Before I could remind myself that Goldie grew up in the French Quarter of New Orleans, I realized the gown was not only sparkly, but sheer. I sneaked a peek at Jagger, who seemed to be grinning, although his lips hadn’t moved. Oh, how very Jagger.
“It’s lovely, Goldie, but I’m still confused. Why would I need such fancy clothing when I’m here to investigate fraud? I mean, I thought we’d be doing most of our work in the dead of night, wearing black, but not sparkly, sexy black. I’m thinking T-shirt, black. Maybe a hoodie.”
Jagger was the master of disguise in this partnership. Once he managed to fool me (ok, he fooled me a lot) with a senior citizen getup. Even then, he looked delectably hot. And I had started to tell myself that age really didn’t matter.
Goldie looked at Jagger and raised an eyebrow. “You really didn’t tell her yet?.”
It wasn’t a question. More an accusation. Atta boy, Goldie. You’ve got my back.
Jagger took longer swigs of beer, all the while looking at me over the rim of the bottle. When he swallowed, he said, “I told you, he is a she. Dr. Genevieve Pardue. I’ll use the chips, you distract the crowd.”
I nearly spit out my sip of champagne, when I realized Jagger was saying I was capable of distracting the crowd—the crowd of mostly men, I guessed. Then again, when Goldie got done with me, that was entirely possible.
But wait. Did that mean Jagger’d be distracting Dr. Pardue?
*
“Close your lids, Suga’.” Goldie held my head back with one hand while he applied more mascara to both eyelashes.
“Feels like enough. I don’t think I can open my eyelids with all that gunk on them. Way too heavy already.”
Goldie chuckled. “Hold on.” He rubbed something very gently over my eyelids. “Flecks of black and gold. Marvelous.”
Even though my eyes were closed, I inhaled Jagger and heard him say, “Let him do his job, Sherlock.”
“I—” My eyelids opened.
Goldie intervened with, “You sit.” He pointed to Jagger. “You,” He took my arm. “Come with me.”
I followed him into the gigantic bathroom. All I could think was that Stella Sokol would go through a bottle of Windex with all the mirrors in this place. Who really wanted to see themselves naked in the wall to wall mirrors? Then she’d spray a few cans of her famous pine-scented Renuzit, which she loved and was the aroma of my childhood. Along with Polish cooking.
Goldie pulled and prodded as he slid the gown over my body. I’d been a jogger, so at least I’d kept myself in decent shape. But when he zipped up the back, I said, “Holy moley, Goldie, that is tight!”
He looked back, held a finger to his lips and said, “Yes, Suga’, indeed it is. You look stunning!”
The last time I saw this dress, Goldie was sliding it out of the makeup-sized suitcase, and that’s when I saw the sparkle and the sheer. The sheer is what concerned me. “I’m afraid to look.”
He gently took my arm and turned me to the largest mirror in the bathroom. “Look.”
“Oh shoot!” The gown came down to the floor on one side and several inches above on the other side, where my leg stuck out. Actually, it looked long and slender. Nice. Good thing I took after my mother as far as legs went. She always used to brag that Sokol women had lovely legs. The heels he’d given me, black, high, strappy ones, helped. The sheer part of the dress ran from mid-waist to the entire bodice, with strategically placed sparkles covering part of my chest. Only part. “I feel like one of the showgirls, Goldie. I can’t go out like this!”
He patted my arm. “You are supposed to be Jagger’s lover… in a very classy way.” He looked at me from head to toe and said, “You fit the bill perfectly.”
I wanted to shout, lover? But instead I pulled at the dress, which wasn’t such a good idea. I looked in the mirror to see my left nipple through the sheer black.
Goldie glared at me and tapped a nail to his teeth. “I don’t think you want to touch perfection. Leave it to me and leave it the hell alone!”
I agreed. He curled and fluffed my hair and mumbled something about how blond I was, and that, thank goodness, he knew how to do makeup on porcelain skin. “You look more alive.” He held out an amazing little clutch of black diamonds, fake I’m sure, but they fooled me.
I smiled and blew him a kiss. “Thanks, Goldie.”
He nodded, opened the door and ushered me through.
Jagger, dressed in a tuxedo—black, of course—hair done to look oh-so-delectable and shoes this time, not boots. Black dress shoes. I could almost see my reflection in the shine. He looked like a billion dollars in this economy. Yum.
He gave me the once over, and while holding back on covering my important parts, I stood graciously tall (even though I wasn’t, but the heels helped) and felt rather regal. Thank you, Goldie. I turned to see he had disappeared along with the other two Louis Vs, which I’m sure housed his clothing.
“Meet me in the lobby by the fountain in ten. I have some prep work to do.”
I watched Jagger walk toward the door, clicking his heels on the marble floor with each step. Sigh. Prep work? I hope that didn’t include the doc!
*
Feeling a bit lost, I took the elevator down to the lobby, figuring I might as well wait there for Jagger. When the door opened, I gasped at the beauty of the place. Marble everything, lots of gold, lots of fancy furniture, and lots of fancy people. The Excelsior was not for the faint of wallet. That’d be me if I wasn’t on a case with Fabio footing the bill. I bet he had the insurance company cough up the big bucks in advance. That would be oh so Fabio.
A smartly dressed man in a black uniform came forward. It was then I remembered the “sheer” and tried to cover up. However, I swore to myself I wouldn’t touch the damn dress, or I may have another “chic dress malfunction.” Guess Goldie knew what he was doing, since lots of heads turned toward me. Me.
“May I call you a town car, mademoiselle? he asked.
Ready to say you can call me a Volkswagen if you want, I realized he thought I was going out. “No. Thank you, anyway. I’m waiting for someone.”
I think he winked at me, or at least my imagination thought so. Nodding at him, I turned and walked toward the gigantic, silken, round seat in the center of the lobby, surrounding the fountain. I sat myself down and enjoyed gawking as I waited for Jagger. A few times I had to shut my lips tightly as several celebrities came and went. Yikes. This has to be the best case I’d ever been on! It sure was the classiest place I’d ever worked.
After what seemed like more than “ten,” I noticed the elevator door open and out stepped a few hunks all dolled up in tuxedos. And then my hunk followed. My hunk? This place was wreaking havoc with my normally intelligent mind.
“Ready, Pauline?” He held a hand out toward me.
That had to be for show, but I took it and quietly said, “I would be, if I knew what the hell I was doing.”
He shook his head, a common behavior when we were together. More loudly than he needed, he said, “I’ve booked us a seat at the baccarat table, darling.”
The baccawhat? But I knew not to ask, so I took his hand (be still my heart!) and followed him to the elevator. Once inside, he pushed the button for the floor that said, “Casino.” I leaned forward and said, “I don’t know how to gamble.”
“Relax, you aren’t going to. Remember?”
Oh, right. I was going to distract the others, if possible. Thank you, Goldie for showing so much of my skin. Before the door opened, I allowed myself to look at Jagger in such close quarters (although the elevators in this place were the size of my condo living room back home) and noticed he’d added a white silk scarf to his outfit.
“Very James Bond,” came out of my mouth.
Jagger shook his head again, put his hand against the small of my back and gently ushered me out the door. Luckily, I didn’t swoon, whatever that meant.
The casino was more fabulous than the lobby, if that were possible. Sounds of ma
chines ringing, people’s mumbled voices, and an atmosphere of risk all caught my attention. I was about ready to ask Jagger if I could throw a twenty into a slot machine called Panda Bears, ‘cuz they were so cute, then realized, I’d be throwing the money to Louis the Lip’s heirs. And they probably did all right by owning this place, and I could use the twenty more than them.
Jagger led me toward a beautiful set of mahogany doors with stained glass panels. He leaned forward, put his index finger on some kind of pad on the doorframe, then pressed the doorbell.
Doorbell in a casino! I wasn’t even going to ask.
Both doors opened simultaneously. A woman in a butler uniform but with cleavage—lots of cleavage—stood at the ready. “Hello, sir,” she said, and nodded at Jagger.
Me, she ignored.
“Right this way.”
We followed her, and I couldn’t help but notice how tightly the pants hugged her butt. And I’m sure Jagger didn’t miss it, either. Nothing got past Jagger.
I realized the room was silent. There was a large table in the center. Mahogany, again, but a much deeper reddish shade. Chairs the size of the Queen’s throne, but covered in a silken red fabric sat around it. Despite the dark furniture, the room was aglow with crystal chandeliers and sconces shining all around. This was all so cool, I thought, and Jagger held my chair out for me, so I sat without making a fuss. I sure was glad that I wasn’t going to have to play.
The others at the table were all dolled up in gowns and tuxedos, looking like they could buy and sell me. Most of the men were playing, and the women there for show. Like me. Ha. The jewels on the ladies did not look like cubic zirconium to me, but my bag and dress could rival their outfits thanks to Goldie.
Soon Jagger had a stack of chips in front of him of various colors that he put into piles. As far as I could see, the denominations were from $100 black to $1000 yellow. Fabio would be having a heart attack right about now. A male waiter came and asked what we would like to drink.
I started to say, “Coors,” but was stopped with a Jagger-look, when he said, “The lady will have a martini, dry, and I will have Glenlivet, neat.”
I knew that to be an expensive scotch, but was more concerned with how “The Lady” was going to function after a dry or wet martini. Suddenly, several customers turned toward the door, and I was among them. Across from me, a handsome blond guy nearly gave himself whiplash.
In walked a lovely, gorgeous, chic brunette dressed in a white silken pants suit, with her hair curling over her chest, but not enough to cover the excessive cleavage of her tanned skin. I wondered how she could manage to move without a hitch on those white spiked heels. Guess Goldie would do the same, but with more grace, I thought. All the staff nodded to her as she kinda floated across the room. At least in my mind she floated, and I’m sure in every male’s mind too. Luckily, Jagger was looking at his cards. Not just looking, but bending them as if to peek at what they were. Almost bending them in half.
Leaning very close, I frantically asked, “What are you doing?” Too close, because I inhaled his delicious fragrance and nearly forgot what I’d asked.
He touched my face, almost sensually, but sadly, I’m sure it was all part of the act. Nope, I was going with sensually for my own benefit. “Relax, darling. It is customary.”
I turned to look over my shoulder, to realize he was talking to me. But just as I did, a male butler-type held out the chair next to Jagger—and the woman in white slithered into it!
Great. I felt rather frumpy in my chic outfit and noticed how everyone stared at her, and she seemed to fit right in as if she lived here. I hoped she wasn’t one of Louis’s heirs!
The dealer leaned toward her and said, “Good day, Doctor Pardue.”
Jagger never even broke character, while I just about fell out of my gigantic queen’s throne.
Doctor Genevieve Pardue, fraud committing chiropractor, leaned over to Jagger and whispered something.
Damn. She had to be part of the “thing he had to take care of” earlier. And the damn white scarf would have gone perfectly with her outfit. Or was that “from her outfit.” Either way, it could strangle her pretty damn good if need be.
*
After what seemed like hours to me, and several lady-like sips of my martini, a smartly dressed man came up to the doc. She nodded, took her chips with her and left.
Thankful, yet not thankful, because now our suspect was gone, I looked at Jagger. “Now what, darling?” Damn that felt good.
“Relax, Sherlock.” He pushed a stack of the white $500 chips toward a section of the table marked “Dealer” and took a long, slow sip of his second scotch.
At first, I wondered if the alcohol would cloud his judgement, then I reminded myself this was Jagger. Nothing ever phases him. And the only clouded mind between the two of us was mine.
Jagger pushed another stack of chips forward onto the same spot on the table. In a few minutes, the dealer was pushing an ever larger stack of chips toward Jagger, who didn’t blink an eye.
Damn, the guy was good.
I was halfway through my drink when the same smartly dressed man, who’d ushered out the doc, came up and whispered to Jagger, who then collected all of his chips and stood. The man took the back of my chair, so I got up and followed them. If I thought the damn heels made me wobbly, the martini wasn’t helping. However, I was a professional, so I made my feet work and cleared my mind as best I could.
Before I knew it, we were in a lovely waiting room decorated in golds and silvers with overstuffed navy leather furniture. Not just any waiting room. The butler-guy had to unlock the unlabeled door for us to get in. Interesting.
I leaned to Jagger. “What are we doing here? It looks like a doctor’s—” Duh. “Ok. I get it. Who is she going to treat?” Me. Please. Because I sure as hell didn’t want her pulling and manipulating anything on Jagger.
He was perfect the way he was.
A door to the left opened, the blond man, who I had noticed in the casino and apparently did give himself whiplash, came out, while saying, “Thanks, Doctor, I feel much better.” He rubbed his neck, but I wondered if that was really what she had treated.
Doctor Pardue came forward toward Jagger. “You may come through now.”
I got up, and she gave me a look that said sit down. Bitch. He’s mine now. But I said, “Darling, do you want me to come in?”
Jagger looked at me, then at the reception desk, and I realized what my job was. While he was being “treated” by the gorgeous doc, I was doing the snooping. Thank you very much, Fabio.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, leaned over and kissed my lips.
My lips. I may not be able to concentrate. I watched him go, looked to see there was no one at the reception desk, and apparently the door was locked to anyone coming in, other than the butler-guy bringing another client. But with this kind of deal, I figured only one person at a time was brought in. What a perk for high rollers. A chiropractic treatment for sore necks or backs when they sat too long looking at their cards and winning a gazillion dollars or losing two.
More determined to get something on this woman, because medical insurance fraud led to higher premiums for the average Joe (and the fact that she was a damn looker now touching Jagger), I went to the reception desk. Slowly, I looked behind it to see if anyone was there. The wall was solid, so no back entryway. The unattended desk was just asking for me to investigate.
I took out my iPhone from the little black bag of fake diamonds that Goldie had fixed me up with, and walked around the desk. I looked up to see a camera on the corner of the ceiling and took a manila folder from the In Box, folded it in half, flipped off my heels and stood on the rolling chair to cover the camera. I managed to do it like a pro and got down safely, then started to snoop before Jagger was done. Done is right. Plus, some security guard was probably fiddling with the monitor for this place when it went black.
Several drawers were unlocked, but nothing of interest stuck out. Beh
ind the desk was a file cabinet. Locked. Shoot. I rifled through the top drawer of the desk where I found a set of keys. Who would be stupid enough to leave the key in the desk, but then this wasn’t a permanent doctor’s office, so any help might not be too professional or bright. I had read in the file that Doctor Pardue had a practice in a business complex outside of Vegas. This gig here was pretty profitable according to the insurance losses, but not exactly medically professional.
After trying several keys, the lock clicked. I opened the file and pulled out a stack of bills. Bingo. Insurance bills. Without hesitating, I pulled the file of the top few patient’s bills to match them to the files on the shelves behind. I studied a few for a minute or two. The diagnoses did not fit the bill. Exaggerated treatment reports, unnecessary chiropractic services that didn’t match the CAT scan or MRI reports, and several referrals to one other than Doctor Pardue’s practice for continued treatment did stand out. My father used to say, “They get you on the payroll and never let you off.” Apparently Stanley Sokol was right in this doc’s case. I took pictures of the files and bills with my iPhone. Then, I put everything back, stood on the chair to grab the folder from the camera before a guard came in, grabbed my shoes and hurried to my seat. Just as I collapsed into it, the door opened.
A guard came in, ignored me and looked at the reception desk and ceiling camera. Then, he turned and walked back out. Phew. Guess he was one of the not-so-bright employees here.
The Doc’s door opened; they both came out, and Jagger looked at me with a question, wondering if I’d ever left my seat.
Romantic Times Page 7
