On the Record- the Complete Collection

by Lee Winter

  After a moment, Ayer’s restless gaze settled on their reflections in the brushed steel doors.

  Lauren felt scrutinized. Again. She searched for something innocuous to say.

  “Thanks for upgrading us,” she said. “Not a fan of motels with a Petri dish for a pool.”

  Her words sounded unnaturally loud over the faint hum of the elevator.

  Ayers’s gaze burned a hole through their reflections in the doors. Lauren wondered what her malfunction was. Surely it wasn’t the rainbow brigade at Reception? She shifted from foot to foot and adjusted her duffel bag on her shoulder.

  What now? Should she invite Ayers to dinner? What was the etiquette for this? Should they order in room service or go out?

  Lauren closed her eyes as she gave the matter thought.

  There was a ding. The doors opened.

  She opened her eyes to see Ayers already gone and flying down the dimly-lit hall in ten rapid strides.

  No wave. No goodbyes. She stared after her. The door to 408 snicked open then clunked shut.

  Lauren gazed down the empty corridor, annoyed and far too tired to dissect Ayers’s latest crap. She wearily headed for her own room and dumped her bag on the floor two feet inside. She glanced around. Pink walls? Okay then.

  She contemplated the groaning air-conditioner struggling to keep the room cool. She was tempted to fiddle with it, but even the thought sounded exhausting. Maybe in the morning.

  She flopped on the queen-sized bed adorned in a pinkish-red cover. She kicked off her shoes, which flew across the room landing with a distant pair of thuds, and tried to concentrate on the night’s itinerary.

  Shower, food—possibly with Ayers—then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

  Sounded good. She’d just close her eyes for a minute and then get started.

  The air-conditioner hummed noisily on.

  Chapter 6 –

  Chump Change

  Lauren woke to a pounding noise, a parched throat, and a sense of disorientation. What was it with motels insisting on bolting shut windows and pumping stale air through air conditioners?

  And what the hell had woken her? She pulled back the sheets and padded to the door, inched it open and peered out. The corridor was empty.

  She closed it and peered around.

  Another knock. Sharper this time.

  Wait—the sound was coming from her closet?

  She yawned and tripped over her duffel bag on her way to pull the door open. Instead of racks or hangers, she found a vastly more irritating sight.

  “About time, King,” Ayers said, taking in her rumpled form. “I was starting to think you were going to sleep the day away. Come on—we have work to do.”

  Lauren stared at Ayers. She was immaculately dressed, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and crisp pale-blue shirt unbuttoned over a white designer T-shirt.

  She blinked at her, still half asleep and disoriented. “Adjoining rooms?”

  When had that been decided?

  “Clearly our little friend at reception thinks we’re either suppressing our secret desires or hiding them from the world,” Ayers drawled. “Now do you think you can divest yourself of yesterday’s clothes, have a shower, and join me for breakfast sometime today? I’ve set us up a meeting this morning.”

  “Meeting?”

  “Shower first.” There was a long pause as she peered over Lauren’s shoulder and surveyed the sheets scrunched up in a pile across her bed.

  Lauren scowled and ran her fingers through her hair. So she was a messy sleeper. So what? Like she was going to be judged before breakfast for not waking up in a perfectly made bed. She pointedly scratched her ass.

  Ayers shook her head, took a step back, and closed the adjoining door between them with a decisive clunk. “My room, fifteen minutes,” she said through the wood.

  Lauren glared at the door and offered it a middle finger. The door suddenly reopened. Lauren froze, eyes wide, as Ayers added, “And King, we’re meeting the public today so try to dress accordingly.”

  Ayers’s focus shifted to Lauren’s finger, which Lauren sheepishly balled into a fist.

  “Right,” she said and cleared her throat.

  Fourteen minutes and one shower later, she stepped into the other room, slicking back her hair with her hand. Ayers glanced up from the Nevada Appeal and laid the local paper to one side.

  “I took the liberty,” Ayers said, waving her hand at a plate of fruits and pastries. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just ordered anything that had a lot of sugar and fat. The fruit salad’s for me,” she added dryly and stabbed a grape with her fork.

  “I don’t know where you get the idea that I only eat crap.” Lauren reached for a croissant and a pat of butter.

  “It’s a mystery,” Ayers murmured and nudged the stack of pancakes oozing with maple syrup her way.

  “So,” Lauren glanced at the morning edition, “anything exciting happening in these parts?”

  “I’d like to say the usual, but there’s nothing usual about Nevada. Page ten says that plans have stalled to move the state’s execution chamber from Carson City closer to Ely and its death row prisoners. Apparently state-sanctioned killing rooms are so mundane they don’t even make it to the front fold.”

  Ayers sliced into a banana.

  “God forbid Carson City loses its macabre tourist attraction,” Lauren suggested darkly and slathered strawberry jelly on her croissant.

  “It’s financial,” Ayers said. She flicked the paper with her finger. “They’re also debating whether to give aid for domestic violence victims to flee their abusers. That made it to page twenty-three, only just ahead of the recipes for the perfect prime rib.”

  “What’s there even to debate?”

  “That’s also financial.” Ayers slid a slice of banana in her mouth and chewed slowly.

  “I suppose everything is around here,” Lauren said. “Never seen more fliers for gambling day trips to Vegas than I found on my dresser this morning. This joint’s just a regular land of money-making opportunities.”

  “So it seems,” Ayers said. “So, this morning we’re meeting with a man named Bourke.”

  “Right. And he is?”

  “That is literally all I know. Yesterday at our lunch stop I called a GOP contact in Washington to set us up with someone senior within the Nevada Legislature for a backgrounder. I said it had to do with a ‘very unusual launch in LA.’ That was all I said. He didn’t even need to ask what I was talking about, just said he’d see what he could do.”

  “Seriously?” Lauren muttered. “It’s already gone all the way to Washington?”

  “So it would seem. While both political parties are efficient at heading off dirt as it’s kicked up, the haste with which this story has slithered up the pole is startling. Usually it’d take a few weeks at least for someone to admit it to Washington, just in case it turns into something.”

  “So what does this speed mean then?”

  “Usually one of two things,” Ayers said, as she forked a melon ball. “Either something unspeakably bad has happened, and they need a crack team on it immediately, no matter the embarrassment. Or, they’re just as confused as we are and are hoping someone from outside their little swamp can make sense of it.

  “Bourke will probably reveal which it is, one way or the other. How much he squirms and over what will give us a good idea. We’re meeting him for coffee up the road in twenty minutes.”

  “Why would he even agree to the meeting? No one I tried would even return my calls.”

  “My contact owes me one and called in a favor. Even so, sometimes certain people like their co-operation put on the record early in case a story blows up into something big later. The governor’s office can then later say they were up-front at all times and had nothing to hide. They may even cite our meeting as proof
they’ve been above-board from the start and have only ever wanted to get to the truth—even if that’s just spin.”

  “Sneaky.”

  “Politics,” Ayers said simply.

  They both ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “I think we should try and find Cherry Pie,” Lauren said suddenly. “It’s a distinctive name. Shouldn’t be too hard. She seemed friendly enough.”

  “Friendly?” Ayers eyed her, askance.

  Lauren snorted. “Well, she did flirt a bit—all in good fun.” Her fork wavered as she briefly considered the pancakes. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’d be interested. She’s probably nudging fifty once you scrape off all that make-up.”

  “That’s your objection? Her age? Not that you’d have to swipe your credit card first before every date?”

  “Well, that too.”

  “Or the fact she’s female?” Ayers asked curiously. She laid her fork down.

  Lauren regarded her breakfast companion. “Is there something you’re asking me?” she said with deceptive softness.

  A charged silence fell between them. They stared at each other. Finally Ayers leaned back casually in her seat, eyes hooded. She picked up her fork again.

  “There are dozens of brothels throughout Nevada,” she said, her tone suddenly all business. “Finding one prostitute among hundreds is a big ask.”

  “Sure,” Lauren said. “But I’ll bet they have a pretty good idea of who works where. I bet we’d only have to call a handful to find which one is hers.”

  “Good point.” Ayers nodded.

  Lauren glanced at her in surprise. Ayers’s twitching lips threatened a smile.

  “Where should we start? Alphabetically? By county?” Ayers asked.

  “What about with the brothels closest to Carson City?” Lauren suggested. “If the women were hired by someone from the government, odds are he wouldn’t have gotten them from too far away. He might have even gone with women he knows.”

  “You think he’s hired them before?”

  “Maybe.” Lauren shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the smart thing to do, but nothing about this makes sense.”

  “True,” Ayers said. She glanced at her watch. “Let’s call the nearest places as soon as we’ve spoken to Bourke. On that note—you’ll be wanting to change before we head out.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Lauren protested, looking down at her heavy-duty red shirt and worn pale jeans. “This is country. We’re in the country.”

  “You look ready for the rodeo,” Ayers retorted, eyes amused. “Only missing the spurs.”

  Lauren shrugged and jumped to her feet, tore off her long-sleeve shirt, and dumped it on the floor. She was now in a tight white tank top. She placed her hands on her hips. “Better?”

  Lauren found herself being assessed for a long moment. It was unnerving.

  “No. I don’t think so.” Ayers uncoiled elegantly from her chair and stood. Without another word she disappeared into one corner of the room and swung open the closet door.

  “Well?” she asked when Lauren hadn’t moved; she popped her head back out impatiently.

  Lauren walked over, confused. “What are you doing?”

  Ayers didn’t answer but pulled out two jackets still on their hangers and held them against Lauren’s chest, one after the other, then shook her head. She put them back and reached for another.

  “Hey—I can dress myself,” Lauren protested.

  “All evidence to the contrary,” Ayers said. “This one I think. Casual, but not cheap.” Her gaze flitted over Lauren’s tank top. “Okay. Try it on.”

  She pushed a stunning tailored cream jacket into Lauren’s arms. It was cinched at the waist and studded with snappy bronze zippers and buttons. She glanced at the label. Michael Kors.

  Ayers stood back and waited.

  Lauren dusted her fingers over the soft material appreciatively before she slid it along her arms and settled it across her shoulders. She quickly did up the rustic buttons and turned to look at the full-length mirror on the closet doors.

  She took in the way the jacket hugged the curve of her waist and flared out higher to emphasize the swell of her bust. It was stylish, sexy, and screamed high class.

  She blinked at her reflection. If she didn’t have the evidence before her eyes, she wouldn’t believe it. Since when did she exude high class?

  “Wow,” she said, then reddened, appalled she’d blurted it out loud.

  Ayers leaned in over her shoulder, and Lauren watched in the mirror as she pulled the collar perfectly straight, her well-defined cheekbone resting almost against Lauren’s. She could smell Ayers’s scent and feel her body heat warming her skin. The fine hairs along her neck stood up.

  Ayers matter-of-factly dusted the top of Lauren’s shoulders sharply, trailed her fingers down to the ends of sleeves, which she then snapped expertly in line. She took barely a half step back, her body right behind Lauren, and slowly perused Lauren’s reflection.

  “‘Wow’ indeed,” Ayers murmured in agreement and studied Lauren’s eyes in the mirror. She gave a satisfied smile. “I believe Mr. Kors suits you.”

  Soft warm breath feathered the back of her neck, and Lauren blinked. “Yeah,” she agreed with a small grin. “I think so too.”

  Ayers responded with one of her rare genuine smiles. It was captivating—all perfect white teeth and teasing, curling lips, while those glittering eyes regarded her with amusement.

  Lauren’s breath hitched, and she was startled to find herself sway slightly back into the warmth behind her. She frowned and stepped quickly to one side. She tore her gaze off Ayers’s stupid, perfect smile, vastly irritated to feel her cheeks heating up again.

  This was ridiculous. She could hire herself out as a stop light at this rate.

  “I, um, thanks,” she said, far too brightly. “That’s, this, it’s great. Promise not to get food on it or anything; you’ll get it back safe and sound. Right, so, I’ve just got, uh, some stuff to do. Before we go.”

  She was rambling. God, how she was rambling. Ayers stared at her with an inscrutable expression, eyebrow cocked.

  “And shoes. I need some,” Lauren added. She gestured to her feet dumbly, spun on her heel, and padded toward the adjoining room.

  “Don’t forget your little rodeo blouse,” Ayers called after her, pointing at the puddle of discarded shirt. Lauren scooped it up with a brusque snap on the way past.

  Lauren felt that all-too observant scrutiny track her until she closed the door with a click. Only then did she remember to let out her breath.

  Victor Bourke had a tanned, ruddy face, a shoelace necktie strangling his puffy throat, and appeared to be affixed to his chair by sweat. Despite the day’s already rising heat, he had squeezed himself into a tight tan suit.

  Ayers greeted him with a full-charm offensive. She offered her hand for a firm shake, made eye contact, flashed teeth when she smiled, and made witty small talk about local politics. Lauren found the charisma overload disconcerting.

  Bourke had given her a penetrating stare that said he wasn’t that easy, and had twice avoided answering exactly what his job title was with the Nevada Legislature.

  Lauren thought he looked like a mid-level political lackey. Probably heard everything going on while being responsible for next to nothing. Useful, but not powerful. Even so, he was clearly nobody’s fool, a fact Ayers had clocked immediately. Her body language subtly shifted from charming to all-business in an instant.

  Bourke ordered the diner’s “double buzz” coffee with extra cream. Elbows planted on the table, he studied them.

  “I agreed to this meeting because Jim’s an old friend of mine,” he told Ayers, pointing a slug-like finger at her. “But this is a one-time thing. Go through the media liaison boys after this. And, as we agreed, no
thing’s on the record, right?”

  Ayers and Lauren murmured their assent.

  “So you want to know about the party ladies,” he began. “The ones at that SmartPay USA thing? Let me cut the bull. There’s no big, high-level cover-up taking place that you reporters like to convince yourself is going on.”

  He actually looked grumpy at the thought.

  “We’re not stupid,” he continued. “We’ve got eyes. And some of those gals at the event were already known to some of the gentlemen at the event in a private capacity, if you know what I’m saying. So, we knew they were from around here.”

  “You also must have known your political competitors hadn’t hired them,” Lauren said. “Because they’d have been just as embarrassed as your side if it came out three-dozen prostitutes were at a big launch they were at.”

  “Something like that,” Bourke said sourly.

  “Was someone sending your governor a message? Is this a threat of some kind?” Ayers asked. “They plan to embarrass him for something?”

  “No,” Bourke said. “Nothing like that. Besides Freeman is clean as a whistle, especially on family values. It’s one of the reasons why we tapped him in the first place. Even the skeletons in his closet go to Bible group three times a week.”

  “Then what?” Ayers asked.

  “We think someone was playing a little joke on us.”

  Lauren’s eyebrows shot up.

  “A joke?” Ayers said doubtfully.

  “That’s what I said. Look, there’s nothing sinister about any of this. Someone was up to some mischief for kicks, and that’s all it was. Nothing to get worked up over.”

  “Who did it?” Ayers asked. “Do you know?”

  “Do you?” he countered and reached for his coffee. He took a long, deep draught, and watched her closely.

  Ayers pinned him with an intense gaze. “Mr. Bourke, how can you be so sure it’s a silly joke if you don’t even know who did it?”

  His nostrils flared. “Now I never said whether we know or don’t know. But it is being handled. And I can tell you this—it’s not news.”