by G. K. Parks
“No. They’d probably just show up at your place and ask that one in person. I know you’ve only met Rick Sanderson a few times in passing, but how well do you actually know him?”
“Not well at all.” He was agitated by answering the same thing repeatedly.
“We need someone to convince him to represent a new model. She has a decent résumé, even if she isn’t entirely up to snuff.” I flipped through the background history fabricated by the tech department.
“Who?” His curiosity distracted him, and the bitterness left his voice.
“Lola Peters,” I was reading the file for the third time, “she’s done some advertisements, a bit of catalog work, some car shows.”
“Never heard of her.” He was still clueless. It might have been cute if I wasn’t wondering if he had paid any attention to the brief synopsis I gave him at lunch about the undercover sting. “Do you have some stats on her?”
“Why? Planning to start your own modeling agency?” I quipped. “Or are you just looking for another date?”
“Alex,” he was trying to be patient, “if I call Sanderson, he’s going to ask.”
“Five foot six, one hundred and twelve pounds, brunette, blue eyes, supposed to be twenty-four.” I paused, suspecting he was making notes. “I didn’t think you knew Sanderson well enough to call him yourself.”
“I can try. I don’t have any other connections in the business to offer.”
“You can’t tell him it’s part of a police operation. He’s still considered a person of interest.”
“Okay. Will she know who I am and why I vouched for her, just in case Sanderson asks?”
“I guess so,” I snickered, “considering you and I need to figure out what my cover story will be. I don’t want you getting dragged deeper into this, so I’m thinking she’s a niece or cousin of one of your employees, asking for a favor. That way, you can remain an innocent bystander. The timing is still suspicious as all get out, but we need to have this happen before Monday.”
“Do I get to retroactively count you as one of the models I dated?” At least the dots connected for him.
“Seriously, I don’t want you to be familiar with Lola at all. Call Sanderson, but you’re asking for a favor for someone else. Whatever you decide, keep it simple, and tell me what it is once it’s said.”
“All right.” He had all the notes he needed. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
While I waited for Martin to phone with the news that Sanderson rejected his request, I rifled through the clothing piled on my bed. If the vice squad’s outfits wouldn’t hit the mark, then I’d have to figure something else out. Surely, somewhere in this pile was the perfect interview outfit.
I decided to forgo a skirt because the scar on my thigh could easily be a deal-breaker this early in the game. In the recesses of my closet was a pair of black leather pants from some undercover assignment when I was full-time at the OIO. To add to the ensemble, I found some black spike heels with silver studs. Now all I needed was an appropriate top.
My phone rang, and I grabbed it. “Are you free tonight?” Martin inquired. I couldn’t tell if he was being his lothario self or if this was Sanderson related, so I waited for additional details. “Sanderson’s hosting a party at his place, and if he likes what he sees, he’ll sign you tonight.”
“Where’s the party?”
“I’ll give you the address.” He rambled off the information. “I told him I’d have to relay the message to your uncle in accounting, and he’d give you the message. Rick said the party will be going on until three or four a.m., so at least you have plenty of time.”
“I need to call Heathcliff or Moretti and get approval.” I was making a mental list. “Thanks for this,” I added.
“I know you’re busy,” he spoke quickly, hoping I wouldn’t hang up on him midsentence, “but I forgot to give you some paperwork from Ackerman today at lunch. It’s just an employment release form since you signed with them but didn’t actually work for them. I said I’d take care of it and bring it by in the morning.”
“Good thing I called.” I wondered what he planned to do had I not called but realized I probably didn’t want to know. “I’ll be home for the next hour or two, working out details and finding something to wear. Can you have Marcal or a courier bring it by for me to sign?”
“Sure.”
Nineteen
Heathcliff got approval and gave the go-ahead on meeting Sanderson, but I didn’t have high hopes of a positive outcome. I wasn’t a model. I never aspired to be a model, and with the exception of half a decade worth of classical dance classes as a child, I never desired to be tall, svelte, and coordinated. By the time I turned fourteen, my interests had shifted, and my life had taken more turns than I cared to recount.
I was in my bedroom, wearing the black skintight leather pants, the spiked heels, and a black bra as I circled through the pile of blouses and tops that were now scattered all over my room. My doorbell rang, and I grabbed a sweatshirt before answering it. I looked through the peephole and opened the door.
“Hey there, Bruiser.” I smiled at him as Martin entered my apartment. “Want to come in and join the party?”
“I think I’ll wait in the lobby,” Jones said, retreating toward the stairwell.
“My building has a lobby?” I asked Martin who sauntered past and was seated at my counter.
“You know, the area on the ground floor where the mailboxes are,” he responded so casually that I wondered if he spent his free time stalking me.
“Uh-huh.” I went to my desk and found a pen. “You didn’t have to bring this over personally. On the phone, I specified using a courier.”
He had a mischievous grin. “Sorry to disappoint, but I had to see what you were wearing.” He made an obvious show of checking me out. “You need to reconsider the top. I said conservative, but that’s just ridiculous.”
“No shit.” Uncapping the pen, I read through all the legal stipulations, making sure I wasn’t giving them permission to cut out my brain or anything like that before signing and dating the bottom. “Was that it?” He flipped through the pages, finding one final tabbed spot to sign.
“And now you’re free from all legal hassles and no longer granted any privilege pertaining to me.” Strangely enough, this was a good thing.
“Great.” I went into my bedroom and shut the door. “Help yourself to a drink. I haven’t moved the liquor cabinet since the last time you were here,” I called. It felt strange for him to be back in my apartment. Maybe I was the one who needed the drink. “Hell, make it two.” Taking off the sweatshirt, I continued evaluating the pile of clothing in order to figure out what to wear.
“What?”
Our communication skills were even more impaired than usual on account of my bedroom door being in the way, so I opened the door halfway and hollered into the main room, “I said make yourself a drink. Then I said make it two, but that’s probably not the best idea since I have to woo Sanderson. Maybe I should pack a flask and force feed him hundred and fifty proof liquor until he’s too drunk to disagree. What do you think? Overkill, right?” I was rambling. “Never mind. Just ignore me.”
Martin appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of scotch. “Oh, sorry.” He turned away.
“Screw it,” I muttered. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to come up with a solution. “Get in here and help me figure out what to wear.”
He assessed my pants, shoes, and bra. “Maybe you should just go like that,” he smiled slyly, and I gave him a dirty look. “I’d sign you.”
“Either help or get out.” I was annoyed with him, the situation, and my lack of wardrobe choices. He began sifting through the assortment of tops. “Do we know Sanderson’s sexual orientation?” I inquired as Martin did a wonderful Tim Gunn impression.
“I have no idea.” He held up a cream colored cashmere sweater. “Try this.” I felt like a four-year-o
ld whose parents had to pick out her clothes. I put the top on and waited for a reaction. He adjusted it at the shoulders, so the v-neck plunged deeper than usual. He cocked an eyebrow and smirked, very self-satisfied.
“Well?” I was tired of feeling like a dress-up doll.
“Classy sex kitten.” I glared at him and went into the bathroom to look in the mirror.
There was a fine line between sexy and slutty, and I didn’t trust his judgment. It wasn’t as bad as I imagined, but the two burn marks on my chest were impossible to ignore. Why didn’t anyone take my protest about being damaged goods seriously? A modeling agency wouldn’t hire someone who was covered in remnants of the occupational hazards of her day job. There wasn’t enough makeup in the world to erase what I’d been through, but I searched the bathroom cabinets, looking for concealer and foundation anyway. Thankfully, modeling was only skin deep.
“Goddamn scars,” I cursed. Martin appeared behind me, watching with a level of fascination often reserved for predators in the wild who were about to pounce on their prey.
“Do you have any long necklaces?”
“Jewelry box on my dresser.”
I didn’t even bother to ask what he was thinking. To be perfectly honest, I was taken aback by his overall fashion sense and stylistic attitude. Sure, he came off looking perfectly coifed and polished on a daily basis, but he probably spent years perfecting that talent. Dressing me should not come this easily to him.
He came back into the bathroom, holding a long silver chain with a simple circular charm at the end. Brushing my hair to the side, he slipped it around my neck and fastened the clasp, letting the charm fall just below the v of my shirt. I went to adjust it, but he grabbed my hand.
“The silver will draw the eye. No one will even notice the slight discoloration left.” His voice trailed off. The event responsible for those particular scars wasn’t something either of us wanted to revisit; it had been part of the impetus that broke us apart.
I looked in the mirror again, judging the veracity of his statement. My eyes immediately went to the pinkish white marks on my chest, but I knew what to look for. After all, they were my scars. Also, I wasn’t a guy, so he was probably right about where the eye would be drawn.
“My god,” I teased while applying an absurd amount of makeup, classy but still outlandish, “you need to be a guest judge on Project Runway. Are you sure you’re into women and not just dressing them?” Maybe he had some kind of strange fetish I wasn’t aware of.
“You could just say thank you.” He left me to my own devices as he went in search of the scotch he abandoned somewhere in my bedroom.
When I emerged a half hour later, my hair was wavy, my eyes were smoky, and my skin looked as flawless and young as some cheap drugstore makeup could manage. Honestly, I’m not sure I would recognize myself. “What do you think? Am I up to snuff?”
He turned from his place at the counter and smiled, mesmerized by the transformation. “Goddamn.” His curse was low, sultry, and full of something that instantly sent chills through my body. He met my eyes, and in the green depths of his irises, I could see something that could only accurately be described as loss. “If he doesn’t want to represent you, Ms. Peters, then he must be blind.”
I snorted. “Lola Peters, what a name. Maybe you should have been at the station today, explaining the difference between hookers, strippers, and models.”
He smirked and put his glass in the sink, grabbed the paperwork off my counter, and edged toward the door. “Good luck.” He winked. “One final suggestion, don’t wear the shoulder holster. It will ruin the entire effect.”
I laughed good-naturedly. “Thanks for the tip.” I followed him to the door. “If I weren’t painted up like a drag queen, I’d probably ask for a good night kiss, but it’d take turpentine to get the paint transfer off your skin.” I was playing with fire, and he cocked his head to the side, assessing me for a moment to determine how serious I was.
“Pity,” he examined my reaction closely, “I ran out of turpentine this morning.”
“Maybe next time.” I opened my front door. “Tell Bruiser my building doesn’t have a lobby.” He tossed his patented smirk over his shoulder and left.
* * *
It was almost midnight by the time I arrived at Sanderson’s house, a large estate in an exclusive neighborhood. How come it suddenly seemed like everyone else owned mansions? I had a tiny apartment comprised of one large multifunctional room, a bedroom, and a small bathroom. On the plus side, cleaning it didn’t take more than a couple of hours. If I had a mansion, it would have to come with an entire staff of maids and butlers. Apparently, Sanderson’s came with parking attendants, cater-waiters, a DJ and impressive sound system, and a myriad of people. Or at least he hired them for the party.
Lola’s résumé, comp card, and headshot were folded neatly in my purse. All I needed to do was locate Sanderson. After asking a dozen or so guests to point me in the right direction, I found him sitting outside by the heated pool, watching amused as some bikini-clad women played volleyball in the water. This seemed to answer my question regarding his sexual orientation, despite his dark, perfectly styled hair. And even from behind, I could tell the price of his clothing coincided with the price of his house.
“Mr. Sanderson,” I interrupted, giving him my most captivating smile, “Lola Peters. I believe you were expecting me.”
“Rick.” He gave my appearance a quick assessment. At least he wasn’t an ogler. “Let’s step inside and see if we can’t find someplace quiet to chat.” He guided me through the house and up the spiral staircase to the second floor. He opened a door to a large room, the purpose of which I couldn’t quite discern. “I use this for photo shoots,” he explained. “It’s easier than having to book a studio.” I tried to appear in the know and up to speed on such things.
“Here’s my headshot and résumé.” I pulled out the documents and smoothed the creases before handing them to him.
“Why are you in such a hurry to find an agent?” he inquired, sitting on one of the only three pieces of furniture in the room. With the door closed, the thrum from the music downstairs was muted, and I wondered why he soundproofed the room.
“Well,” I tried to look anxious and a little desperate, “Mr. Sanderson.”
“Rick,” he insisted, and I smiled graciously. I would have preferred to be able to call him suspect, but that was Alex’s hang-up, and right now, I was Lola.
“Rick, I haven’t worked around here,” I gestured to my résumé, “but I heard the Tate Modeling Agency is having an open call on Monday. I’ve been dying for a chance like this all my life,” I gushed, making a mental note that dying wasn’t an appropriate term but made for a wonderful pun anyway. “Independent representation is my best chance to make this happen, especially since I’m not getting any younger. Plus, my uncle is always bragging about how he works for some hotshot who’s dated a ton of models, so this felt like kismet. He asked around and,” I tried to look humbled by being in the presence of such an important agent, “here I am.”
“Here you are.” He looked momentarily wolfish before going back to pleasant professional. He studied my résumé for a few moments. “Twenty-four,” he commented as I stood quietly, waiting. “5’6,” he scrutinized my physique, “with legs like those, you’ve gotta be taller than 5’6.”
“I’m cheating.” I indicated my heels, and he scrunched his face and considered things for a few minutes.
“Let me think about it,” he said, eyeing me once more. “Is this your current contact information?” He indicated the police provided cell phone number and fictional address.
“Yes.”
“I’ll make a decision before Monday.” He stood, stepping uncomfortably close. Maybe if it wasn’t painfully apparent he was soft and out of shape, I’d feel uneasy being in a soundproofed room with him. But he didn’t pose a threat, and I was clearly being dismissed. Or maybe this was the part where I was supposed to offer to s
leep with him in order to get his representation. I couldn’t be sure since I wasn’t a model, and Martin kept insisting they weren’t prostitutes. But Rick seemed sleazy enough, or maybe he just had to assess and reassess my qualifications based on a purely professional basis. Once again, I couldn’t be sure, so I tried not to jump to conclusions. Lola was naïve when it came to these things, I decided. “Please stay and enjoy the party.”
“Thank you.” He led us out of the room and down the stairs.
Quickly, I disappeared into the throng of people, checking to see if I spotted anyone familiar, like Alvarez. An hour later, my head was pounding from the loud music, my feet were aching from the horrible heels, and if one more guy hit on me, there would be bloodshed. I went outside and waited for the valet to bring my car around and drove home.
Free from the torturous world of models and parties, I called Heathcliff and left a message that Sanderson would probably be a bust, but someone needed to keep an eye on Lola’s voicemail, just in case. Then I scrubbed the layers of gunk off my face and went to bed. I needed to make some kind of decision about Martin. The attraction was still there, buried under anger, resentment, and fear. However, our constant problem was also still there. My life was precarious, but then again, so was his.
Twenty
The next morning, I decided to forgo witnessing Spencer’s second interview at the precinct, and instead, I went for a nice long run at the park. Every little bit of exercise and toning couldn’t hurt, and it provided the perfect excuse to see if Roger was staying out of sight. I looped the trail a couple of times. But the brutes weren’t around, and neither was Roger. I finished mile five and headed to my car.
After a shower and a very unsatisfying whole grain breakfast bar, it was time to do some actual investigating. I got Alvarez’s home and work address from the police file and went to see if an extra set of eyes could locate the bastard faster than the BOLO, which no one paid attention to. What was the point of being on the lookout when the guy couldn’t be spotted?
