I'd already followed Lana on three similar stops along the famous shopping corridor. In addition to their number of zeros, I'd noticed something else about the wife's accounts last night. Charges were made every Saturday morning to a coffee place off of Dayton. I'd been in position bright and early, and been two overpriced cups in, when Lana had finally made an appearance this morning. And I'd been her shadow ever since. I wasn't 100% sure what I was hoping to find, but something wasn't adding up. Something that had compelled me to spend a little time with Mrs. Duke before I gave my full report on Brandon's faithful status to the boss on Monday morning.
I was just starting to wonder how long it would take me to save up for one of those bracelets if I existed on Top Ramen and only ran my A/C on over 100 days, when Lana emerged again, continuing her stride down the block. I pried myself away and followed her, matching her pace, staying at least three shops behind her. If she felt any indication of being watched, she didn't show it, nonchalantly flipping her hair over her shoulders, looking to all the world as carefree as one with a seven figure bank account should.
Two shops later she paused again, this time at the window of the Teko boutique. She glanced at the display, did some more hair tossing, then stepped through the glass front door.
I walked past the shop, peeking in the window. It looked like any of the other upscale boutiques we'd passed by today, holding a smattering of cocktail dresses, billowy blouses, and painted scarves. One wall featured shoes, mostly of the high heeled variety, and another handbags. Lana browsed, directed a slim, well-dressed sales clerk to a couple of the cocktail dresses, then went into a dressing room with them.
I walked past the window and took up a spot on a planter ledge outside the store two doors down where I could still watch the door to the boutique, but was partially obscured by a palm tree.
I waited, jiggling my foot up and down as I felt the sun beat on my shoulders. This was a waste of time. I could feel it. Beyond torturing myself with glimpses into the life I could have had, what was I doing here? So the wife had her own bank account. So what? Maybe she'd been skimming from Brandon. Maybe he'd given her an allowance. A hefty one, for sure, but whatever their arrangement, it was none of my business. I was looking for something wrong where there wasn't anything. Brandon was fine. Happy. Having some issue with the wife, but that described at least 90% of married couples in L.A. Why I found this so suspicious, I had no idea. Except maybe that I just wanted to prove how wrong he'd been to leave me for her.
Lana emerged from Teko, and I noted that whatever she'd tried on she hadn't liked, because she didn't have a shopping bag in hand. I watched her adjust her sunglasses, then cross the street to an outdoor cafe. I guess even power shoppers took lunch breaks.
I was just pulling out my phone to investigate what kind of lunch I could afford myself in this part of town, when I spotted another woman going into Teko. Which in itself wasn't odd. But the woman was carrying a Hermes bag. A large one. The same style as Lana's.
I bit my lip. Okay, so it wasn't totally outside the realm of coincidence that two wealthy women in the same town would both own Hermes bags. And that both might have the same taste in clothing boutiques, both visiting said boutique on the same day. Right?
But something about the coincidence made me stay rooted to the ledge instead of following my empty stomach to the Del Taco that I'd just I'd learned was only five minutes up the 2.
I watched through the window as the other woman went into the dressing room. Exactly fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the store, no shopping bags in hand. Apparently she hadn't liked what she'd tried on either.
I saw Lana emerge from the café, then take off down Rodeo again, toward Santa Monica. I paused, looking from Lana to the Teko boutique. I had a WWJD moment: What Would Jamie Do? Would the boss follow the wife? Or would she follow that nagging feeling in her gut that said coincidences involving $5,000 handbags deserved a second look?
I got up, but instead of following Lana, I backtracked to the cafe and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu: a tuna sandwich on ciabatta bread with cucumber dressing. I took my meal to a table outside and watched the Teko boutique's front doors.
In the span of three hours, two more woman with the same Hermes bag went in, tried on clothes, then left empty handed.
This was way beyond coincidence.
* * *
I slipped my car into my designated parking spot in the garage beneath my building, grabbed my purse, and headed for the elevator. As soon as I hit my front door, I kicked off my sandals, dropped my bag on the kitchen table, and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, taking a long swig. Heaven. I was just about to see what kind of dinner I could make to go with it from the week-old Chinese take-out, wilting lettuce, and a carton of recently expired milk lurking in my refrigerator, when a knock sounded at my front door.
I peeked through peephole.
And felt the beer stick in my throat.
Brandon.
I bit my lip and leaned against the door. Crap, what was he doing here? Maybe if I just didn't answer he'd go away.
"I can hear you breathing. Open up, Maya."
Damn.
I slowly undid the latch, pulling the door back to face him.
I couldn't help the way my stomach flipped over at the sight of him. He was in his work attire: slacks, button-down shirt, wingtips. He'd gone without the blazer, giving the look a casual elegance that he pulled off so well. His hair was a little mussed from a long day, and his chin was just starting to show signs of five o'clock shadow. If I were hard pressed to describe him in one word, it would be yummy.
Or dangerous.
I took a deep breath, telling myself I so did not go for the corporate type anymore.
"Brandon. What can I do for you?" I asked, proud of how steady my voice sounded despite my shaking insides.
"You can stop following me around is what you can do."
My stomach sank like a rock.
"What do you mean?" I asked, but even to my own ears it wasn't very convincing.
"Drop it," he said, pushing his way into my apartment. "You've been trailing me ever since the coffee shop."
I refrained from pointing out that wasn't exactly true. I'd spent today trailing his wife. But I figured that admission wasn't going to win me any points.
"Are you cheating on your wife, Brandon?" I asked instead, watching his reaction very carefully.
He paused, his expression unreadable. "Oh, now you want to be direct?"
"Yes," I answered, crossing my arms over my chest.
He shook his head. "First you set me up, then you follow me, now it's an interrogation? That's a bit much even for you, Maya."
"Don't pretend you know me," I told him, feeling that emotion rise up again. I quickly forced it down. "I am not the same person you knew back then, Brandon."
His eyes flashed down at me, his voice tightly restrained. "Obviously."
"Oh, don't get all high and mighty with me," I said, rolling my eyes. "So I set you up. So what? It was your choice to fall for it or not. I didn't force anything on you."
"Except that kiss."
Oh, right. That.
He took a step toward me. I instinctively took a step back, coming up against my kitchen countertop.
"I can't believe you took a case from Lana," he said, shaking his head.
"I didn't. The agency did. Trust me, I would never have had anything to do with it if I'd known it was you."
"Gee, thanks."
I ignored the sarcasm. "You didn't answer my question. Are you cheating on your wife, Brandon?"
"You think I would?"
"It fits your M.O."
He stared at me for a moment. Then turned his back, muttering a curse. He ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stick out a little on the side. "I never cheated on you, Maya."
I took a deep breath, unable to hold back that emotion this time as it bubbled to the surface, filling my eyes. I quickly turned away.
"You brought it up."
"No, I brought up you cheating on your wife. Not what you did three years ago."
"Three years, five months and two days."
I blinked. "Ohmigod, what, did you write down the date? You keep a log of your affairs?"
"It wasn't an affair."
"Oh really, so what do you call me finding you in bed with a hooker?"
"She was not a hooker."
"She had a lightning bolt shaved into her pubic hair. She was no virgin."
"She set me up, Maya."
I raised one skeptical eyebrow at him. "People seem to be doing that to you a lot."
He swore under his breath, shaking his head again. "Jesus, you never listened then either. Look, Lana knew I was crazy about you. She…well, we'd dated. Before I met you. She wanted to get back together, and I didn't. She got me drunk, waited until I passed out, then paid the stripper," he emphasized, "to get in bed with me so you'd find us like that. I didn't do anything with her."
I stared at him, my insides doing a suspended-in-time thing as the words sunk in. Words that couldn't possibly be true. I'd seen it with my own eyes. My fiancée, naked, in bed with a woman who, quite obviously, wasn't me. Of course, he'd denied anything at the time, but I hadn't believed him. And I wasn't sure I believed him now. He had to be lying. Making it up.
"You're making that up."
"Maya, if I was gonna make up a story, don't you think I'd come up with something better than that?" he asked.
"Did Lana tell you this?" I asked.
"No. Lightening Bolt did. After the wedding. She felt guilty."
A hooker with a conscience. That was almost as hard to believe as the idea he'd really fallen for a stupid play like that.
"Why didn't you tell me this?"
"What good would that have done?" he asked. "By the time I knew what really happened Lana and I were already married, and you were long gone. It wouldn't have made any difference to anything."
I shook my head, feeling hair whip my cheeks. "You're right. It doesn't matter now. You married her. That's all that matters."
He nodded slowly. "Yes. I did. And despite our trust issues, I've tried to make it work with her. I'm not cheating on my wife, Maya."
I looked down at the gold band on his finger, feeling myself bite my lip again, but not even caring this time. I wondered if I should share with him the state of his wife's bank accounts. That I'd spent the day watching her and an army of Hermes carrying housewives filter though an upscale Japanese designer boutique. That maybe trust was overrated when it came to his wife.
But I didn't get the chance as Brandon stepped toward the door.
"I'm sorry, Maya," he said, opening it and stepping through.
And then he was gone. Again.
* * *
I adjusted my huge sunglasses on my face as I walked down Rodeo, making sure my floppy hat was on straight. I felt my feet slipping in my heels, but the truth was I hadn't owned a pair that were fancy enough to pass for a true patron of Rodeo Drive and had to borrow some from Caleigh. They were a size too big, but they were perfect for the part—four inch, black satin with gold trim that matched the little black dress and simple gold hoop earrings I had in my ears.
I took a deep breath, channeling the Real Housewives that I'd spent countless hours watching on TV as I pushed through the glass door of the Teko Boutique.
The interior smelled like subtle perfume and expensive leather. To the right was a small, marble counter with a register behind it. Beside that sat a closed door, which I guessed led to a storeroom. Lining the wall beside the door were two dressing room stalls, thick, velvet curtains affording them privacy from the rest of the store.
Immediately a thin, tidy man in a grey suit approached me. "May I help you today, ma'am?" he asked with a pleasant smile.
"Thank you…" I paused, looking at the name-tag tacked to his lapel, "…Andrew. I'm just browsing."
"Of course. Please let me know if I can help you find anything," he offered before retreating to a spot near the resister.
I walked toward the handbags, feeling his eyes on me. No Hermes here, but there were several designers whose names I recognized. I ran a hand over one suede bags and checked the price tag. And almost had a heart attack. Even eating Top Ramen and living without A/C or lights, it would take me years to afford it. I reverently put the handbag back, sending a wan smile toward Andrew.
I browsed the blouses and skirts, checked out the shoes, fingered a couple of silk scarves. I had to admit, there didn't seem anything odd or out of place in the store. It looked exactly like any other upscale boutique.
I felt Andrew's eyes on me as I lingered. "You sure I can't help you find anything?" he asked.
"Uh…" I paused, turning to the rack in front of me. I grabbed a blouse in a floral print, hoping it was close to my size. "May I try this on?" I asked.
"Of course," he said, taking it from me and leading me to one of the dressing rooms. "This is one of our big sellers for spring," he added. He handed the garment back and closed the velvet curtain behind me, just as the door chimed and two more women walked in.
I peeked through the curtain, watching Andrew approach them. My eyes flickered from his back to the closed storeroom door. Clearly there was nothing untoward going on in the main salon. If there was anything more than an odd coincidence of similarly well outfitted women browsing this boutique, it was going to be behind that closed door.
I took a deep breath, waited until Andrew was engaged showing the women the spring scarf collection, then silently slipped from the dressing room to the storeroom door. The handle twisted easily in my hand, and I quickly slipped through.
I found myself in a dark hallway. I blinked a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. To the right was a large room filled with shoeboxes and garments encased in plastic hanging from racks. To the left was another door. A thin line of light spilled under this one. I stepped closer and put my ear to it. No voices. I gingerly tried the knob. This one, again, turned easily in my hand.
I twisted it slowly and pushed the door open.
A small, Asian woman sat at a card table, her head popping up in surprise to see someone else.
I'll admit, in that moment I was in a state of surprise as well. Because on the table in front of her were stacks and stacks of hundred dollar bills, all neatly lined up next to a row of three Hermes bags.
My eyes pinged from the money to the bag to her, trying to process what I was seeing.
The woman was faster to recover from her shock, and began screaming a shrill string of words at me in what sounded like Japanese.
I had no idea what she said, but the look on her face got her point across. Mouth in a frown, un-plucked eyebrows drawn down, a row of stained teeth snarling at me. Clearly she was not inviting me in for a friendly chat.
I turned to bolt.
"Don't move."
I froze. Standing behind me was Andrew. And in his hand was a tiny, metal gun, pointed directly at me.
He shouted something to the woman in perfect Japanese. She shouted back. I stood transfixed, staring at the gun.
"Uh, wow, I must have made a wrong turn. I was looking for the restrooms, and I think I—"
"Shut up," Andrew spat at me, quickly switching languages.
I shut my mouth with a click.
"In there," he said, waving his gun toward the stockroom.
I glanced to my right. The stockroom was dark and isolated. Not exactly the kind of place I wanted to go with a man with a gun.
"Um, listen, you don't want to do this," I told him. "I'm…I'm a PI," I said, fudging the truth just a little. "It's against the law to shoot me."
His eyes narrowed.
"Okay, yeah, I know it's against the law to shoot anyone, but it's really against the law to shoot a PI." I was totally rambling. Nerves did that to me. I was also about to pee my pants, and my hear
t was racing so hard I feared I'd pass out. It was not a comfortable combo.
"Move. Now," he directed me.
I moved a step toward the stockroom, my eyes cutting to the door that led back out into the benign boutique. Were the two women still there? Could they hear me?
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Andrew instructed.
I raised them like I was doing a perp walk. I took another step closer to the stockroom.
It was now or never.
I took one more step but instead of going into the stockroom, I bolted to the left, diving for the door that led back to the boutique.
I hit it, slamming into it with my full body weight as I heard a shot ring out behind me.
I think I screamed and might have even peed a little, clawing toward the front of the store on my hands and knees as bits of ceiling tile rained down on me.
I heard the woman scream in Japanese again and spun to see Andrew hovering over me with the gun.
On instinct, I kicked. My too-big shoe flew from my foot, whacking the little man square in the forehead.
He staggered backward, and I scrambled to my feet, lunging for the gun. His fingers tightened around the trigger, and it went off, shooting into the ceiling again. White dust sprayed down on us as the woman shouted more in her native language, the words stringing into one another, almost becoming like a song now. A really angry, screeching song.
The good news? Andrew was small, thin, and had very little upper body strength. Me? Ever since I'd started lingerie modeling, I'd spent five days a week at the gym. Channeling one of my favorite cardio-kickboxing moves, I brought my knee up as hard as I could, connecting with his groin.
He groaned, doubling over. I kicked at his hand with my bare foot, and the gun went flying, skidding across the floor to land under a rack of maxi skirts.
I dove for it. The woman dove for it. Andrew crumbled to the floor and crawled toward it.
Bond Bombshell Page 3
