Rebel Without A Clue

by Carolyn Scott

  He stepped back. "It says here that Roberta's husband stole her jewelry. Cat, you know how I feel about spouse surveillance."

  "But it's not a domestic," I said. "It's a lost and found."

  "No such thing." He started to move away.

  "Stolen property?"

  "Nice try, but we're sticking to corporate."

  "Why? We need the money. We should branch out. And domestics are so lucrative." And Dad used to do them when the business was his.

  "We don't have the resources."

  "But I can help. I could—"

  "Do your goddamn job." He was halfway up the hallway but he suddenly stopped and turned round. He waggled his finger at me. "You know, I don't understand you. You're smart, you're a whiz at computers and you're a people person, not to mention a talented actress, and yet you can't even file properly. Make that won't file properly. What is it with you, Cat?" But he didn't give me a chance to say anything before moving on. "You know, your dad said all you needed was a chance, so when you waltzed in here, I was more than happy to give you one because he gave me one, but…" He sighed heavily. "Why waste your skills?"

  I stood, speechless, and stared at him. It was the most Will had ever said to me, and I was taken aback. He'd made occasional comments about my lack of motivation, but he'd never attacked me so thoroughly before. I was too stunned to say anything.

  For a whole second.

  "Maybe it's the working environment," I snapped. "You could at least give me some encouragement, maybe further my opportunities, but no, you're too damn busy. When I try to bring in more clients, you turn them away. When I ask to join you in meetings, you shoot me down. For someone in business, you have no idea how to treat your employees."

  He opened his mouth then shut it again, spun on his heel, and strode to his office.

  "If you don't want to include me, why do you keep me on?" I called after him.

  "I've got a heart of gold," he shot back over his shoulder. "And your dad would come back and haunt me if I threw you out on the street." He slammed his office door behind him.

  Heart of ice more like. I plopped down in my chair, my whole body sizzling with anger and frustration.

  Believe me, I often thought about leaving, especially after Will told me how hopeless I was. But then sometimes when he wasn't stressed or trying to do a million things at once, he could be a nice guy. When he followed that up with a promise to train me to be a P.I., I knew I was stuck.

  I'd always wanted to be a private investigator, even before Dad became one and opened the agency. It looked so cool on TV. But I got side-tracked, and at the age of twenty-eight, starting a new career wasn't easy when your only experience was playing a bad guy's girlfriend in Castle.

  If only Will stayed in his good mood long enough to follow through on his promise, I could get out of my rut and do something interesting. Something worthwhile. Something other than filing.

  "What's got up his nose today?" I said to Carl when he emerged from his office like a turtle from its shell. He was a lovely guy but a bit of a coward around Will. He never stood up for me.

  "He's just overworked. Waterstone's being a pain in the ass over this missing money. He wants cameras set up in all his stores to watch his staff. And now that Slim has signed up, Will's got a load of frauds to investigate."

  "Can't you help him out?"

  "What do you think I'm doing back there?"

  "Why doesn't he tell Waterstone to take a hike now we've got an even bigger client who doesn't mistrust his own people?"

  "Because we still need Frank and his money. Will's also trying to drum up new business, plus service our other smaller clients, which I mostly do, but you know Will, he likes to check everything."

  I stared at the blinking cursor on the computer screen. "Are we really that desperate for money that he has to run himself into the ground?" I sounded like I almost felt sorry for him. More fool me.

  "You should know. You do the books."

  "I pay the invoices and file them. I don't see the bottom line. Maybe we should hire more investigators." I knew someone willing to learn. Someone cheap and already on the payroll.

  "It's a catch twenty-two. We can't take on new clients without the staff to handle them, but we can't employ new staff without the money to pay them."

  "Maybe I could help out more."

  "With all due respect, Cat, even if you put one hundred and ten percent into your job, it's not reception that will bring in the money. It's investigation."

  My face grew hot and I barely managed to stay seated. What was with Carl and Will? I knew I was occasionally lax but was that any reason to put me down? "I'm not a receptionist," I said through gritted teeth, "I'm an office manager." I'd expected Carl at least to understand the difference. Will was a Neanderthal when it came to manners but I'd always thought Carl could be counted on for political correctness.

  At least he had the decency to look contrite. "What I meant was—"

  "Forget it." I waved a hand in the air. "What I meant was, if Will would let me do something more productive around here instead of filing and taking messages, we could take on more clients. Like Roberta."

  "We need someone to do the filing and take messages. Although you don't actually do any of that very well." His sudden grin made him look like a mischievous boy.

  I couldn't help smiling back. I never could stay mad at Carl for long. He was cute, in a boy-band way that worked well for him, especially where women were concerned. I didn't know much about his love life, but a leggy blonde had come to the office about a month ago, had a huge argument with him, then emerged from his office half an hour later with the back of her skirt caught in her thong.

  Carl was like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Guilty, but you let him take one anyway just because he looked at you with those big blue eyes and told you how much he loved your home cooking.

  "Hey, I'm not that bad," I said in my own defense.

  "Have you seen Will's office lately? There are papers stacked everywhere. His floor looks like New York's skyline."

  I sighed. "I know, I know. I'll get to it eventually. If Will doesn't fire me first." Sometimes I wondered why he hadn't already. I wasn't exactly a valuable member of the team. Anyone could do my job and do it better than me. "Maybe he really is keeping me on for Dad's sake."

  "Maybe he likes having you around."

  "Why? Because I create an air of mystery by filing things in the wrong place?" I snorted. "I doubt it."

  Carl shrugged and returned to his office, closing the door.

  I hated to admit it, but Will had a point. I could do the office manager job standing on my head. So why didn't I? Maybe a career change at twenty-eight had been a bad idea. I swear I could hear Dad saying 'I told you so' from his grave.

  I'd put myself through several years of college in L.A. by taking small acting roles in movies, much to my father's dismay. I'd worked with talented actors and directors and even picked up a few skills, but I'd never had any roles with lines. Not even a single word. Nor had I finished any of the college courses. I'd never worked in the real world until this job came along. And I hated it. I was so fucking bored.

  Maybe I just wasn't cut out for office work. Maybe I should have stuck to college and playing dead in my spare time. Maybe being a P.I. was a pipe dream, better left to ex-cops like Dad and Will, not ex-actors.

  I stared at the screen and blinked back burning tears.

  No you don't, Cat. Don't let him get to you. Don't give up.

  Dad had driven me out of town with his domineering and controlling nature, but I wasn't going to let Will push me around now that I was older, wiser and stronger.

  The cursor blinked beside Roberta's name and I smiled to myself. What's the best way to get Cat Sinclair to do something? Tell her not to do it. If Will couldn't, or wouldn't, teach me to be a P.I. then I'd learn by myself.

  Suddenly I was sixteen again, sitting on my bed, saying Fuck you to the mirror, imagining i
t was Dad's face in the reflection.

  Only this time I had a car, a better wardrobe, and the survival instincts that only a dog-eat-dog place like Hollywood can teach you.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Roberta's number.

  Chapter 2

  I always dressed for the occasion. For surveillance, I wore black. Black jeans, black tank top because it was warm out, and a black baseball cap covering my light brown hair which I'd tied up in a knot. The shoes had been a problem. The only black ones I owned were the strappy, cocktail party variety or knee-length boots.

  So after work I headed to the mall and bought a pair of ass-kicking Doc Martens. They weren't on sale and they cost a week's wages but they were worth it, completing my outfit along with a large black leather shoulder bag. It held a Swiss Army knife I'd never used, a canister of pepper spray my mother had given me when I first moved out of home, a miniature set of binoculars, a small flashlight, a bugging device I'd borrowed from the store room at work, and a notepad and pen. Checking myself out in the mirror in my bedroom, I thought I looked pretty tough for a five-foot three-inch woman.

  For two hours I tailed Lou Scarletti all over the city. He left his girlfriend's apartment around eight and drove his red Camaro at warp speed to various suburban houses in the northern part of the city, finally ending up at The Grotto, a bar with a reputation for being a gangster's hangout. The only reason I knew that was because the year before it had made the news when an underworld figure had been shot there.

  The Grotto wasn't the place for a slightly built middle-class woman.

  I tried to look through the windows with the binoculars from the front seat of my Honda Civic, but The Grotto's glass was dirty. I could have followed him inside but I'd be as obvious as a cat at a dog show. Damn it. Scarletti could be meeting with a fence and I'd miss it.

  The Grotto wasn't the place for a girl like me, but it was perfect for a woman who knew how to hide her middle-class roots.

  I took off the baseball cap, pulled my hair out of the knot and fluffed it up. One thing I learned at all my L.A. auditions was to be prepared. So I always carry backup makeup. I applied a deep red lipstick and another layer of mascara.

  Not only did I carry extra makeup in my handbag, but the back seat of my Civic was my second wardrobe. Sometimes after work, Gina and I headed out for a drink and I liked to be ready for anything. I leaned through the gap between the front seats and tossed aside cocktail dresses, after-five skirts and slinky tops until I found something suitable. A pair of high-heeled strappy red shoes. So much for the Docs.

  With my costume on, I felt ready to face The Grotto. I was a good actress so I could do this potentially dumb thing and hopefully come out of it looking like I knew what I was doing.

  With a deep breath to steady my galloping pulse, I sashayed into The Grotto and sat on a stool at the bar while I got my bearings. When my eyes adjusted to the mood lighting, I scanned the room for Scarletti but couldn't see him. The only place he could be was in the men's room or upstairs. A sign hanging from a chain across the bottom of the stairs said Private Function and a big, bald black man stood sentinel beside it.

  "What'll it be?" The bartender didn't even look at me when he asked.

  "Beer." He popped the top and handed me the bottle, no glass. "What's the party upstairs?" I asked.

  "Private function."

  "Yeah, I can read, but whose?"

  "It's private." His gaze finally shifted to me. I ducked my head and concentrated on my beer and blending in. No one seemed to be taking much notice of me, but I got a creepy feeling that I was the object of many curious stares. Except whenever I looked round, everyone was deep in their beers, pool games or conversations.

  The Grotto was the sort of place people came to because everyone knew their name. Kind of like in the TV show Cheers only with a sticky floor and too much atmosphere. The sort of place where shady deals were being made over the beers and payments made under the tables.

  I was definitely a fish out of water. Not because of the way I looked—I'd got it right with the shoes and lipstick—but because I was a new face and on my own.

  "So what's a pretty girl like you doing in a stink hole like this?" the guy next to me said.

  I jumped, not because of his voice but because of his face. A jagged, puckered scar sliced through his left eye, half closing the lid. He looked like he belonged in one of the Godfather movies. If it hadn't been for the disfigurement, he could be considered handsome in a rough, wharf-rat kind of way, with dark shaggy hair and matching stubble covering a firm jaw. He sat alone, nursing a drink on the rocks and a lit cigarette. His good eye tunneled through me.

  I shivered and gulped down my beer in my haste to leave. I'd never been so freaked out by someone's appearance before. The man had shady character written all over him. "Sorry, gotta run." I glanced at the guarded stairs. "Party to go to."

  Scarface half turned, took in the sign, looked back at me, and chuckled quietly. "Mad Max has invited you to join his poker game?"

  "Mad Max?"

  "Yeah, he went crazy after spending six weeks in solitary in Renford prison. Gets the shakes, loses his temper for no reason and talks to himself all the time. But he's a good poker player. Probably because no one can tell when he's bluffing."

  For a scary dude, Scarface was quite chatty. Guess I shouldn't judge people by the way they look. Lesson learned. "Really? What does he say when he talks to himself?"

  He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a smoke ring, his lips forming a sexy oh. "Nothing much. Far as I can tell, he thinks everyone's out to get him. Then again, from what I know, half of Renford is."

  It seemed my barfly knew a lot about Renford's undesirables. "He and Lou Scarletti are buddies?"

  He hesitated and sized me up. "Who wants to know?"

  I thrust out my hand while I still had some courage. "Gina Formica." Hopefully Gina wouldn't mind me using her name. Since I didn't want to land her in anything messy, I took a different last name. Formica was the first Italian-sounding word that had popped into my head other than ravioli or pizza. "Lou's girl." The lie rolled easily off my tongue.

  The barfly took my hand but instead of shaking it, he put it to his lips and kissed the knuckles. "Nice to meet you, Gina." He emphasized the name and I couldn't work out if he suspected it was made up or he was coming on to me. But wow, he had a sexy voice. Sort of like melted chocolate—warm, gooey and lickable.

  "And you are?" I prompted, not taking my hand out of his.

  He held the cigarette loosely between index and forefinger in a too cool, James Dean way that I couldn't take my eyes off. "You can call me Scarface."

  "No, really."

  He smiled crookedly. "Since you won't tell me your real name, I won't tell you mine."

  Touché.

  "So are you still going upstairs, Gina?" It sounded like a challenge.

  "Sure. I need to ask my boyfriend something." I never could back down from a challenge. Besides, I had to catch Lou in the act of fencing the jewels, or my case was dust. And my fledgling career.

  He swirled his drink. "Maybe I'll stick around. See how your conversation goes."

  I stood, slung my handbag over my shoulder and marched up to the security guy at the stairs. Even with my three-inch heels, he towered over me.

  "Let me up," I said, sounding braver than I felt.

  He raised one brow. "Who are you?"

  "The entertainment."

  He checked me out, paying particular attention to my chest. Unfortunately the tank top did nothing for my size B boobs even when I thrust my shoulders back.

  I'd taken a chance that Mad Max was the type to employ a girly show. The gamble paid off because the guy unlatched the chain and I walked up the stairs. I couldn't resist a triumphant glance at Scarface.

  He raised his glass to me.

  I paused at the closed door at the top of the stairs and reminded myself why I was about to do something most people would think stupid.
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  It was the injustice. Roberta's husband had screwed around and gotten the jewels. Where was the fairness in that? The least I could do was take some of the wind out of his sails and stop him before he sold off her family assets. If I didn't do it, who would?

  Proving to Will that I could be more than a secretary was a bonus. And I could handle a few hardened criminals—at least, Gina Formica could.

  I knocked on the door and let myself in. I nearly choked on the stale, smoky air. Through the curtain of haze, four men stared at me. They sat at a round table, fat cigars dangling from fingers or lips, cards and gambling chips piled on the table. I recognized Lou immediately. Roberta had given me a photo and I'd already got a good look at him outside his girlfriend's. He had thick black wavy hair, saggy eyes and a down-turned mouth with loose flab hanging from his jowls. He looked a lot like Hooch, Tom Hanks' four-legged sidekick in the movie Turner and Hooch, and drooled about as much too. His paunch hung over his belt, stretching his dark grey shirt so tight I could see his belly button. He had an outie.

  The other three looked older, from about mid-forties to sixty. One was completely bald and he scratched his head with the fingers that cradled his cigar. The third was a weasely looking man dressed in army khakis, and the fourth had a pale, swollen face and coughed sporadically without covering his mouth.

  "You're early," growled the khaki man. He seemed to be in charge so I figured he was Mad Max.

  "She don't look like a stripper," said Baldy, squinting at me. "Show us your tits."

  Yeah, right. I wouldn't show 'em on the casting couch and I wasn't about to do it in a seedy bar for seedy men.

  "Cash up front," I said, hoping to hold him off until I got something useful.

  "I've got a tab with Lulu," said Mad Max. He stood and came toward me. He was tall and skinny and his jerky strides reminded me of a stork. He stopped in front of me and crossed his arms, but not before I saw his hands shaking. "She would have told you that," he said. "She would've. She's very thorough, very thorough." I could see what Scarface meant by the rambling. "Show me Lulu's ID."