. Two palindromes. She thinks she’s so clever.”
“Your ex-husband thinks she’s clever. And talented.”
Portia rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know. She was at his party on the weekend, and he wouldn’t stop talking about her.” Portia made chatty gestures with her right hand. “Hannah this. Hannah that. Isn’t she wonderful? Her use of color is so inspiring.” Portia stopped talking and made a retching sound.
Lucky waved at the all-white interior. “And color isn’t exactly your thing.”
Portia sighed. “I suppose a little color isn’t bad, but that woman’s work is garish. It’s disturbing. Have you seen it?” She leaned forward, eager to dish.
Lucky straightened the collar of his bright, garishly printed shirt. “I’m not exactly an expert on art,” he said. “Or restraint with color.”
She gave him a bemused smile. “But at least it looks good on you.” She let her eyes trail down his torso slowly. “All of the shapes on your canvas are just right.” She licked her lips. “With your looks and coloring, Mr. Booker, you can wear anything you like.” Her husky tone suggested that he could wear nothing at all, if he liked.
He shook a finger at her. “Don’t you change the subject, you naughty girl. We were talking about the painting.”
“Fine.” Portia rolled her eyes.
“It must have been upsetting for you to be around Hannah Otto at the party. Was that when you decided to play your little prank on Leo?”
Coolly, she said, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
I did a double take. She’d all but admitted to taking the art, but now she was playing dumb? This had to be the game-playing the Booker brothers had talked about.
Lucky stayed calm and on track. “You stole Leo’s painting on Saturday night,” he said.
She held very still, like a deer caught in headlights.
Lucky didn’t take his eyes off her. This was a new side of him that I hadn’t seen before. Back at the office, he�
�d let his brother drive the interview with Leo while he’d made every attempt to change the topic. But now he was the hunter and Portia was the prey.
“While the party was in full swing, you slipped away and entered the unsecured wing,” Lucky said. “You took the painting out of the frame, and then you walked off with it.” He rubbed his hands and glanced around the white sitting room. “Now, if you’ll be a good girl and fetch the painting for us, we’ll be on our way.”
Portia narrowed her eyes at him. “Leo has multiple security cameras around the property.”
“That’s true,” Lucky said calmly.
“Then you must know I didn’t simply walk his hideous painting out of the house. I wouldn’t have. If I’m going to play a prank on my ex-husband, I’d be a lot more careful than that.”
“Oh, but you were careful. You hid the painting inside of something before you smuggled it out.”
“I did?” Portia managed to cock one eyebrow without wrinkling her forehead. Her eyes continued to gleam with amusement. If she was a criminal, she was a smooth one.
Lucky looked over at me and gave a light nod, as if to say go ahead. Go ahead and take a crack at her, Kacey Chance. I’ve softened her up for you!
“Your purse,” I said, off to an awkward start. “That night at the party, you had a designer purse with you. It was an unusual shape. Cute, but unusual.”
“Go on,” Portia said neutrally. “It’s so delightful to hear the thoughts of the younger generation, unless, of course, they’re under my employ.”
I felt both of their eyes on me. You can do this, I told myself. It’s just a scene with no script. Your character motivation is to catch the criminal!
“Your purse was a cylinder,” I said, using my hands to mime the shape in mid-air. “A long tube, like this. It would have easily held the painting, if you rolled up the canvas and stuffed it in.”
Portia stared at me, frozen faced, for a long moment before speaking. “Well, well,” she said, turning to my boss. “The young one is a lot smarter than she looks.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
Portia leaned back against her chair and crossed her arms. She didn’t look at all ashamed to be caught and exposed as an art thief. If anything, she looked gleeful.
