Private Investigation

by Aidèe Jaimes

  Mrs. Cage’s smile greets me as she looks at me with those gray eyes. I fell asleep fully clothed. Sitting up, I wince as my ribs throb from the pressure of lying on my firearm.

  I pull out the SIG, the very one that Lena held years ago. The one meant to save her life.

  The nine bullets it held back then remain unused. Still waiting to fulfill their purpose. Sometimes I wonder if they were never really meant to save her life. Perhaps they were meant for something else entirely.

  I catch sight of my luggage, and it triggers a memory. The last time I was here, I brought Lena’s ring with me. I know I did.

  I lift the bag and empty its contents onto the bed. Then I carefully run my hands around the inside, feeling through the pockets and any empty spaces it could have fallen into. Nothing. A horrible thought hits me then. What if I left it here?

  Picking up the receiver, I dial the front desk.

  “Saddler Beach Resort, housekeeping.”

  “Hi, this is Matthew Grayson, from room 305. I stayed here about six months ago. If I’d left something behind, would you have kept in lost and found?”

  “Yes sir. Normally we try to contact the person it belonged to. If we don’t get a reply, it goes to lost and found. But unfortunately, if it was six months ago, we’d no longer have it. All items are sent for disposal after sixty days.”

  Shit. Even if housekeeping was honest enough to turn in the ring, it’s long gone.

  I change into shorts and a T-shirt and go for a quick workout in the fitness center. It’s two in the morning, and two other weirdos with eyes as tired and red as mine are in the room with me. None of us says anything, just a mere glance or a nod here and there. What can you say? Sorry you can’t sleep either? What’s keeping you up?

  An hour isn’t enough to clear my mind. So instead of going back to my room, I get in my car and head to Vaspaa Court.

  The Cage’s house is still lit up, but there are no signs of life. What’s going on in there? Is she afraid because her husband’s out of town, or does the woman have a fear of the dark?

  Then it occurs to me. Maybe she does. We’re all afraid of something. I’m afraid of dreams. Perhaps darkness terrorizes her the same way sleep does me.

  Feeling a sense of kinship even though I’ve never met her, I decide to stay and watch the house. And as if she can hear my thoughts, the lights inside go out.

  Chapter 8

  “Day two of the Cage case. Started surveillance at zero six fifty. She drove her children to school at zero seven thirty. See pictures 20a and b of the red Honda Accord entering the gates.”

  I pause the voice memo as the pictures upload and then set them as an attachment for the email I’ll send Justin as part of the report.

  “She’s back at the Terry North Mall, where she parked in approximately the same location and went in through the main entry point. It’s now zero nine hundred.”

  From the corner of my eye, I spot the same gold Bentley pulling up to the curb. Five minutes later, a woman—I presume the same one from yesterday—emerges from the back of one of the shops, also dressed just as elegantly as yesterday. She steps into the expensive car, and it drives away.

  I watch as it disappears around the corner. There’s something odd about the scene, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  Again, just like yesterday, hours pass. I’m left to question what the hell Mrs. Cage is doing at Ember Jewelry if not working. Does making bead bracelets take this long? According to the information her husband gave us, this was only a part-time thing, not an all day job.

  Sometime around noon, I get out of my car, keeping the glittery shop within my view at all times. Sitting on a bench by one of the fountains, I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich while I watch, but there’s no sign of her. One p.m. nears and I decide to make my way back to the car.

  As I walk through the high arch of the entrance, I see the gold car go by again, and park at the curb. The fancy woman steps out, says something to the driver, and shuts the door. Just as I’m passing her, wondering at the strangeness of it, she turns her face toward the ground. A strand of hair falls over her eyes, and she slowly brushes it away with her right hand. It’s a small thing, a nothing kind of moment, but it’s enough to stop me in my tracks.

  The fragile wrist moves down from her face, a face I’ve been waiting to see all day. The face of Mrs. Cage.

  Her full lips part slightly as she takes a deep breath and releases it. Quickly, she enters through the back of the shop, and it dawns on me that it’s the back of Ember Jewelry.

  “Shit.” I race to my car, starting it and ready to follow.

  She comes out after a few minutes, no longer dressed in the sexy blue number she had on when she went in, but in gray leggings and a white racerback tank. She practically runs to her car. By the looks of it, she’s late to get her children.

  As before, I follow her to the school and then home, where she remains the rest of the night.

  Not one picture I took is worth a damn.

  “Fuck!” I shut the laptop hard, angry that out of the fifty shots I captured today, not a single one shows the Bentley.

  If I hadn’t been at the right place at the right time to see her face directly, I would never have believed that the woman in that sinfully formfitting dress, disguised as elegant, was her.

  But it was.

  Two days in a row, she’s been picked up by the same car. A very expensive car. And the way she’s been dressed lends itself to many interpretations of what she’s up to, and none of them are good.

  Grabbing my keys, I head out with one very specific destination in mind.

  When I arrive at Vaspaa Court, I find a silver Jeep Cherokee parked in the driveway. A quick search of the license plate tells me it belongs to someone named Grant Ferguson.

  A lover?

  The SUV remains there for an hour. When the door of the house finally opens, a brunette woman steps out with Mrs. Cage behind her, big dog in tow. They appear to speak seriously as they walk the dog in the front yard. Then they hug and say goodbye. The visiting woman gets in the Cherokee and drives away.

  It’s not a lover. Unless Mrs. Cage is into women, which isn’t impossible. And an affair with a woman would be much easier to hide than one with a man.

  Searching further, I find that Grant Ferguson is married to a Claire Ferguson. That must have been her.

  Mrs. Cage remains outside a while longer. She turns toward my car only once, quickly glancing in my direction, then looking away. After petting the dog for a few minutes, she takes him back inside. Then the light in the front room switches on as the sun begins to descend in the western sky.

  I should get out of there. Go back to the hotel. But I can’t make myself leave. Instead, I get comfortable, knowing that if I did go, I’d come back anyway.

  I pull up Claire Ferguson’s public records. And as I search into the woman’s life, it occurs to me to look up Eva Jean Cage again. Her files come up, and there’s nothing. Everything is as straightforward as it gets. Married. No red flags. No property listed under her name.

  Seeing Peter Cage’s name attached to hers, I decide to click on it. But just as I go to do so, my phone rings.

  “How’s it going?” Justin asks.

  “It’s going.”

  “Any luck with the Cage case?”

  Pushing my seat farther back, I stretch my legs. “Nothing so far. She’s hanging out all day with another woman in a jewelry store at some fancy mall.”

  “Did you follow her in?”

  “Yup, but she was in the back the entire time. And I felt like I tainted the place with my cheap threads,” I joke.

  “You can afford to buy yourself something,” he replies.

  “So can you. I’ll expense a new suit. Then I can hang there all day.”

  “Mr. Cage said she helps a friend, so it makes sense.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Nothing else?” Justin asks.

  “Nope. When
I have something, you’ll be the first to know,” I assure him.

  “All right, bro. I have to go. Got the kids tonight. Nat’s gone to a girls’ night thing.”

  “I told you, man. You gotta let her hire a babysitter.”

  “Ah, what do you know about kids? I want them raised by their parents.”

  “Right. I know nothing about kids. But as much as I love your kids, they drive me nuts after two hours. I can’t imagine being with them all—”

  “Ryder! Get off the—” The call ends suddenly as he screams at his kids.

  I want to feel bad for him, but he refuses to let Natalie hire help, claiming no one would protect his children the way they do. Well, now he gets to protect all four so that she can have a little fun.

  Shaking my head, I smile slightly. Then I lean the seat back, ready for a long night of surveillance.

  Chapter 9

  It’s Wednesday, day three of the Eva Cage case.

  Like clockwork, she drops her children off at Graceleigh Elementary School, drives home, and heads back out soon after.

  She walks through the open gates of Terry North dressed in sweat pants, a baggy T-shirt and a pink cap covering her hair. Thirty minutes later, she emerges as an elegant woman in a bright yellow dress, black stilettos, and diamonds around her throat. Her dark hair is down and waved perfectly with a silver pin holding it back on one side.

  If I wasn’t expecting it, I’d have never suspected the two women were one and the same.

  I snap photo after photo in an attempt to capture her face, but she keeps it angled away from me at all times, never looking up. Still, I’m able to get her profile, the car, and the license plate.

  The brake lights on the Bentley flash red, letting me know it’s about to leave. I shift into Drive and prepare to follow. Just as I’m about to move forward, a small blue BMW pulls up in front of me, pausing to let a woman out.

  I honk, scaring the shit out of her in the process. She waves at me apologetically, shrinking into herself and tiptoeing away as if that will help. By the time my path is clear, the Bentley is gone.

  The TLO report I run on the Bentley’s plates gives me more than enough information.

  Eduard Perrelli. Land developer, owner of Perrelli Developing, Inc. Age fifty-six. Married to Seidi P. Perrelli. Several addresses all over Florida—Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Palm Beach. The closest one is here, in Naples.

  I go to the Perrelli house, suspecting Mrs. Cage won’t be back to Terry North for hours. There’s no sign of her or the gold vehicle in the upscale Port Royal area. Through the gate at the road, I can see a driveway that curves in front of a white mansion that’s covered in vines, as if that would be enough to conceal the monstrosity.

  Staff flutter about, pruning perfectly manicured shrubs, arranging exotic plants in large pots, sweeping the portico.

  Now this is money. Not that I doubt a land developer would be rich, but this is obscenely rich. I could certainly see the appeal of having an affair with someone this wealthy. You’d be set for life, without the commitment.

  A white Mercedes service van stops at the gate. The two women inside watch me intently, saying something to each other before driving in, the gate closing gently behind them.

  My Charger certainly stands out in a place like this where only the staff is allowed to drive anything that costs under a hundred thousand dollars.

  Deciding to err on the side of caution, I leave. It’s not that I’m afraid of being caught spying by the police, it’s that I don’t want to give away the investigation.

  While I patiently wait at the shopping center, I download all of the photos I took today. Pictures of the gaudy golden car, the oversized house, and the beautiful woman.

  As her photo saves to my laptop, I enlarge it. I study it, exploring every inch of her face that I can. The perfect nose, the full lips. The graceful curve of her chin and jaw. I want to reach out and touch her because even though I’ve seen her in person, it’s hard to believe she’s real.

  I run my thumb over my lower lip, wondering if it’s only her likeness to Lena that captivates me or if there’s something more.

  Then, right on time, the Bentley pulls up. The elegantly dressed lady steps out, adjusts her clothing and hair, and walks into the back of Ember Jewelry. Ten minutes later, Eva Cage emerges wearing sweatpants, but her hair is still perfectly coiffed with that silver pin. If I hadn’t already figured out who it was, that one little thing she forgot to remove would have given her away.

  “It’s all in the details, Mrs. Cage,” I say to no one as I take another photograph.

  Chapter 10

  “Perrelli Development,” the pleasant voice on the other end of the line greets me.

  “Mr. Eduard Perrelli, please,” I request.

  “Mr. Perrelli is in a meeting at the moment. May I help you or take a message?”

  “Please have him call me at his earliest convenience. Actually”— I change my mind when I realize I don’t have time to wait around— “scratch that. Have him call me as soon as possible. Tell him it’s in regard to the pick-up he made today at Terry North.”

  The secretary hesitates as I’m sure she’s wondering what pick-up I’m referring to. “I’ll relay the message, but I won’t see him until later this afternoon or tomorrow.”

  “Then I suggest you get in touch with him. Believe me, he’ll want to deal with this now.”

  It takes no longer than five minutes for the developer to call me back. “This is Perrelli.” There’s a hint of an Italian accent, barely discernible, but it’s there.

  “Mr. Perrelli, my name is Matthew Grayson. How are you doing today, sir?” I try to sound as polite as possible, but the anxiousness to get my questions answered makes the words come out in a rush.

  “I’m well. Thank you. I was told you need to speak with me.” He sounds just as courteous, but it’s forced.

  “Yes sir. I have some questions for you. Would you have time to meet with me today? Lunch perhaps?”

  The man sighs with extreme annoyance now. “Let’s not go round in circles with pleasantries. What do you want?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt change.

  “I’m guessing the whole pick-up at Terry North bit is because you want something from me.”

  “I’d like to meet. What I want from you is answers.”

  “Did my wife put you up to this?” The fact that he’s asked this says he knows exactly what I saw at Terry North.

  “Your wife has nothing to do with it. And frankly, neither do you. I’m just interested in the girl you picked up.”

  The line is silent for several seconds, but I know he’s there. His breathing is deep, loud. “Hippo Club. One hour. Ask for me at the hostess desk.”

  He hangs up before I can find out where the hell the Hippo Club is. Fortunately, I locate it online, only then realizing he meant Hippa Club, though I wish he’d meant McDonald’s when I see the types of foods listed on their menu. Without prices. That’s how they let you know they’re very expensive.

  I arrive at the beachside restaurant with barely any time to spare. The valet has to take the keys to my car almost forcibly because I know it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg just to park it there.

  The hostess, a rail thin twenty-something girl dressed in black, assesses me. By the lift of her nose, I can see she knows my suit isn’t Versace, but the glint in her eye says she likes what’s under it. There’s definitely some strange battle going on in her head when I walk up. Should she let me in? Should she tell me there are no seats available, but she’s willing to let me into her booth if I want?

  I make it easy on her. “Mr. Eduard Perrelli is waiting for me.”

  The tension in her expression eases, and she smiles. “Please follow me.”

  Her hips sway as she leads the way through the fancy restaurant with walls covered with brushed nickel waves and floor-to-ceiling windows that face the ocean.

  At the very back, an old
er gentleman looking much as I pictured him—tan skin, unnaturally black hair, and sharp goatee—waits at a table set with silver linens. The hostess stands in front of him and indicates the empty chair for me.

  “Someone will be with you shortly,” she says, turning on her heel with a coquettish smile. She’s probably thinking that if I don’t have billions, I at least have connections. Too bad for her I don’t date twenty-somethings.

  As she leaves, I sit, focusing my attention on the man. “Mr. Perrelli, I’m Matthew Grayson.” I extend my hand to him, but he leaves me hanging. “Right.”

  Leaning forward, he narrows his dark eyes at me. He taps a finger to his chin as he watches me sternly, trying to intimidate me. “So what do you want? Money? Do you even have proof?”

  “Mr. Perrelli, I think you have me all wrong. I’m not here to blackmail you. All I want is answers. I don’t give a shit about your money.”

  Smirking at my words as if he doesn’t believe them, he says, “Very well. What is it?”

  I push the photograph of Mrs. Cage in front of him. He glances at it but doesn’t touch, as if he’s afraid of being burned by it.

  I tap on the car. “That’s your vehicle, is it not?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  Moving my finger to Mrs. Cage, I ask, “Who’s she?”

  “I think you know the answer to that as well.”

  “Where did you take her?”

  “What, you don’t have pictures of that too?”

  “Mr. Perrelli, I’m investigating Mrs. Cage. I’d like to keep your name out of the report, but I don’t have to.”

  “I thought you said this wasn’t blackmail.”

  Sighing heavily, I lean back in my chair. Now it’s me who looks at him with narrowed eyes. He’s expecting blackmail. I won’t call it that, but if making him believe that’s what I’m doing will get me answers, then I have no choice.

  “You have a very nice house. Lots of money. And I’m willing to bet a beautiful wife. Why risk any of that? I don’t care about you. I don’t care about ruining you. I’m here for her. How long have you been dating Eva?”