Teresa is an enigma. She's cold, mysterious, and detached. But that's exactly why I hired her. Because a lot of men like that kind of thing. She's strikingly beautiful, with soft, feminine features, yet there doesn't appear to be one warm, sympathetic bone in her body. But men are just sort of awestruck in her presence. She definitely has the ability to reel them in with only a look. Which I suppose is a good skill to have in a "follow, not lead" business such as ours.
Teresa doesn't say a lot around the office, and as far as I can tell, she's never made much of an attempt to get to know any of the other associates. But she shows up for staff meetings on time, writes her post-assignment reports with impressive detail, and is always extremely professional, so I can't really complain. Plus, her aloof, indifferent attitude is exactly why I hired her.
That and her uncanny knack for real estate.
"Teresa," I said, launching into the meeting, "Larry Klein, the real estate agent you tested last week. How did it go?" I pulled a yellow legal pad from my briefcase and flipped through a few scribble-covered pages until I located a blank one.
"He failed," Teresa replied with her usual zero attachment.
"Care to elaborate?" I teased.
She shrugged apathetically. "I requested an appointment to see the property alone, and once we reached the bedroom, he just went for it. It's all in the report. I'll e-mail it to you by five."
"Great," I said, making a note on the blank page of my legal pad. "I only have one for you this week." I pulled a glossy crimson folder from the top of the pile, double-checked that the front page was inscribed with Teresa's name, and slid it across the table. Teresa caught it adeptly under the tip of her index finger without so much as a flinch.
"A businessman from Chicago," I explained as she leafed through the file. "He's staying at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. He likes to hire a private masseuse from a local Asian massage parlor when he's in town. His wife is afraid it's more than just a massage. I've made arrangements for you to go instead. Find out what he does— or tries to do—behind closed doors. Hadley located a geisha costume for you. It's hanging in the prop closet."
Teresa nodded ever so slightly and closed the folder. "Done."
I turned to my left. "Cameron, how'd it go yesterday with Jocelyn Sandover, the housewife in Santa Monica?"
"Pretty basic, really. We met up at her child's school, talked for a while, and then she invited me for coffee and eventually back to her place. It seemed to take her some time to get comfortable, but once she did, it was over pretty quickly."
I made another note on my pad. "Okay, and how'd you make your exit?"
Cameron took a sip from a Starbucks cup in front of him. "I told her I thought I'd left my lights on in my car."
Katie rolled her eyes and popped her gum. "How creative," she mumbled.
Cameron's hand shot up in protest. "Hey . . . it was the best I could come up with spur of the moment."
"Whatever works," I replied diplomatically.
In my days as a sole proprietor, I usually made a habit of telling the subject to his face that the entire night had been a setup, that I had been hired by his wife or girlfriend to test his ability to remain faithful, and that he had failed. Then I left behind a card with a toll-free phone number on it that the subject could call for more information. But because that approach sometimes got me into trouble, not to mention jeopardized my safety on a few rare occasions, I decided to abandon that practice and the cards when I started the agency. Now my associates were instructed to "make an exit" and never come back, leaving behind no explanation and no proof that they were even there to begin with. It was for their own protection. Plus, it allowed time for them to report back to me with the results. If the subject knew what had just happened, there's a chance he (or she) might try to interfere before I'm able to deliver the news to the client.
The assignment files that I distribute at staff meetings all contain more or less the same contents. On the first page is always the client and subject biography outlining the background and relevant information of the man or woman who hired us and the person we've been asked to inspect. Following that is the assignment report, charting out all the details of the associates' forthcoming inspection. Where to go, what to wear, who to be, what to talk about, and any other facts or particulars that I feel are relevant to the case at hand.
I pulled the next folder from the stack and handed it to Cameron. "Another housewife. The client is worried that she gets 'bored' during the day while he's gone and wonders how far she'll go to remedy that."
Cameron groaned as he took the file. "Please don't tell me I have to wear that damn UPS uniform again."
I flashed him an affectionate smile. "No uniform this week. But you will have to take your shirt off. You're going in as the new pool boy."
Everyone in the room snickered. Katie nearly choked on her bubble gum.
"Seriously?" Cameron said, leaning forward to get a closer look at the file.
I nodded. "You'd be surprised what bored housewives will do when a shirtless man comes to clean their pool."
After explaining a few details to Cameron, I continued moving around the table. Katie and Lauren reported two more failed inspections to add to my ever expanding database of infidelity, and I handed them both new case files for the week. A newly engaged software developer for Lauren and a guy who spends too much time at the track (according to his wife) for Katie.
At five before the hour, I finally landed on Shawna. I glanced down at my legal pad and flipped back a few pages until I reached my notes about her latest assignment. She was sent to Des Moines last Thursday to attend an election fundraising event for a popular Republican senator. The subject, Richard Patterson, happened to be one of the campaign's largest contributors. His wife, Michelle, a lifelong Democrat, was worried that their opposing politics were starting to become a problem in their twelve-year marriage. To determine the validity of her concerns, I sent Shawna to the fundraiser, posing as a beautiful young diehard Republican who shared all of the subject's political views.
"Shawna," I stated in an even tone, glancing through my notes, "you were in Des Moines last week with Richard Patterson."
She nodded. "Yes."
"And what happened there?"
"He passed, actually."
My head popped up in surprise, and I stared at her for a stunned moment before speaking. "He did?"
"Yeah," she confirmed. "He didn't seem to want anything to do with me."
"Really?" I was having a hard time hiding my skepticism. I knew I should have been pleased with this result. It wasn't every day that I got to deliver good news to a client. But I'd had a strong feeling about the way this assignment would turn out from the beginning. And my initial instincts were hardly ever wrong.
But Shawna simply nodded again. "We were seated at the same table, we chatted for a while, and then that was pretty much it. Eventually he told me he had to get up for an early meeting and left."
I conducted another quick scan of my notes. "Did you talk about Prop 31?"
"Yes."
"And what about the death penalty and immigration?"
Shawna glanced uneasily around the room. "Yes," she said again. "All of those issues came up in our conversation."
"And did you research all the initiatives on the upcoming Iowa ballot? Because if you weren't fully knowledgeable on all the issues, he might have thought that you were after something else."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Everyone was gaping at me, wondering where this second degree was coming from. Shawna fidgeted in the hot seat, shifting her weight around and running her fingers through the ends of her hair. "I . . . um . . . I think so. I spent the entire week preparing for it. He just . . . didn't seem interested in . . . you know, doing anything else but talking about politics."
I nodded, although I wasn't fully convinced. What if Shawna had missed something?
My logical side was telling me to let it go. That I was att
racting too much attention and making everyone nervous. But there was another side of me that just couldn't seem to go along with that. Michelle Patterson would be using this information to decide the way she lived the rest of her life. If it wasn't one hundred percent correct, she could be making a huge mistake.
And then another thought struck me. And this one nearly knocked the wind out of me:
Would it have turned out any differently if I had been the one at that fund-raiser?
I dismissed the notion immediately. Because it was beyond ludicrous. I hired Shawna because I knew she was well qualified and capable, and I had every bit of faith that she'd pulled off this assignment, as well as every other assignment, flawlessly.
But then where was this sudden paranoia coming from?
Was it possible it was just a side effect from the phone call I got this morning?
Well, I refused to let a former client's divorce proceedings interrupt my ability to do my job. Michelle Patterson would be ecstatic to know that her husband was every bit as faithful to her now as he had been the day she'd married him. And I would be just as ecstatic to tell her about it. End of story.
"Okay, then," I said, trying to sound upbeat as I picked up the last case file on the table. "Here's a local bachelor party for you. The groomsmen are taking the subject to a gentleman's club in West L.A. The client agreed to let her fiancé go as long as he promised not to get any lap dances. The only way to find out if he keeps his word is for you to pose as one of the girls at the club. Hadley signed you up for some private pole-dancing classes at a studio here in Santa Monica. Two or three sessions before the weekend should be sufficient."
Shawna tentatively reached out and took the file, her expression still uncertain. I could feel her eyes scanning my face for clues to unraveling my strange behavior. So I masked it with a bright smile and then turned my attention to the rest of the group. "Well, that's everything for today. I'll see you all next Tuesday. Don't forget to turn in your post-assignment reports by five tonight. And be sure to call or e-mail if you have any questions."
I excused everyone and gathered my things before disappearing down the hallway into my office to get ready for my next appointment. According to my calendar, it was with a woman named Melissa Stanton, presumably coming in to discuss her concerns about Mr. Stanton.
I stopped just short of my office door and looked back toward the conference room, watching as everyone else filed out of the office and disappeared into their own private lives. I have no idea where they go when they walk out those double glass doors, and frankly, I don't care. Or better yet, I choose not to care. As long as they do their jobs and uphold the reputation and confidentiality of this agency, as far as I'm concerned, their personal life is their own business.
And I attempt to maintain the same level of privacy for myself. None of my employees even knows my real name. And they certainly don't know anything about my home life. They don't know about Sophie's wedding or my laborious maid-of-honor duties. They don't know that I have yet to tell my mother what it is I really do for a living and doubt I ever will. Or that up until a year ago, I had been completely estranged from my father.
And they definitely don't know anything about Jamie.
I just don't see the point in mixing your professional life with your personal life. That's why I leave my associates alone and choose not to worry about what they do outside of this office. The screening process each of them went through before being offered employment was extensive enough. Background checks, drug tests, a mandatory two-week tail by a private investigator. They were trustworthy people. That much I knew.
And I didn't see any reason to learn more.
I was in my office for only a few minutes when the intercom on my desk buzzed and Hadley announced the arrival of my next appointment.
By the looks of her, Melissa Stanton was in her mid- to late thirties. If I had to guess, thirty-seven. But definitely no more than forty. Her hair was dark and long and swept away from her face into a half ponytail, secured with a black clip. She was medium height, slender, with smooth skin that showed hardly any lines.
I held out my hand to greet her. "Hello, I'm Ashlyn, president of the Hawthorne Agency. It's nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too . . . sort of." She chuckled weakly.
"Please take a seat." I gestured to the white chenille sofa in the corner of the room. I sat opposite her on a matching armchair, holding my notepad in my lap as I waited for her to get settled.
She surveyed her surroundings somewhat uneasily. I've tried to make this room feel as welcoming as possible. But I also know that making someone feel comfortable in a situation like this was a near impossible task.
When she didn't speak right away, I took the liberty of initiating the conversation. "Why don't you start by telling me why you're here?" I suggested.
Mrs. Stanton took a deep breath and forced a silly smile onto her face. "The truth is," she began, "I came here because I need to hire a nanny."
My smiled immediately faded into a cloud of confusion that I fought to hide. "Uh-huh," I replied guardedly.
We were, after all, registered with the city of Los Angeles as a "domestic services" agency, a company that helps match families with qualified nannies, housekeepers, and tutors, but that was just a cover that I came up with for tax purposes and . . . parental purposes. Namely my parental purposes. We didn't really do that. The domestic services agency was a dummy corporation to mask the real services we offered.
I decided to tread lightly. If this woman really thought she was here to hire herself a nanny, then I would have to politely steer her in a different direction without giving away any unnecessary information. "And may I ask how you heard about us?"
Mrs. Stanton fidgeted in her seat. "I was referred by a friend. I told her about my . . ." She paused awkwardly. "Well, my current nanny situation, and she recommended I get in contact with you. She said you could help."
Yes, this woman was definitely in the wrong place. But what friend referred her? We'd never placed anyone with a nanny . . . or a housekeeper, for that matter. Why would she have been referred to us? It must have been some kind of mix-up.
"Well," I said with decisiveness, plopping my notepad onto the coffee table between us, "I'm afraid we're fresh out of nannies today, and it doesn't look like we'll be getting any more in the near future. But I'd be happy to call you if that changes. In the meantime, may I suggest you try another agency so your children aren't kept waiting?"
She looked at me as if I were crazy. As if she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. But believe me, the feeling was mutual.
She shook her head. "No, no. It's not for my children. It's for my husband."
I cocked my head to the side and shot her a strange look. "You need a nanny for your husband?"
She nodded slowly and reluctantly, and I could see tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "Yes." She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. "I have reason to believe that he's slept with the past three nannies that I've hired. But I need to know for sure."
Slowly the cloud began to lift, and I suddenly understood what this woman was asking.
I leaned forward and picked up my legal pad again. "So you want us to send one of our associates," I confirmed with a tight nod of my head. "To pose as the new nanny."
She seemed relieved that I had caught on and she wouldn't have to actually explain what she had in mind. "Yes," she replied with a heavy sigh. "I figure the only way I can prove my suspicion is if the next nanny I invite to live in my home is there as a decoy."
4
déjà golf
When I arrived home later that night, Jamie was waiting for me in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table, the TV playing softly in the background. The minute the door closed, he jumped off the couch and ran over to me, pulling me into an unusually long hug. "Hey! You're on time."
I laughed as I tossed my briefcase onto one of
the dining room chairs. "Did you expect me to be late?"
He shrugged. "Kind of."
"Well, I'm happy I could disappoint you." I glanced over his shoulder at the flat-screen TV on the wall. A middle-aged bearded man was demonstrating how to hang a two-hundred-pound mirror with a paper-clip-size piece of metal.
"Are you watching infomercials?" I asked in disbelief.
He quickly grabbed the remote and zapped it off. "I wasn't really watching it. I was just kind of zoning out."
"So, how'd your conference call go this morning?" I asked from the hallway as I made my way into my bedroom. I pushed my feet out of my slingbacks and placed them in a cubbyhole in the back of my closet.
Jamie entered a few moments later and lay down on the bed, propping himself up against a stack of throw pillows. "Good. I'm pretty sure I convinced them to sign with us. It's a quarter-of-a-million-dollar gig, so the senior partners are gonna be pretty psyched."
"That's fantastic!" I called from the closet, trying to sound bubbly. But honestly, it didn't really work on me.
Which was why Jamie laughed in response. "So, how was work for you?"
I shrugged. "Work was work." I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it into the clothes hamper. "I got the strangest request for an assignment today, though."
"Oh yeah?"
I stepped out of the closet and leaned against the doorway. "Some woman wants one of the associates to pose as a nanny in her house."
Jamie let out a laugh. "You mean like a live-in nanny?"
"Yeah. She thinks her husband has been sleeping with the nannies."
"Nannies plural?"
"Hollywood Hills family. Husband is some big-time studio exec. Apparently, they've been through three in the last six months."
"Well, I guess it makes sense, then," Jamie mused. "Are you taking the assignment?"
"Yeah," I called as I walked back into my closet and sifted through hangers of clothes. I picked up a cassis-colored Diane von Fürstenberg dress and held it up against my body. "I just have to figure out who would be the best person to handle a job like that."
The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 5
