Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  I returned his patronizing grin. "Of course you're not. Why would you?"

  Raymond chuckled, highly amused by the situation.

  "And I wouldn't dream of asking you to take it down. I'm quite honored that you spent so much time and resources outing me. And such flattering pictures of me as well. You simply have to give me the name of your photographer. Maybe I can hire him to take some publicity shots."

  Raymond smiled again and pointed his finger at me. "You're a sassy one, aren't you?"

  "You tell me. You're the one with all the inside information these days."

  Raymond tried to stare me down. I held my ground. Never blinking, never faltering. Never exposing that, in the end, I had nothing. And everything to lose.

  "It's a bitch, isn't it?" he asked.

  I pretended to ponder his question in all seriousness, as if it contained an answer to one of life's most unsolvable puzzles. All the while I was actually racking my brain for my next course of action. I had to get answers to my questions. How did he find me? Who took those pictures? How much did he really know about me? "Actually, I'm quite impressed," I began. "I'm a pretty difficult person to track down. I'm surprised that your spies were even able to find me at all."

  Raymond scoffed at my remark. "You're not that difficult to track down. Granted, I'm sure you've made significant efforts to cover your tracks in order to avoid any unpleasant run-ins with people like me. And I may not have known exactly where you'd be buying your weekly groceries or which store you frequent to stock up on all those cute little outfits of yours. But after you so rudely left my hotel room that night, I knew one place that you'd undoubtedly be visiting."

  As my ears followed his sinister series of words, my mind was coming to the most horrifying conclusion. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. After all the precautions I take on a daily basis – unlisted phone numbers, indirect routes to and from my house, fake jobs that I tell my family about – I had never even considered this one. He had been tracking me from the moment I stepped onto his property. At his very own house! While I was inside consoling Anne Jacobs with hugs and Kleenexes and kind words about moving on and knowing the truth, Raymond's wretched little spy had been outside taking down my license plate number and doing God knows what else. It was almost too brilliant for me to be angry. Almost.

  "Clever," I managed to get out, despite the deafening pounding of my heart inside my ears. "So what's your corruption of choice? DMV or FBI?"

  Raymond shook his head. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

  My mind raced. If he had access to files like driving records and license plate databases, there was no end to the possible extent of his knowledge. That wasn't public information. You can't just enter a license plate number into a Google search and out pops a nice and neat little personal biography. As far as I could tell, he had some type of government hookup. Not that I was surprised. The businessmen I dealt with in my line of work were rarely ever squeaky clean.

  I needed leverage. And I needed it now. Something to throw back in his face. But I had nothing!

  So I took a gamble.

  "What about your new girlfriend? I'm sure she'd be delighted to know about your 'past.'"

  To which he chuckled again. This time it was loud and dripping with disdain. "There is no new girlfriend, sweetie," he began. "There's just an ex-wife, some very expensive attorneys' bills, and a large divorce settlement. Thanks to you."

  I swallowed hard. I knew I was trapped. There was nothing else I could do at this point. I would have to leave and regroup. Given enough time, I would surely be able to think of something. This evil man had to be stopped!

  "Well," I said, gathering up my things, "sounds like you've got a lot on your plate. I'll leave you be."

  That's when Raymond stood up and walked over to the couch. I suddenly felt very small under his towering six-foot-three frame. He sat down next to me – dangerously close, his proximity making me painfully uncomfortable.

  But his ominous facade seemed to soften somewhat as he brought his face close to mine. I could feel his breath on my skin, and it made me want to squirm. But I struggled to remain poised and controlled, not flinching, even for a second. Because I couldn't give him that satisfaction. I couldn't let him know what kind of effect he was having on me.

  But the truth was, I had no idea what was coming next. I hadn't a clue what he was about to say or what other surprises he had hidden up his sleeve.

  Then he placed his hand gently on my thigh, leaned in closer, and whispered, "We never got to finish what we started. Back at the hotel."

  I tried hard to suppress the gasp that was building up in my throat. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Was he really implying what I thought he was implying?

  I suddenly felt small and lost, sitting on that red leather couch, in that dauntingly large office. I closed my eyes, pulling the strength from the very depths of my soul.

  "I'm a reasonable man. I'd probably be willing to work something out." His tone was soft, almost amicable. But I could sense the rage buried deep within. It poured out of his eyes and burned into my skin. Lingering aggravation and promises of revenge. He moved his hand farther up my leg. "You know, call off my spies."

  I looked down at his hand, resting dangerously close to the hemline of my skirt. It felt like a thousand tiny spiders crawling on my skin, making me want to jump up and scream and brush them away with swift, merciless motions.

  I knew exactly what I needed to do.

  And it was exactly the right time to do it.

  I stood up, pushing Raymond's grubby hand violently from my leg. "You're disgusting," I said vehemently, before storming to the door, purse in hand, self-respect in tow.

  But just as I laid my hand on the doorknob and pulled the large, wooden door toward me, revealing a small inch of space between me and the salvation of the outside world, he opened his mouth once again. And this time, the words that found their way out were surprisingly much worse. "I wonder how your mother would react when she learns what you really do for a living."

  I paused, my hand still on the doorknob, my heart in my throat, the realization of the unexpected, deeper complexity of the situation immediately appearing across my face.

  "Especially after the very similar way her own marriage crumbled," he continued, leaning back on the couch, relaxed in the safety of his upper-hand position.

  I closed my eyes again. This time, much tighter. I could feel the weight of the world slowly come down upon my shoulders.

  It wasn't supposed to happen this way. This was supposed to be the part where I stormed out, victorious in my resolve. Warning him to "beware" because I, too, had a couple of tricks up my sleeve. And he would soon experience firsthand what I was capable of. Then I slam the door on my way out, leaving him to wallow in his palpable defeat.

  But I was far from victorious.

  And he was clearly far from defeat.

  "How do you think she would react... Jennifer Hunter?" Hearing his voice uttering the syllables of my name was like nails on a chalkboard. I could feel my whole body shudder with repulsion

  And then all of a sudden, it became painfully clear just how deep his corruption went. Just how much he knew. And just how far he would go to make sure I suffered just as much as he had. To make sure my life was ruined just as his had been. And I realized, I had even more to lose than I'd originally thought.

  With my hand on the doorknob and my heart in my throat, I slowly closed the door – once again trapped in the dark, morally depraved confines of Raymond Jacobs's corner office.

  LATER THAT afternoon, as I drove to my next destination, I added yet another item to my seemingly ever-expanding list of things not to think about today: what happened in Raymond Jacobs's office. I would have to fully digest that turn of events at another time. Lately I seemed to be getting really good at storing things away to be dealt with at a later date. This would have to be no different.

  There was work to be done. Mo
re women needed my help. And I would give it to them. Because I had promised to. Despite the existence of creepy, power-hungry businessmen and the shadowy offices that hide their sins.

  After pulling into a random Jiffy Lube and persuading the highly skeptical mechanic to inspect my Range Rover for any bugs or suspicious tracking devices that Raymond Jacobs's spies could have attached to my car, I convinced myself that I was thankfully not under any permanent surveillance.

  Feeling more at ease, I followed the navigation lady's detailed directions to the tucked-away neighborhood of Topanga Canyon, in the Santa Monica Mountains just inland from Malibu Beach. Ninety minutes later I pulled into a long, winding driveway and followed it for nearly a quarter of a mile, until I reached a secluded mansion carefully hidden amid a forest of pine trees. This was the home of Sarah and Daniel Miller, possible future beneficiaries of my one-of-a-kind service.

  "Ashlyn, I presume?" A tall, elegant woman wearing a pink, Jackie O–style suit answered the door. I almost had to laugh at her overly theatrical presence. It was as if she'd been hired to play the part of a self-important prim and proper wife of a well-known political figure. And she certainly looked the part with her perfectly coiffed, bobbed hairdo.

  I forced myself to keep a straight face. "Yes, that would be me."

  "Please, come in," she said pleasantly, holding the door open so that I could enter. "Can I offer you some tea or coffee?"

  My eyes darted back and forth, searching for a hidden camera. This had to be a joke. One of those Candid Camera–type TV shows. Did women like this really still exist after 1962? I mean, I'd seen my share of housewives before, but this was almost too much. I felt like I had just walked into Stepford, Connecticut. Although after reading the book and seeing both films, I knew that the Stepford wives never would have hired a fidelity inspector. It would be against their better programming.

  "No, I'm fine. Thanks."

  "How about a muffin? I just baked them."

  I stifled a laugh. "No, thank you."

  "All right then," she said softly. "Let's take a seat in the living room, shall we?"

  I followed her petite frame as we walked through the immaculate house and into the adjoining living room. It was an eerie place. Empty and lifeless. Almost as if no one even lived there. Where were all the photographs? Cat hair? Dirty socks and toys that the kids forgot to put away. Not even a single vacuum mark on the carpet.

  "It's a beautiful house," I remarked, hoping her response would offer me a much desired clue about its mysterious perfection.

  "Thank you," she replied without looking back. "We really like it here."

  No such luck.

  "How long have you lived here?" I inquired. Two weeks? Two hours? We haven't actually moved in yet?

  "About three years," she said mechanically, almost as if she were reading from a script.

  She motioned for me to take a seat on the couch and then took the seat across from me, keeping her legs tightly together and her hands folded properly in her lap.

  She smiled amicably at me and I did my best to return the smile. This woman did not strike me as someone who was about to hire a fidelity inspector. But then again, you just never know these days. People are weird. Married people are weirder.

  "I'm terribly worried about my husband," she began, with little emotion in her voice. "We've been married for ten years and we've always been happy. But lately I've sensed a change in him. He's become distant. Far away. In his own world. We don't even make love anymore."

  I swallowed down another inappropriate giggle and bit my lip to hide my expression. I knew this woman's predicament was no laughing matter. No client who hires me is ever in the mood for comedy, and I would certainly lose all credibility if I were to suddenly break out in a laughing fit as a client was explaining her marital concerns to me. But this one was difficult.

  I silently scolded myself for being so insensitive and prudently chalked it up to the unusual amount of stress I had been under lately. "Well, I can certainly understand your concern."

  "I was told by a friend of mine that you conduct something called a 'fidelity inspection.' Can you explain that to me?"

  I went into my usual explanation of the test: the popular locations that people choose, my fees, the expenses, etc. Mrs. Miller listened intently, very interested in the details.

  "So there is no actual intercourse, then?"

  "No," I confirmed. "It's an intention-based business only."

  "And do you make exceptions to that rule?" she asked, almost eagerly.

  The question caught me off guard. Especially coming from her. No woman had ever actually wanted me to go through with sleeping with her husband. They were all perfectly satisfied with stopping at "intention."

  I cleared my throat. "No," I said, not really sure what else I could say to that.

  "Oh, all right," she replied. "I just thought I'd ask. I would really like to know for sure if my husband would cheat on me."

  I forced a smile. "I understand, Mrs. Miller. But it's extremely safe to assume that with the intimate level of my inspection there leaves very little room for doubt."

  She nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. Well, I'd like to take care of this right away. I'll pay you extra if you'll conduct the test tomorrow night."

  And suddenly I thought of Jamie for the first time since leaving Raymond Jacobs's office. Tomorrow night was our second date. And I couldn't think of any better reason to turn this offer down. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Miller. But I have prior engagements tomorrow."

  "Monday night, then?" she asked hastily. This woman certainly was anxious to get this over with. "Daniel has drinks scheduled at the W that night; it's perfect timing."

  I hesitated. I normally like to have at least a week between the initial meeting and the assignment. "Well..." I began.

  "I'll triple your fee," she offered.

  I looked at her strangely. What was up with this woman? She was clearly one sandwich short of a picnic basket, and in serious need of a firm dose of present-day reality. But still I felt a strong desire to take her offer. I probably could use the extra money. After my previous meeting I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be in business.

  I agreed.

  "Excellent," she said. "He'll be having drinks with business associates, but he almost always stays afterward for another drink. It's his way of unwinding and processing all the details of his meeting before coming home."

  I jotted the information down in my notebook. "Okay. I'll just need to borrow a picture of Mr. Miller."

  "Of course," she replied, standing and walking over to a small end table next to the couch. She delicately opened the drawer and removed a wallet-sized photograph from inside. As I watched her I couldn't help but notice that it was the only thing in the drawer. It was completely empty; not one other item was inside. I stared at the open drawer curiously until she closed it and handed me the picture.

  The man in the photograph looked vaguely familiar, although I was fairly certain I had never met him.

  "Is something wrong?"

  I shook my head. "No, no. Your husband just looks like someone I know."

  She smiled, as if she'd heard that many times. "Ah."

  "And what does Mr. Miller do for a living?"

  Mrs. Miller seemed to fidget slightly in her seat, as if the question made her uncomfortable. I found it terribly out of character for her impenetrable facade.

  "Well, actually," she began, tugging gently at her earlobe, which also seemed out of character. As if this of all questions had been the one that made her nervous. "My husband is between jobs right now."

  I nodded and made a note in my book.

  "He was just laid off from his previous company and he's searching for new work. I believe that's what his Monday night meeting is about."

  "Understood," I said as I continued writing.

  "But don't bring that up!" she practically shouted.

  Her unexpected outburst caused my hand to jerk upright, leaving an unsight
ly black line across the open page of my notebook. "Okay," I answered warily. "That's fine."

  This woman was a freak. So seemingly concerned about hurting her husband's jobless feelings that she had decided to hire a fidelity inspector? Not exactly the best timing on her part, was it?

  I went over all the final details with Mrs. Miller, and then finally arrived at the part about the expenses retainer that I require for all of my assignments.

  She nodded pleasantly as she stood up and walked over to a dark wooden secretary in the corner of the room. From another empty drawer she pulled out a large white envelope from which she produced a thick stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. "I assume cash is fine?" she asked, counting out the correct number of bills.

  I felt my eyes scrunch up in stunned bewilderment as I watched her from across the room.

  She looked over to me. "Is it?"

  I nodded, unable to speak. This woman had just offered to pay me triple my fee, and on top of that she was paying me in cash! Cash that came out of an otherwise empty drawer in the middle of an otherwise empty house.

  I only offered two payment options for my services: cash or a check made out to "cash." Most clients chose the safer, cleaner, less drug dealer–like method of payment. But judging by the amount of money that was still left in the envelope after she removed my portion, this woman had clearly been prepared to pay me more than three times what I normally charge. Who keeps that much cash lying around?

  I was starting to wonder if this so-called job of his that I wasn't supposed to mention happened to involve taking off articles of clothing or smuggling illegal immigrants into the country.

  As I held the money in my hand, something about it felt almost dirty and immoral. Like I had just been paid off for knowing and keeping a very destructive secret. And I didn't like it.

  I tried to shake the feeling, convincing myself that Sarah Miller, given her obvious peculiarity, simply felt more comfortable paying me in cash, and I had to respect that.

  But as I gathered my things a few minutes later, I felt extremely relieved to finally be leaving the twisted Stepfordville/Twilight Zone home of Sarah and Daniel Miller. I got into my car and leaned my head back against the headrest. I was grateful that my long day was officially over. But as I drove down the winding canyon road, back toward the familiar, straight-lined streets of Westside Los Angeles, I knew that my day might have been over but my problems were far from resolved.