by Julie Kenner
Still, he would have liked to just spend time with her. Maybe drive around the mountains. Take in the view. Ride bikes along the beach.
Taken. He should have known, should’ve guessed. But the thought hadn’t even entered his mind until he’d watched Zoë laughing with Baywatch boy in the Ferrari. He’d seen her, and his testosterone level had skyrocketed. Woman-mine had pretty much been his Neanderthal way of thinking. And it depressed the hell out of him to know that some other caveman had already claimed his female.
Now, with Zoë on the brain, he headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel to keep his meeting with his new mystery client. He parked out front, and was just finishing his not-so-gourmet lunch when someone rapped on the window. Taylor rolled it down, ignoring the light rain that blew in. It was probably someone wanting him to move his car. “I’m not blocking traffic. I’ll be out of here in less than five minutes.”
“Mr. Taylor? I’m your appointment.”
The cultured voice was familiar, and Taylor groaned. “Sorry. Hop on in.”
The man circled around to the passenger side. The door opened and a slightly damp man with a hangdog expression slid into the car.
“I thought we were meeting in the hotel.”
“I saw you and decided to grasp the opportunity.”
Taylor grimaced, not sure he liked this guy’s style. Still, if the guy really had a job for him . . .
He sighed, giving in to curiosity. “So tell me about this jewel, Mr. . . . ?”
“Mord—Mordon.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Mordon.”
Taylor shoved the last bite of hot dog into his mouth and took Mordon’s hand. It was cold and clammy. On top of that, he almost felt certain he’d seen this guy’s green eyes watching him before. They were creepy eyes, the kind that seemed to look straight through him. But that was crazy.
And yet Taylor didn’t trust the fellow. He was just about to open his mouth to say “Thanks, but no, thanks,” when the guy pulled out a wallet and withdrew five hundred-dollar bills, laying them on the dashboard.
“An advance on your fee.”
Taylor looked from the money to the guy, then back. He shrugged. Trust was highly overrated in the investigator-client relationship. So what if the guy was a little smarmy? He could live with smarmy so long as the bills got paid. And this guy was only looking for a jewel, not dirt on a perfectly nice woman.
“Okay. I’m in. You got a picture or something?”
“I tracked it to a thrift store,” the man said, “but was . . . unable to catch up with the woman who purchased it.” He pulled a Polaroid out of his jacket and passed it to Taylor.
“This is the stone?” Lane’s ugly pendant? Oh, man. This was just priceless. Lane would freak when she found out her necklace was going to pull down ten grand.
“That’s right. As I said, a young woman bought it from a thrift store, but I was unable to obtain the necklace from her.”
Taylor tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re really planning on paying me ten grand to find this?”
“I certainly am.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I told you. It’s an heirloom.” He smiled. “I assure you there is nothing nefarious. The stone has been in my family for . . . well, let’s just say even a museum would be interested in a piece like this.”
“And the ten grand is for locating it?”
“Correct.”
“Just locating it.” Maybe this client—for a change—did come from a family that could trace its roots back to Cro-Magnon man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to pull one over on Taylor.
“As I said, correct.”
“So how are you going to get it after that?”
“Why, my dear Mr. Taylor. I will purchase it, of course.”
Bingo. If Mordon here was willing to pay ten Gs just to find the thing, he’d surely pay even more to Lane to get it back. This was a man with some serious cash. And he wasn’t proposing anything too shady. . . .
“Do we have a deal, Mr. Taylor?”
“Yup. I think we do.”
“Fine.” Mordon turned in his seat to face Taylor more directly. “I might suggest you begin with the shopkeeper and try to track down the woman who bought it.”
“You might,” Taylor snapped, then waved away the smart-ass comment. “Sorry.” The guy might be pushy, but he was paying the bills. “I mean, it’s a good idea, but I have a feeling I’ll have your necklace back to you sooner than you imagine.”
Mordon inclined his head, and Taylor had the uncomfortable sensation that he was being sized up. “I see.” The man opened the passenger door. “Then I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Taylor.”
“You got a card or something? A phone number?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Taylor shrugged. The guy already gave him the creeps. If he wanted to play the dark and mysterious client, Taylor wasn’t going to argue. “Whatever.”
“Excellent.” Mordon stepped out into the drizzle and shut the door behind him.
Taylor exhaled and watched him go. In just a few days, he’d have ten grand in his bank account. He should be ecstatic. He should be on the phone to Lane, or at least on his way to her apartment.
Instead he had the overwhelming urge to scrub down the passenger side of his car.
Eight
Baubles & Beads was Deena’s favorite thrift store, and it just happened to be conveniently located in Hollywood, right across the street from Hoop’s office. Over the past year she’d wasted a lot of time there, blown through several paychecks, and found some pretty keen bargains. Where else could she find semitacky costume jewelry, vintage dresses, and pink umbrellas with purple fringe? Not that she’d actually used the parasol yet, but one never knew when one could come in handy.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Zoë looked at her over a round rack displaying a variety of leather outfits.
“It’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time,” Deena said as she plowed through a box of belts and scarves.
“Hiring this George guy, I mean. Not our spur-of-the-moment shopping spree.”
Deena looked up. “It’s a great idea. You hire a date, your mom thinks you’ve got a guy, everyone’s happy.”
“I suppose.” Zoë ran her finger down a leather bustier. “It just seems like cheating.”
“Well . . . it is. But it’s either that or find a real date—or go out with some dweeb your mom sets you up with.”
Zoë’s nose wrinkled. “Will you come with me to ask him?”
Deena sighed, then held up a black scarf with gold sequins. “What do you think of this?”
“Deena . . .”
“Look, sweetie, it’s just a business deal. All you have to do is go across the street, take the elevator to the seventh floor, walk in the door, and ask George to be your escort for one night. Simple.”
“So you’re not coming.”
“Can’t. I have to teach a class in Santa Monica. I’m going to be late as it is.” That was a teensy lie. She did have a class, true. And she was going to be late. But mostly she didn’t want to catch hell when Zoë realized that George Bailey was none other than Buster “the object of lust” Taylor.
She held up the scarf and raised her eyebrows.
Zoë shook her head. “Too flashy.”
“Probably right.” She tossed the scarf back in the box and pulled out a gold mesh belt. Tacky, but fun in a retro-sixties kind of way. “You’ll do fine. It’s not like you’re interviewing for a job. You’re just hiring an escort.”
“I suppose.”
“Or you could tell your mom the truth.”
Zoë took a deep, loud breath. “I’m just stalling.”
“I know you are, sweetie.”
“I’ve never hired a man before.”
Deena grinned. “With your looks, you shouldn’t have to.”
“You think he’ll agree?”
“Honey, I’m betting good money he’ll jump at the
chance.” She wrapped the belt around her waist and fastened the clasp. “What do you think? Should I buy it?”
“Well . . . it’s incredibly ugly, but for some reason, I sort of like it.”
“Sold.” Deena smiled. “Now go hire yourself a man.”
The trip to Lane’s would have proved more productive had she been home. As it was, all Taylor did was sit in her living room for an hour watching bad television and wondering where she was on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
The day didn’t improve after he left. First, he ended up stuck behind a three-car pileup on the Santa Monica freeway. Then, when he finally managed to exit, it took him an hour on surface streets to get from her tiny Venice Beach apartment to Hollywood.
By the time he pulled Francis Capra into the pay-parking lot five blocks from his office, his already shaky mood had completely deteriorated. Even the possibility of ten grand wasn’t enough to put a silver lining in Los Angeles traffic.
The rain was falling with a vengeance now, turning the city eerily dark for early afternoon. Holding his empty briefcase over his head, he strode down the street and pushed through the revolving door into his office building, ignoring the hawkers trying to make a fast profit with cheap umbrellas.
He jabbed at the elevator call button. Nothing. He punched it once more. Again, nothing. The needle above the antiquated box showed it was stuck on the tenth floor. Oh, well. He hadn’t been to physical therapy in over a month. He could probably use the exercise.
Only silence greeted him as he stepped into the rundown office suite, his thigh throbbing. Not that he’d expected a rip-roaring welcome. Holding only two PIs, a part-time secretary, and a teenager who ran errands, the office was never exactly hopping. And on Saturday, the cockroaches even took the day off.
A vague noise floated from the back of the suite, followed by a crash, then a groan.
Hoop.
Taylor grinned. Looked like he wasn’t alone after all. He headed for the file room sandwiched between his office and Hoop’s, pitching his briefcase onto the reception desk as he passed by.
More of a storage area, really, the file room was chock-full of banker’s boxes piled ceiling-high, stacks of paper covering every surface, and surveillance equipment teetering precariously on the metal shelves that lined the back wall. A retro Formica table dominated the center of the room, complemented by vinyl-cushioned chairs. Boxes and papers littered the floor. And there was Hoop in the center of it all, rumpled and unshaven—as usual.
Taylor leaned against the door frame. “I think the files are escaping into the hallway.”
“Just trying to make some room to eat.” Hoop swept his hand over the table, sending the last three folders flying. “Twinkie?”
“No thanks. I’m giving up health food.”
Hoop grimaced. “Hey, man can’t live on pizza alone.”
“I’m probably going out on a limb here, but maybe it’s time to organize the file room.”
Hoop twisted in his seat, surveying the mess. “Looks organized to me.”
In the six months since he’d subleased space from Hoop, Taylor had learned two important facts about his old academy buddy: One, Hoop was a slob. Two, he was one of the best investigators Taylor had ever known. All of which probably illustrated some huge cosmic principle, but Taylor was damned if he knew what it was.
“If you want to organize it, though, knock yourself out,” Hoop said. “Deena’s helping out around here next week. She can give you a hand if you want.”
“I’ve only met her once, Hoop. It’s bad enough she’s going to answer my phones for free. I’m not about to make her schlepp boxes.”
Hoop waved the thought away. “Oh, please. She likes to do stuff like that. I’m surprised she hasn’t already moved all the boxes to one side of the room and painted some frou frou mural on the wall.” He finished off his Twinkie, then washed it down with a slug of orange soda. “Trust me.”
Taylor shrugged. The file room was the least of his worries. “I’m mostly concerned about the money thing.” That was putting it mildly. “Between the two months’ rent I owe you and the rent on my apartment, I’m a little tight.” A lot tight, actually, but he didn’t need to share that little tidbit. Especially since that problem should be remedied soon.
“Parker screwed you for fees, huh?”
Taylor tapped the side of his nose. “Bingo.”
“What a horse’s ass.”
“I was using stronger language the other day.” He straddled one of the chairs, resting his arms on its back. “Besides, it’s my own damn fault. You warned me.” He lifted a shoulder philosophically. “I would’ve done better to buy a lottery ticket than to bank on Harold Parker paying his bill.”
Hoop ripped open another package of Twinkies. “Maybe the check’s in the mail.”
“Nope. The bastard was just trying to screw over his wife. I told him to forget about paying me. Right after I told him to go hell.”
Hoop wiped a glob of Twinkie innards off his chin. “I knew you had a knack for client relations.”
“Very funny,” Taylor muttered.
“I know you’re good for it, but if your landlord’s getting antsy, you could always sell your Mustang.”
“In your dreams,” Taylor scoffed, forcing out a laugh. He’d spent four years rebuilding Francis Capra. If he had to choose between his car and his apartment, he’d be sleeping in the car.
“I’m pretty overloaded right now. I could use a second set of legs.”
Taylor shook his head. “Thanks, but no, thanks.” Playing sidekick wasn’t his style, and neither was taking charity. For half his life he’d been shuttled from foster home to foster home. The day they set him free and sent him out on his own, he’d made up his mind to take care of himself for the rest of his life.
“There’s nothing wrong with accepting a little help, you know. You don’t have to be the lone wolf out fighting for truth and justice.”
Taylor brushed the comment away, trying to pretend Hoop hadn’t hit the nail on the head. “I’ll be fine. The fact is I just met a guy with a job that’ll refill my bank account.” He shrugged. “Ten thousand bucks, assuming I get the job done.”
Hoop took another slug of soda. “Can you?”
He laid the photo on the table and gave Hoop the rundown on Lane’s thrift-store necklace, ending with a shrug. “Piece of cake.”
Hoop’s eyes widened. “A guy hires you to find your foster sister’s necklace? What, are you leading a charmed life?”
“Dead broke with a bullet in my leg, and the only woman I’m interested in already is taken . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, yeah. I’m charmed.”
The corner of Hoop’s mouth raised. “Yeah, you’re right. Your life pretty much sucks.”
Taylor scowled.
“I’ll ask about that love triangle later. Right now, what’s the story with this trinket? Is it stolen? Is it the Hope diamond?”
“The guy says it’s a family heirloom. I made a couple of calls. Nothing like it has been reported stolen.”
“Lot of money just for an heirloom. Why?”
“I dunno. If I had a family memento that was centuries old, I might go a long way to get it back.” Of course, a thirty-four-year-old orphan who could trace his family tree back all of thirty-four years wouldn’t exactly be an expert in the family heirloom department.
“Ten grand covers a lot of sentimentality.”
“That’s just my finder’s fee. He’s still got to buy the necklace back from Lane. And if he’s throwing ten my way, I figure Lane can negotiate quite a deal.”
Hoop shook his head and let out a low whistle. “This guy look like he was rolling in the dough?”
Taylor remembered his finely cut clothes, his cultured way of talking. He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Well, hot damn, boy. I repeat my earlier comment—you’re charmed.”
Hell, maybe he was.
The phone rang, and Taylor scooped it up. It was Lane.
“I got your message,” she said. “What’s up?”
“You know that necklace you wanted to sell? I’ll take it off your hands after all.”
A pause, then, “Why?”
“Long story.” He couldn’t wait to see her face when she found out her thrift-store necklace was going to get them both out of debt. “Can you bring it over?”
“Um . . . well, no.”
He heard Davy crying in the background. “Fair enough. I’ll come get it.”
“Uh, Taylor, I don’t have it anymore.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Hoop was staring.
“Well?” Hoop hissed.
Taylor waved the question away. “How can you not have it anymore?”
“I gave it away. This woman saved Davy from getting hit by a car, and I gave it to her. Like a fee.”
“Saved Davy?” He tried to keep his voice calm as the rest of him wanted to crawl through the phone line. Across the table, Hoop tensed. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
Relief washed over him, and he nodded at Hoop, who relaxed.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You worry too much. And it turned out okay. I told you, this woman saved him.”
“What woman?” He should find her. Thank her. Buy back the damn necklace.
“The one who jumped off the building.”
Whoa, there. “What?”
“The one who saved us. I don’t know her name.”
“She jumped off the building?”
Hoop looked up from the Hostess package he was opening. Taylor lifted his free hand in an I-don’t-know sort of gesture.
“Yeah. It’s been all over the news. Happened right by your office.”
“Who is she?”
“Nobody seems to know. Some mystery woman.”
“Well, hell.”
“She told me she was filming a movie or something.”
“What movie? Think, Lane. It’s import—”
“I gotta go,” she said. “Davy’s crying.”
“Wait, Lane,” he said, but she’d already hung up. Damn.
“Did you say some chick jumped off a building?” Hoop asked.
“I didn’t say it. Lane did. And she gave the necklace to this mystery woman.”
