by Scott, D. D.
But sugar levels aside, this new kinda rush, based on discovering bodies, was quite intriguing.
Maybe I was finally in the right career field. Talk about a calling. How many people could just find a dead body? And a dead body they could identify no less?
When Roman had been protecting my dear friend and client Alexandra McCall—yes that Alexandra McCall, the daughter of jailed Ponzi-scheme King Bernard McCall—I’d been, at first, nothing more than the McCall family’s stylist.
But I’d soon gotten involved in Roman’s case, as an intelligence officer of sorts.
Okay, so maybe I was just a well-respected inside informant. As in a wealth-of-information source. Simply because I knew more about Alexandra and her family than Roman possibly ever could.
Cut to the fantabulous chase, I’d plucked my golden apple when it fell from its money tree then gone-on to prove my worthiness to the Fed’s entire Cozy Cash Operation.
Yeah. That was the code-word for the Marshal Monkey’s McCall Operation…Cozy Cash. Clever. And catchy too.
But this time, there’d be no little ‘ole me just falling into a crime-busting gig.
Since Roman and I’s last partnership, I’d done the time. Well, not time as in jail time. Hello? I’m on the good team. I’d done time by studying my ass off and earning my P.I.’s license.
Now…I could officially play with the big boys.
I held up my badge, declaring my name and my new part-time gig—in a rather poorly done and cheesy-font monogramming. But regardless, I still love how the brilliant sunshine gleams off the cheap metal.
The badge is nothing like the radiance I’m accustomed to from the high-end, one-of-a-kind jewels I frequently pick-up from designers who loan their pieces to my clients. But I love my new badge, and what it stands for, more than the biggest and best of borrowed, Cartier diamonds.
Thanks to Ludwig Kohn’s well-dressed corpse, I, Zoey Witherspoon, P.I.—oh, and still a Stylist to the Stars and Fashion Designer too—was back in business.
But now, it had nothing to do with what people were wearing.
No more Red Carpet Events. Or Runway Show Spectaculars. Rather, at this unique stage in my life, it was all about who would rather bury my clients beneath the carpet.
Well, in theory, but I’d still promised to stay in Music City long enough to take care of one last client, which was another one of the reasons, besides my whole borderline diabetic issue, that I had to get my hands on that Naked Juice.
My last client was a real pistol. One of those bitches who made you not only wanna buy a pistol, but then also learn how to shoot the damn thing too. I needed all the extra nourishment I could get to deal with this diva.
I peeked in at my first dead body one last time before Roman’s circus started. Once he and all his Marshal Monkeys arrived, I probably wouldn’t get another shot at the body.
The whole eyes rolling back in the head was a very strong clue I was definitely calling this right. Plus, there was that surprised open mouth thing, but you get the picture. I reaffirmed my initial decision that Ludwig really was more than quite deceased.
He was no longer on Earth anyway. Perhaps in Purgatory. Trying to cross the River Styx. Or maybe already in Hell. Ludwig Kohn was a bad dude. A really, really bad dude. Straight to Hell was probably a fairly good guess as to his current whereabouts.
Remembering my new training required I always be aware of my surroundings, I looked around the parking lot. So as to be more discreet, I kept my Louis’s in place.
Frankly though, I must already be quite proficient at the whole surroundings awareness bit, since I’d only had my P.I. license a week and already discovered my first dead body.
Not seeing any other Jiffy Mart customers in the area, and thinking, since I was the car parked next to Ludwig, that no one else would have any need to be between my door and his, I figured I could probably make it both into the store then out, with my Naked Juice, well before Roman and his Monkey Squad arrived.
Damn, I needed that juice.
It wasn’t every day that a girl in Vuitton, Armani and Louboutin, on her way to style the soon-to-be divorced wench-of-a-wife of a superstar comedian, got held up at a Jiffy Mart, by a dead man in a Range Rover.
Chapter Two
Now reinforced by my first, super-sized swig of swamp juice, I opened the door back out into the parking lot of Jiffy Mart and faced the somewhat exasperated face of my Italian Stallion.
Oh boy. I knew that look.
And though my insides heated-up another notch or two every time I saw it, my guts still did that you’re-so-in-trouble series of somersaults.
I took another gulp of juice and stormed the castle. Well, as sure-footed as I could in my high fashion footwear.
“Listen, Witherspoon,” Roman said, placing his huge, tough-guy hand on the crook of my elbow and steering me away from the other monkeys in close proximity, “Your work is now done here. I want you to go about whatever it is you do, and leave this to the professionals.”
Hmmmph. I didn’t have to take his crap. And in these damn shoes, I could put a serious hurtin’ on him for being such a jack ass.
“Wait a minute, Stud Muffin. I am a professional now. Speaking of which, I don’t think you’ve even seen my new badge. So here,” I said, pulling the cheap little gem outta my trench coat pocket then shoving it in front of his rather gorgeous nose, “how’s this for professional?”
“Didn’t mean to get your panties in a pinch there, Fashion Princess,” Roman said, with a smirky, smart ass grin I sooo did not appreciate.
“You’re sure as hell never gone see my pinched-up panties, Wonder Boy,” I said, while having to hold back a ton more I wanted to say, as well as do to him with the points of my wicked shoes.
Leave it to the professionals. What-ever.
Neither Roman, nor his Monkey Squad, would be a tenth as far in their whole, damn Cozy Cash Operation, if it weren’t for me and my inside scoop. And he knew it. And was about to be reminded…yet again.
“Why don’t you listen up, Agent Bellesconi,” I said, unable to cover-up the sarcasm dripping from my not-so-subtle suggestion. “Not only am I now a professional, but I also know a ton more about these crazy ass, high-class thugs than you do. And you, and all your agents, know that. In fact, you’d probably be better off just guarding me, and letting me lead you to the thugs.”
Surprisingly, Roman didn’t say a word. But I sure didn’t like the darkness having its way with his suddenly, super intense eyes. And I was starting to get real irked that his attention was no longer focused on me, but rather totally got by something going on behind me.
But before I could think of something interesting or entertaining enough for him to come back to me and my issues, I heard a series of sharp pops then found myself kissing the ground, literally. I now had pea-gravel in my lip gloss.
With Roman covering my body with his, and the Monkey Squad all screeching, I swore the Jiffy Mart had turned into a for-real jungle, complete with some unknown tribe of screaming banshees with much more than bows and arrows.
“This is bad, bad news,” Roman hissed, keeping the palm of one of his huge hands damn near covering my entire head.
“You might be onto something. Well done, Genius,” I assured him, feeling the assault of a full-blown migraine originating from the pressure of his hand on my head. “But could ya ease up a bit? I promise I’m not budging.”
“Sorry. Yeah. Okay,” he said, as if he were hearing then speaking to me but really not listening.
Not that I’m complaining, as I’d much rather he just keep on doing what he’s doing to get our jungle operation back under control.
“I knew there’d be trouble once those suits were filed,” he muttered, still talking to I guess himself, ‘cause he’d sure as hell never willingly share that kind of scoop with me.
“The federal civil suits? Against all McCall’s big-time investors, banking institutions and hedge funds?” I asked, hoping he’d forget he was blowing
off steam and just keep spillin’ the juicy tidbits.
“What?” He asked, looking away from the bad people and momentarily at me, which must have been safe to do, since I no longer heard any popping noises.
The Marshal Monkeys around us were moving toward the Range Rover serving as Ludwig’s makeshift casket…a casket now riddled with big-ass bullet holes. But Roman and I stayed put.
I repeated the question I’d just asked him, enjoying the fact that his dark Italian face was now tinged with a bit of red-purple heat. I loved it when I knew more than he thought I should.
“How did you know that?” He asked, while his enormous hot brows lifted towards the black diamond curls of thick hair covering his forehead.
His eyes suddenly much more in tune with mine, which fact alone made my knees weak, meant it was a good thing I was still on the ground.
“Uhm, it’s a little newspaper you may have heard of, The New York Times,” I said, noting his eyebrows descending from their surprised concern into a narrow-eyed glare.
“This isn’t funny, Plum Puddin’. In case you’ve forgotten already, there are people dying, basically all around us right now.”
“Nope. I haven’t forgotten, Your Highness. In fact, since I’m the one who found the first body, I guess I’m pretty much vested in the outcome of this case too.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Bellesconi,” a small, wiry wisp of a man, with very crooked, metal-rimmed glasses, tapped the top of Roman’s shoulder then continued, “but it looks like our latest vic has some info on him regarding the Palm Beach Zicower Case.”
My stomach churned in all-out-worried-sick turns and cranks, my mind racing ahead to the Palm Beach home of the Zicower’s, family friends of the McCall’s and clients of mine for years.
“What about the Zicower Case?” I asked, although I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. “Are Fred and Emily okay?”
Both the scrawny, crooked-glasses Geek and Roman looked at me. Geek Guy with a bit of piqued interest clouding his weird little face. Roman, with a fuck-me realization tightening his ridged, well-structured jawline.
“No, the Zicowers are not okay. Well, Fred isn’t. For sure. Probably not Emily at this point either. And I take it then that you know the Zicowers, Witherspoon?”
“I do know them. Very well. They’ve been my friends and clients for years.”
I swallowed, knowing for sure I wasn’t gonna handle this news quite as well as finding my first dead body, which really hadn’t been too bad considering I hated Ludwig’s twisted guts.
Crooked-glasses Geek looked to Roman, probably figuring out he’d already perhaps said too much, waiting on his commanding officer to make the next move.
“Fred was found dead this morning. At the bottom of their swimming pool. I’m…sorry,” Roman said then reached for my arm and helped me to my feet, apparently, for a moment at least, showing somewhat of a human-side that was rarely part of his M.O.
“Say something, Witherspoon. Your silence bothers me,” he said, taking his fingers and ever-so-gently wiping the pea-gravel from my lips before reaching into his coat pocket and handing me a wadded-up Starbucks’ napkin.
“I guess we will be working this case together then,” I said, unable to stop the tears forming annoying puddles damn near flooding the ridge of my lower lash line.
This time, it was Roman who was silent, while Crooked-glasses Geek Guy simply shrugged and walked away from us.
I banished my tears with the Starbucks logo then shoved the evidence of my momentary emotional lapse into the deepest corners of my trench coat pocket. Straightening my shoulders and correcting my posture, which always restores my confidence, I forced myself to suck it up.
“It’s Thug Guard time,” I declared, daring Roman with the determined edge of my voice to defy my intentions to work this case.
Smart guy that he is, he simply nodded his head and didn’t say a word. His best move yet.
Chapter Three
For me, Zoey Witherspoon, Stylist to The Stars, it was pretty much a breeze to turn a once boring outfit upside-down using my eye for design and my instinct for show-stopping accessories. But being a pseudo-accessory to a full-blown U.S. Marshal’s Operation was a bit of a stretch.
Even after I’d earned my P.I.’s license last week, no one could have ever convinced me I’d now be sitting inside the Nashville International Airport’s Gibson’s Café, with my new bodyguard of sorts Agent Roman Bellesconi, ready to board a flight to Palm Beach, where one of my former client’s was now face-down, hugging the bottom of his lavish, oceanfront swimming pool.
At least I figured he was still face-down in his pool.
Like I knew how long crime scene people left a body where they’d found it before zipping it up in a big bag.
And even though I’d found a dead body this morning, just like I’d figured, Roman and his Monkeys didn’t allow me to stick around for any of the rather interesting details.
I glanced over the top of my laptop screen to take stock of my new partner so-to-speak. He had his eyes buried—bad choice of words at this point I suppose—into who knew what kind of totally cool stuff on his computer screen.
Too bad for me, or lucky for me, depending on whose side you’re on, while I was sneaking a peek at him, he happened to meet my curiosity with one hot look of his own.
He cleared his throat, like that would make me think he wasn’t just as interested in my goings on as I was in his.
Nice try, but no win, I harrumphed.
“So how did your client take your need to reschedule your appointment?” He asked, closing his laptop, as if I could see it from where I was sitting.
“If you’re referring to Cruella de Vil’s even more nasty sister Cruella Camilla? Not well. I feigned a bad cell connection then ciao darling-ed her off. There’s only so much of that crap a girl can take,” I said, shivering at the thought that brushing-off Camilla for now was only a temporary reprieve.
“So why is it again that you choose these kinds of clients?” Roman asked with a sarcastic tip to his mouth I really didn’t much care for.
“My clients choose me. A concept you should way, wayyy understand, Special Agent Extraordinaire,” I countered, rather proud of my gutsy bravado.
If truth had its way with me, at this moment, I’d dump the bitch and tell her exactly where to stick her high-dollar accessory collection. But when you’re worth in excess of fifty million, even after your divorce, that’s a whole lotta accessories and high-fashion I could afford to sell.
“Well-played, Plum Puddin’,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair then proceeding to give me a major once-over before coming back to my turban-topped head for a second look.
“I’m still not getting your fashion choices today though.”
He tilted his head at odd angles while his eyes still appeared to be caught up by my gold lame turban, hand sewn out of vintage 1960’s fabric.
“A turban, for crying out loud? And in an airport?”
“What? You saw me take it off with ease at security. And they’re very ‘IN’ this season, as demonstrated on every Spring Collection runway so far. Besides, when you wear one of these beauties, you can get away with keeping the rest of your look slightly understated,” I said, very confident in my fashion sense, although not quite so confident with my incredibly hot and armed bodyguard staring me down.
“You call the rest of that get-up understated?”
A little taken aback…well, actually no, a whole helluva bunch so, I sat back in my Gibson guitar-shaped chair and thought about my outfit for the trip to Palm Beach.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, and seriously didn’t get why he was so baffled.
I’d chosen black…because…duh, we were going to visit another dead body. Not to mention, I was seriously in mourning and devastated by my friend’s death.
I still prayed Fred Zicower’s drowning was of natural causes and not because of this whole big mess of a Cozy Cash Operation, but I didn’t
figure that prayer would be answered to my personal preferences.
So yeah…my choice of wardrobe for this event was spot-on apropos.
I was wearing a very chic and sophisticated, simple-cut Chanel jacket and slacks with a gorgeous Armani wrap-around, white blouse. A brilliant statement necklace, vintage Chanel, and a few, large rings—okay, obscenely large rings, in both the hardware and stones they magnificently showcased. And, I was also carrying one of my beyond fave, leopard-print clutch bags.
“The whole thing is just too much. I don’t know, maybe it’s that cat-bag, but you make me want to growl,” Roman said then laughed.
The laugh, I’ll give him, was sort of hot, especially since it was so out-of-the-blue and totally against his Roman soldier-esque, rigid, armor-like personality.
But his comments, not so hot. I didn’t take too kindly to anyone knocking my fashion sense. And I was more than ready to defend my turf.
“Listen, RG, and yes, by the way, that’s my new name for you,” I said, enjoying watching him, as he ever-so-tightly squirmed in his guitar seat.
“Stumped by the RG? Let me spell it out for ya. It stands for Roman Guard. Get it? You’re Roman, and you’re now my Bodyguard. Kind of like one of those ancient Roman, Praetorian Guards who watched over the Emperors.”
Roman laughed again, this time his upper torso actually got into the humor. A total freak accident of his normal and scary, super stoic nature.
And oh yeahhh. I was luuuvvvin’ messin’ with him. You betchya. There was something about breaking down a tough-guy that I got a major thrill out of.
“Well…Witherspoon, you’re no Empress, but being your private soldier might prove fun,” he said, taking a long, sexy swig from his extra bold Starbucks’ Sumatra Blend, still steaming out the top of his Venti-sized cup.
There wasn’t anything not Venti-sized about Roman, I thought, before reckoning, who was I kidding, I’d never be privy to the size of certain parts of him I could only imagine were quite large.
Although, if I didn’t know him fairly well by now, I’d swear he was flirting a bit. But that must have definitely been my imagination. I could never picture RG being remotely suggestive instead of going after his desires head-on.
