Avery startled when someone clamped her shoulder.
“Hey, it’s only me,” Damon said. “You okay?”
“Just jumpy from everything that’s been going wrong with my life,” Avery said.
“It’ll get better,” he said. “I know you’re only fake-dating that football player, but remember what we talked about?”
Eliza thankfully moved away, making her way toward Alida who was going through her slides and testing the sound system.
“We’ve talked about so much lately.” Avery shrugged. “I feel like I’m losing the twin intuition. What’s on your mind?”
“Worried about you making wrong choices.” His soulful eyes bore into hers. “Did that cop do something to hurt you? Because if he’s messing with you, I’m going to kill him.”
“He’s a little too much to take,” she said, hoping to diffuse his intuition. “But really, all he cares about is finding the murderer. Sometimes, I think he’s obsessed because he’s afraid he or Alida were the real targets, and I’m guessing it’s guilt that keeps him on the case.”
“Okay, if you say so. There’s something creepy about him. It’s like he wants too much,” Damon said.
“So, what is it we talked about before?” Avery wanted to get off the subject of Jason Burnett. She didn’t want to dwell on how easy it was for him to shut off passion as easily as shutting off the tap.
“Baby steps. Getting back into dating safely. You can be in complete control and disappear any time without consequence.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” A sheen of cold sweat dotted her forehead. The thought of dating again was too disturbing, especially after the way she threw herself at that horrid cop. What was she thinking or not thinking?
“I’d like you to be one of our beta testers for Club Cockburn Dating App. You can choose any screenname you want and be completely anonymous. You can get your emotional needs taken care of without putting yourself on the line in the real world.”
“You want me to do virtual dating?”
He nodded solemnly. “I think it’ll be good for your recovery. I know more about you than you want me to know.”
“What?” She hissed, hating that her twin might be onto what she was subjected to. “You couldn’t have known. You were always with Chase, Alex, and Stone in the game room.”
“I’m your twin, Avery. I know why you took drugs.”
“We’re ready for the demo,” Alida’s voice closed in. Had she heard?
Avery poured sugar and cream into her coffee and turned away from her twin. He couldn’t have known, because if he did, why didn’t he tell and why didn’t he help?
Finding Richie presented no problem. The guy was active on social media and was hosting a beach party at his father’s Southampton mansion located on the famed “Billionaire Lane.”
Jason checked the time. He’d be fashionably late at best. After changing into casual evening beach chic, he donned a pair of blocky flattop sunglasses and headed east on the Long Island Expressway.
The drive gave him time to think. His instincts had never failed him—except for the moment when the shooter pointed his gun straight at him and Alida. That brief instant when he stared down the empty black hole had torn the shout from his mouth.
Get down!
Why had the shooter chosen the final moment of the show? Had the split-second delay caused Brando to move in front of Avery?
No matter what. Avery would always associate him with that fatal instant in time. It was frozen in her mind. His shout, the shots, Brando dead.
His only chance to heal the rift was finding the murderer and assuring Avery she was completely safe. It was more than his job. It was his calling.
The beachfront property was well maintained, with every hedge and bush trimmed symmetrically along the private tree-lined drive. As expected, a pair of armed security guards stood at the entrance gate, checking credentials.
Jason flashed his badge, and the mustachioed guard frowned. “This is a private party. You’re not on the guest list.”
“I have information Mr. Richard Overton would find most interesting,” Jason said.
“Then contact his assistant,” the guard said. “Turn around.”
“This is a private matter. I don’t think Mr. Overton would relish his assistant getting wind of it. Call him and tell him I came for the Schitts tickets.”
“No can do. If you know him so well, you can leave a message or have him courier them to you.”
“He’ll know who I’m speaking about. Remember, the Schitts tickets.” Jason raised the window of the convertible which already had the top up. Instead of pulling off to the side, he stayed in the center of the drive.
A car pulled behind him. It was followed by a second car and a limousine.
The guard tapped on the window, gesturing for him to leave. Jason wore the gangster-style sunglasses and sat still with his service revolver ready. He’d already shown his badge. The guard would be stupid to try and force him off the property.
He could be very patient when needed, and so he waited.
The limousine passenger apparently was not as patient. The driver exited and ambled by Jason, giving him a pointed glare. He spoke to the guard who got on the phone.
Jason was sure he wouldn’t get the local police involved. These parties served drugs and trafficked in sexual encounters. This was how a social influencer gained power over politicians and corporate bosses. Combination of carrot and stick: fundraising with movie stars, celebrities, and an occasional prince or princess. Questionable drug and sexual encounters were captured on video with irrefutable evidence. These activities resulted in big payoffs in terms of contracts for pet projects, funneling of aid money, favoritism for ambassadorships, boardroom positions, and cabinet appointments.
Sure enough, the gate opened, and the guard looked the other way as Jason drove by. Large shade trees provided cover for the well-tended lawn. A reflecting pool flanked by ornamental pear trees led up to a fountain in front of the circular driveway.
The mansion was a clean and immaculate study in classical architecture. Large white columns spanned the height of the structure and were prominent on both sides of the covered portico. Valets and footmen were stationed to greet the guests and park their cars.
The part of the property adjacent to the beach included a sand volleyball court, a putting green, and several badminton nets over the green lawn. Young, lithe, and beautiful women frolicked in bikinis with equally young and sleek men.
Jason handed the keys to a valet and sauntered through the elaborately decorated entry door. He was immediately met by three men coming down the stairs.
“Come with us quietly,” a large burly man with a gray beard said. “You were not on the guest list.”
“I only want a few words with Mr. Overton, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Hand me those shades.” The man held out his hand. “I want to see the whites of your eyes at all times.”
Jason took off his sunglasses and put them in his back pocket. “These are designer shades. I’d rather keep them.”
The man’s face remained impassive. He gave Jason a pointed stare and calmly picked the glasses from Jason’s pocket. “I’ll return them when you’re done.”
“Whatever.” Jason shrugged. These were cheap Locs anyway, a knockoff meant to make him look mean. Locs-style sunglasses were popularized by gangs in Los Angeles and featured heavily darkened lenses.
The other two men, muscled and armed, flanked Jason as he followed Graybeard. He was led to a set of double doors and ushered into the library.
The first thing that struck Jason was the mahogany wood-paneled room divider with a large aquarium full of tropical fish alongside a copper bar counter and leather swivel stools.
Richie Overton lounged in a zero-gravity recliner next to the bar with a fruity cocktail in his hand. The playboy had a round face honed by leisure and ease. The widow’s peak over his wide forehead and thick, crescent-shaped eyeb
rows were his strongest features, but his lower face was weakened by a nondescript nose and a thin-lipped small mouth.
He wore board shorts, a Madras plaid shirt, and flip-flops on his feet. With a disdainful wave, he dismissed the guards.
“Sit, please,” Richie said in a voice that sounded like he had rocks in his throat. “Excuse me for not offering you a drink.”
Jason refused to take the offered seat. “This will be quick. I’m currently a police officer, but ever since meeting our mutual friend, Avery Cockburn, I’m burning to become a model. She mentioned you as the guy who knows all the best agents and throws the best parties.”
“Cut the crap.” Richie’s gravelly voice rasped like that of an elderly Mafia boss despite being under forty. “You’re too old to get into modeling. What do you really want?”
“I’m an NYPD investigator. I could look the other way for the right contacts.”
“Why would I need you when I could go a lot higher than you?” Richie snuffled in laughter. “I know exactly who you are. You want to play hero to our mutual friend.”
He made air quotes around the word “hero.”
“Actually, I thought you’d be interested in knowing that Larry Leach is moving in on our mutual friend. You’re not the only guy with tickets to The Schitts of Fifth Avenue.”
“He can’t offer what I can,” Richie said. “He should stick to investment banking.”
“Except his father isn’t running against Avery’s father. That makes what he offers more palatable.”
Richie swiveled his lounger toward the expansive bay window that overlooked the beach. “Larry Leach turned you down, didn’t he?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“I have a lead on the murders of several male models spanning the last two years. There’s a pattern I can account for, but I’m missing a few dots.”
“I haven’t heard of any murders.” Richie kept his gaze on the young men playing beach volleyball.
“You hire male models. You must have heard.”
“Nope.”
“You’re telling me Larry cut you out? Maybe I should make a deal with him.”
Richie shrugged, but his jaw stiffened and he appeared to be chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Larry’s over his head. You won’t be safe if you deal with him. I’ve been at this a lot longer. Larry’s an amateur. If he thinks getting Avery’s father elected is his ticket, he’s betting on the wrong horse.”
“You’re sure your dad’s going to win?”
“No, but I don’t take sides.” Richie gave him a self-satisfied smirk.
“Just like my girlfriend, Alida. Cunning.”
Richie’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes narrowed as if he were reassessing Jason. “Then you ought to know where Larry’s getting his models.”
Again, the air quotes—this time around the word “models.”
Jason nodded knowingly. “I don’t like Avery being associated with models who end up dead.”
“I don’t either.” Richie’s voice lowered to a barely perceptible growl.
“So, how do we stop it?”
“I’ll pull some strings if you can get Avery to accompany me to The Schitts.”
“Answer one question. Do you know Garm Guillory?”
He pursed his lips as if considering and shook his head. “We don’t deal with real names in this business. You ought to know that.”
“Unless they’re dead. Who killed Garm? He worked the fundraising circuits and attended fashionable parties. Rubbed shoulders with people in your circle. What I want to know is who did meth with him? Whose DNA did we collect from his body? Whose firewall are his images encrypted behind?”
Richie’s face turned ashen, and his jaw slackened. He swallowed before closing his mouth and tilting his head toward the doorway.
“Get out.”
“Admission of guilt?”
“Not taking your bluff. You’ve been overruled a long time ago. This isn’t about the male models and your imagined meth murders.”
“Call off your dogs.” Jason leaned over the lounger in a dominant position. “If you harm one hair on Avery’s head or anyone in her family, you’ll wish you never laid eyes on me.”
“Spare the threats, Detective. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. You look out the window and you see young men and women. No one over the age of twenty-three. What you don’t see are the eyes looking out those windows at them. This is bigger than a few accidental deaths, and if you’re smart, you’ll take these tickets and go with Avery to the show.”
He opened a drawer and threw an envelope at Jason who caught it with one hand.
“Deal.” Jason let himself out without looking back.
The three bodyguards flanked him.
“Time to go.” Graybeard slapped the Locs sunglasses in Jason’s palm. “You come back again, and you’re a dead man.”
Jason didn’t care. He’d delivered his message and had seen the whites of Richie’s eyes, which were not exactly white. The guy was still a drug user, and no amount of teeth whitening, caps, or cosmetic surgery could cover up the physical ravages of an addict.
As he got into the rental car, his phone rang.
About time his boss caught up with him. Not a coincidence.
Jason put the large square sunglasses on and glanced at the mansion. “Yeah, Burnett here.”
“What the hell are you doing in Southampton?” Chief Gavin Grimes barked.
“It’s my day off. Thought I’d go to a beach party.”
“You’re all over the news. I don’t like my investigators making news. You hear that?”
“I haven’t given any interviews.” Jason drove out the gates and down the narrow lane.
“There were cameras at The Big Bean. General Cockburn’s security detail accused you of kidnapping his daughter Avery, and then you and she get into a wreck on the Taconic State Parkway. I’ve been fending off reporters all day asking if I’m reopening the Brando Bonet case.”
“Are you?”
“Hell no!” Grimes screamed. “I don’t want you anywhere near the Bonet case. You killed the shooter. End of story. Stop fueling the conspiracy theories.”
“Except Avery Cockburn is still in danger.”
“From no one but you. I’m warning you, Burnett. Stay away from her.”
“We’re dating.”
“Cut it off.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m already getting beat up for you killing that young immigrant. Thanks to you, Congressman Overton is sponsoring a bipartisan gun control bill on off-duty cops.”
“It won’t get past the Senate,” Jason said. “But that’s not the real reason you’re calling.”
There was silence across the line, and Jason surmised Grimes was weighing whether to let on that Richie’s guys had called or thinking up a lie.
“You’re right. I’m concerned about you.” The chief’s voice softened. “You’re seeing warriors behind every tree. You’re suffering from mental exhaustion. Crashing your car and chasing phantoms. Effective immediately, I’m putting you on a two-week leave of absence—without pay.”
“Let’s see what the union has to say about that.” Jason wasn’t going to give up his rights. “If the psychologist puts me on a mental health leave, that’s classified as disability.”
“I didn’t say mental health leave,” Grimes argued. “Insubordination and jeopardizing the safety of civilians. I’ll have papers for you to sign in the morning.”
“I’d tread carefully if I were you.” Jason pulled his trump card. “You’re not the only puppet dancing on a string.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Avery sat in the darkened conference room picking at her salad while the engineers chowed down on pizza and energy drinks. Club Cockburn Dating App was every man’s fantasy. The female avatars were shaped like Barbie dolls, and the males were bodybuilders. Everyone wore the wardrobe of their dreams, and there was nothing cartoonis
h about the characters. They appeared in full color and photographic detail, yet were recognizable as the individual portrayed.
Cory’s dark-brown eyes which dipped downward at the corners were his, along with his nose, which was rendered slightly narrower than his true bulbous one. His double chin was replaced by a cleft chin, and his teeth were straightened. With the flick of a finger, he could pick and choose from a variety of haircuts, all rendered with his natural hair color, or if he was being bold, colored to any hue or shade desired.
He could instantly change his perceived height and weight, as well as how much adipose tissue he desired to soften the angles of a muscular physique. If he chose to, he could go full Arnold on the bulging biceps. The wardrobes were endless, including Avery’s Cocky Heroes line as cross-promotion.
Alida even got Matt Swanson to allow characters to wear his numbered jersey as one of the choices.
“The licensing deals you can get are endless,” Alida said, controlling Cory’s avatar on screen. “We can also include bonus venues, such as walking in a fashion show, giving a State of the Union address, landing on the moon, and of course, the mansions of the rich and famous. Imagine renting the Overton Mansion in Southampton for a virtual beach party.”
“I’m excited about this project,” Damon said. “Avery, what do you think? You could have a virtual boutique here with all of your clothing lines. Pay per dress. Think of the micropayments you’ll get on social media when users post their photorealistic selves wearing your clothes.”
“It’s really something,” she said. “I do have a concern though on how much the licensing is worth. I can see a race to the bottom as new designers offer their wares free or free for a limited time.”
“I’d expect the premium lines to retain their value,” Alida said. “If you want to appear at the Club wearing a Tiffany diamond, you’ll need to pony up. Same with arriving in a Maserati.”
Triggered by Love Page 19
