Mug Shot

by Caroline Fardig

  “I could wear a disguise,” he offered.

  “Like what? A monocle and a handlebar mustache?” I laughed at the mental picture. “I think I’ll go this one alone.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Not gonna happen. I’m going. I’ll hide in the bushes or something.”

  “I’m not getting rid of you, am I?”

  “Never.”

  Chapter 23

  After lunch, I went home to change, choosing the most expensive-looking (and low-cut) dress I owned. I put on some fake pearls (surely Bastidas wouldn’t be able to tell) and a pair of sexy heels. After touching up my hair and makeup, I went downstairs to meet Pete, who was waiting for me in my parking lot.

  “That dress is way too revealing,” he said emphatically when I got in his car.

  Wrinkling my nose at him, I said, “That’s kind of the plan. I want him to talk to me.”

  “He’s not going to want to talk while you’re wearing that.”

  “Pete, quit staring at my boobs.”

  He protested, “But they’re right out there in the open!”

  I shook my head.

  Pete drove us down to Brentwood. Rosalie Ballard’s house was in a seriously tony neighborhood.

  He whistled. “Damn. I bet none of these places is worth less than five mil. You think you can pass for a fancy rich lady? You’d better watch your language.”

  “I’ve been taking notes from the Hollingsworths. I got this.”

  Savannah was waving at us from the driveway. We pulled in next to her and got out. At least the rain had finally stopped.

  “Hey, Pete, how are you holding up?” she asked sincerely.

  He gave her a half-smile. “Oh, you know me. I’m managing. Please tell Carl thanks for hooking me up with his lawyer. The guy’s good.”

  “We wanted to do something. Do you think you’ll feel like coming to our holiday party Friday night? We’d love to have you.”

  Pete shook his head. “Nah. I’m not up for a party. Thanks, though.”

  “You poor dear,” she replied, giving him a pat on the arm. “Juliet, I’ll send Carl over Friday afternoon to pick up the cookies you’re making, okay?”

  “I’ll have them ready,” I replied.

  “Sorry I can’t stick around to chitchat, but that would blow Juliet’s cover. Pete, you should probably make yourself scarce, too. The front door is open. Just let me know when you’re done and I’ll come back by and lock up. Good luck.” She looked at my cleavage. “And you might want to cover those suckers up. Don’t give him any ideas.”

  Pete raised his hands in frustration and turned to me. “Did I not just tell you the exact same thing?”

  I ignored him. “Thanks, Savannah. I appreciate it.”

  “Well, I appreciate not being dragged along on another of your illegal escapades. This I can handle,” she replied as she got into her car.

  Pete and I walked up to the house. It was monstrous. We let ourselves in and gawked at the spacious interior.

  “Wow,” I said, looking around in amazement. It was only partially finished inside, but you could tell it was going to be a showplace.

  “It’s like a freaking cathedral in here,” Pete said, peering up at the high vaulted ceilings. “These people are loaded, Jules. You need to act extra snooty.”

  “Roger that,” I replied, starting to get nervous. What if I couldn’t pull it off?

  Pete took my hands, pulling them to his chest. “You’re doing that thing you do when you get nervous.”

  “What?”

  “Rubbing your hands together.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “I do that?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know.” Pete knew me so well sometimes it was scary.

  The doorbell rang, and we both froze.

  Pete whispered, “I’ll hide in here somewhere. Good luck. And don’t let him grope you.” He gave me a pat on the back and disappeared down a hallway.

  I took a deep breath and pushed up my cleavage. Remembering to walk slowly and gracefully, I went to the door and opened it.

  A nice-looking Latin man with longish hair, a sharp suit, and a brilliant smile was waiting at the doorstep. When he saw me, his eyes immediately flicked down toward my boobs but then flicked back just as quickly. He offered his hand to me. I shook it, and he covered my hand with his other hand. Player.

  He said in a heavy accent, “Mrs. Ballard, I am Alejandro Bastidas. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  I used my other hand to play with the neckline of my dress, causing him to flick his eyes down again. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bastidas. Call me Rosalie.”

  “Ah, R-r-r-r-rosalie.” He rolled the r in “Rosalie” way too long. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. And please, call me…Alejandro.” He said his name with such a flourish, I half expected some flamenco music to start playing.

  “Hello, Alejandro. Come in,” I purred. He still hadn’t released my hand, so I took the opportunity to tighten my grip and pull him into the house with me.

  He looked around appreciatively. He also looked me up and down when he thought I wasn’t watching. What a pig. He said, “You have a lovely home, Rosalie. What is your vision for your landscape design?” He came closer to me and added, “Anything you can imagine, Alejandro can do.”

  Oh, boy. Bastidas was one of those weirdos who spoke about himself in the third person. He wasn’t scary at all. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. How in the hell did Cecilia fall for this shit? He was ridiculous.

  I was ridiculous right back. Not taking my eyes off him, I replied, “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

  “Would you like to start in your backyard?”

  In serious danger of dissolving into giggles, I said, “Yes, I’d love for you to tell me what you can do with my…backyard.” If Pete was within earshot, he was probably laughing so hard he would pee himself.

  We walked through the house and onto the stone patio that was being installed out back. The job was only halfway done, so there were many places where stones were missing. After all of the rainfall, the empty spots were muddy and filled with standing water. It wasn’t easy maneuvering over the uneven stones in these high heels, and I had already nearly tripped once on the way across. What happened next was inevitable, but I was at least able to use it to my advantage.

  “Oops,” I said, stumbling and inadvertently throwing myself at Bastidas.

  He didn’t miss a beat, catching me and copping a feel in the process. Yuck. He reeked of douchey cologne. I was going to need to shower after this. “Good thing I was here,” he said, holding on a little too long.

  I needed to speed things up if we were going to get around to the topic of whether or not he killed Cecilia. “Yes, I’m not used to having a strong man around the house. It’s rather nice.”

  His eyes glinted. “Oh? There is no Mr. Ballard?”

  “Sadly, no. He passed away.”

  Bastidas took my hands in his. “Such a tragedy. You…all alone in this big house. No one to share it with.”

  Damn. I was hoping he’d go for the “I lost someone too, so maybe we should comfort each other” line. That would have given me the perfect opening.

  “It is rather lonely sometimes…” I sighed.

  He was leaning in. Eww! There was no way I could bring myself to kiss this loser, but I didn’t know how to get out of it without blowing my cover.

  Mercifully, my phone rang just then. I took a few quick steps back toward the house, careful to watch my footing this time. “Please excuse me. I need to take this.” It was Pete. He must have been watching, ready to come to my rescue. “Hello,” I answered.

  Pete could hardly speak for laughing. “That douchebag sounds like Puss in Boots from Shrek. Has he offered to show you his sword yet?”

  “Yes, I can meet you later this afternoon to sign the contract for the theater system,” I replied for Bastidas’s benefit.

  “Hey, you
owe me one for saving you from having to kiss that schmuck.”

  “Yes, I agree. Where are you located?”

  “Look up.”

  I glanced up and could see Pete’s hand waving at me through an open upstairs window. “Thank you for calling. Goodbye.”

  Walking back over to Bastidas, I said, cringing inwardly, “Where were we?”

  He was looking out across the yard with a far off, pensive expression, like he was having a brilliant thought, or at least wanted me to think so. He spread his arms out, saying, “Picture this…we turn this entire space into an Italian vineyard. We grow rows upon rows of succulent grapes and import the finest Italian lemon trees. Here, close to your home will be…instead of a pool…an enormous sunken hot tub. And, of course, no Alejandro Bastidas design is complete without my signature touch…the koi pond.”

  What a windbag. He had a killer ego, but I wasn’t convinced he had a killer instinct. “Ooh, I love it. Although, I’ll need someone to help me break in the hot tub.”

  Leaning toward me, he smiled wolfishly. “That can be arranged.” His phone beeped. Frowning, he got it out of his pocket and looked at it. “Rosalie, I am so sorry. I must go. I have another appointment to get to.”

  Crap. I still needed to talk to him about Cecilia. I was going to kick myself later for this. “Oh, no, Alejandro. I want to talk more about your plans for my backyard.” I closed the gap between the two of us. “I’m free later tonight, if you’d like to discuss it over drinks.”

  His mouth creepily curved up in one corner. He was probably trying to look sexy, but it was lost on me. “I would like that very much, R-r-r-r-rosalie. Call my office later, and my assistant will inform you of my plans for us this evening.” He took my hand and kissed it. “Until tonight.” He left quickly, striding purposefully through the house and out the front door.

  Now that Bastidas was out of sight, I hopped gracelessly back across the stone patio and stepped inside. Pete met me at the bottom of the stairs, laughing so hard he had tears streaming out of his eyes.

  “Jules,” he cackled. “That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “I’m glad I could amuse you,” I said dryly.

  “I completely lost it when you kept making references to your ‘backyard.’ How in the hell did you keep a straight face?”

  I rubbed my face. “I think I bit a hole through my cheek.”

  Pete was having entirely too much fun mocking Bastidas, but I supposed he was entitled to it. “Picture this…I will plant my seed in your backyard, R-r-r-r-rosalie. If you can dream it, Alejan-n-n-ndro can do it. Would you like for me to trim your bush for you?”

  “Gross. Don’t ever say that again,” I said, shuddering. “I am not looking forward to seeing him later. You got plans for tonight?”

  He gave me a look.

  I cringed. “Right. I guess not. Want to tag along on my date with Bastardo? I may need someone to run interference if he gets handsy.”

  “Sure. I’d love to watch the asshole who impregnated my girlfriend put the moves on my best friend. Sounds like a perfect evening to me. Sign me up.”

  “Oh, come on, grouchypants. A night out on the town might do you some good.”

  —

  We drove back to town and stopped at my apartment for me to change into my work clothes. While I was changing, Pete commandeered my guitar. He started playing flamenco music and mocking Bastidas some more. Shocker. Mid-song, he abruptly segued into a very obscene version of Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro.”

  When he sang the line, “Don’t plow that sheep, don’t be a creep, Alejandro,” I knew I had to cut him off. I came out of my bedroom, looking a lot more like myself in a T-shirt and jeans, and said, “Pete, you’re gonna have to let that go, dude.”

  He looked up at me and set my guitar aside. “No. I’m not gonna. The way I see it, if Bastardo hadn’t knocked up my girlfriend, I probably wouldn’t be wanted for murder. It’s all his fault.”

  Squinting at him, I asked, “How do you figure that?”

  “Because Cecilia wouldn’t have broken up with me if it hadn’t been for the baby. She would have just kept on cheating on me like she had been.”

  I didn’t quite follow his logic, but I agreed with him to make him feel better. “I guess you have a point. Now we just have to figure out if he’s a violent guy. He didn’t seem like it today, but then again, there was a half million dollars on the line and he was trying to make a good first impression. I’d really like to talk to some of his clients and see what they have to say about him.”

  “How are you going to get a list of his clients?” he asked.

  “Well, I guess I could ask his secretary under the guise of wanting to see some of his finished work, but I seriously doubt a high-end business will go around giving their clients’ addresses out. They probably have staged photos of their projects for new customers to see.”

  He asked, “Would Savannah know who his customers are? She’s in the biz, kind of.”

  “She would have, except that she quit referring her clients to Bastardo after he hit on one of them.”

  “That guy is such a tool.”

  I had an idea. “They probably have their customers in a database, right?”

  “Yeah, probably. How are you going to get into the office to access to one of their computers?”

  “Maybe I don’t have to…I’ll be back.”

  I went next door to Trevor’s apartment and knocked. He answered after a few moments, looking like he had just woken up, even though it was mid-afternoon.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he asked, yawning.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, but I needed to get up anyway.”

  I asked tentatively, “Are you still into hacking computer systems?”

  Smiling, he said, “I might be.”

  “I’m looking for a client list. I don’t want personal info—I just want names, not that it makes what I’m asking you to do any less illegal.”

  “I could probably swing that. What’s the name of the business?”

  “Bastidas Enterprises. They do landscape architecture.” I hesitated. “I realize my request doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m trying to help Pete. He didn’t kill that woman, and I’m trying to find out who did. I think this list of people might help me do that.”

  Trevor shrugged. “None of my business. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “I probably only need a list of clients from the last six months. Oh, and will anyone be able to tell it was you who hacked in?”

  Scoffing, he said, “Do you know who you’re talking to? I know how to cover my tracks.”

  “Good enough for me. Thanks.”

  “Later.”

  I went back to my apartment, and this time Pete was playing a song we had written together back in college, “It’s You.” It was a beautiful song, and if I were being completely honest, I wrote the words about Pete. I was even going to rhyme “Pete” with “complete,” but I chickened out and changed the entire line at the last minute. He sang:

  All my life I’ve been searching, in need of something real,

  Going through the motions, not knowing how to feel.

  Then I met you and you made my world complete.

  Your smile, your touch, your kiss, all knock me off my feet.

  When I dream about my future and all the things I want to do

  Who I want to share my life with, I keep coming back to you.

  I need a love that’s deep and true.

  I know where to find it, it’s you.

  He looked so sad, just sitting there singing by himself. Even though it took all the courage I had, I sat down next to him and sang along with the rest of the song.

  I never thought there’d be someone who knows me like you do,

  But you see the real me, and you love me through and through.

  My heart is safe and sound in your loving arms.

  You keep me smiling with your laugh
ter and your charm.

  When I dream about my future and all the things I want to do

  Who I want to share my life with, I keep coming back to you.

  I need a love that’s deep and true.

  I know where to find it, it’s you.

  It’s you and me together.

  You and me forever.

  Life’s not worth living without you.

  When I dream about my future and all the things I want to do

  Who I want to share my life with, I keep coming back to you.

  I need a love that’s deep and true.

  I know where to find it…

  It’s you.

  When the song was over, he looked at me and smiled. “You sang with me, and I didn’t even have to trick you into it this time.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I slugged him on the arm. “I knew it! I knew you tricked me last time, but you swore you didn’t. You jerk.”

  “Yeah, I tricked you. Tough shit. I wanted to hear your voice. It’s ridiculous that you won’t sing anymore.”

  “Be happy I’ll sing in front of you. And you only. Don’t go trying to talk me into anything more.”

  “I won’t, on one condition,” he replied.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Sing another song with me.”

  After hesitating for a moment, I relented. “Okay. You choose.”

  “ ‘You Are Mine’ is your favorite, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  He started strumming the intro to “You Are Mine,” and I got swept back to when we wrote this song.

  —

  It was my sophomore year, right after school had started. I had spent the entire summer back home in Indiana, waffling back and forth between pining over Pete and trying to convince myself that I didn’t love him. Considering that I wrote the lyrics to a song called “You Are Mine” during this time, it was obvious I hadn’t succeeded in squashing my feelings for him. When I handed him the lyrics I’d written, he studied them carefully.

  “Nice, Jules. Man, whoever this song’s about is one lucky dude.” He looked up at me and grinned. “Juliet’s in love. Who’s the Romeo? Tell me.”