Something About Money

by Carolyn Scott

  "I don't know her very well," he said.

  "Well enough to give her the job here."

  He conceded the point with a tip of his head. "Look, Cat." He came round from behind his desk and placed his big hands on my shoulders. "I know this will just about kill you, but I can't tell you. I don't have that right. Let's just say Faith and I met under…unfortunate circumstances which she might not want you to know."

  Great. A mystery woman. I hated mysteries.

  He rubbed my shoulders with his thumbs. Maybe he thought I needed calming down. God knows why.

  "Okay," I said, starting to enjoy the massage.

  He dropped his hands. "Okay? Really? That doesn't bother you?"

  "No." Liar. "Why would it?"

  "Because you like to know everything that goes on around here."

  Someone has to, I wanted to say but didn't. I adored Will and what had happened with Carl was only partly his fault. I would never rub his nose in it.

  "It's a healthy curiosity, that's all," I said, defensively.

  He drew me into a gentle hug and rubbed the back of my neck. It was a tactic he often used in the middle of an argument, because he knew it lowered my barriers. I was a sucker for a tender cuddle.

  "You know what they say about cats and their curiosity," he murmured into my hair. "That's what scares me about you sometimes, Cat Sinclair."

  "Sorry." I breathed in his intoxicating scent, a blend of sunshine and the day's toils that I never tired of.

  We drew apart and I moved toward the door only to stop before I reached it. How did I end up being the one to apologize? "You're good, Knight."

  He flashed that grin which was totally at odds with his mostly serious nature. It was his best weapon, but thank God he didn't know that. "My place or yours tonight?" he asked.

  "Mine." Packing half my bathroom cabinet and choosing my outfit a day ahead wasn't my idea of fun, so I'd decided to buy duplicates of all my makeup and other essentials to leave at his place. Since my budget was tight, I only bought a few items at once and had a long way to go. Until I'd claimed at least three quarters of his cupboard space, I preferred my own apartment for our overnighters. "I'll cook."

  He winced. "I think it's my turn."

  Fine by me. If he didn't want to eat my TV dinners, that was his problem. Besides, he was a great cook. Why waste the talent?

  "I've got a few things to finish off here," he said, reclining in the large leather chair behind his desk. "Say around seven?"

  "Seven it is. I might as well get started on Jenny's case."

  "Finally! It's only taken six months to get you to do overtime."

  I wasn't carrying anything to throw at him so I poked my tongue out. Very mature, Cat.

  I headed down the hallway to my office, Will's chuckle chasing me. I smiled to myself. It was great to see him loosening up. Laughter had been a rare commodity at Knight Investigations until recently. Thank God he'd proven most people wrong—including me—by having a funny bone after all. I could never be with someone who didn't have a sense of humor. It's amazing how dynamite sex can relax a person.

  Back in reception, Faith was packing away her things. It must have been five already. "See you tomorrow," I said chirpily.

  She gave me a wan smile, the one people use for strangers or annoying children. Instead of leaving, she headed up the hallway to Will's office. She returned a couple of minutes later with a genuine smile on her face.

  Hmmm, definitely something suspicious between them. Why the hell couldn't Will tell me how he knew her? What was the big secret? She wasn't the sort of woman he would associate with socially. She looked insignificant with her pale skin, lank hair and drab clothes. I just couldn't picture them together romantically, but then I'd been wrong on that score before.

  So if he hadn't slept with her, was she a friend of a friend? A distant relative? If so, then why not tell me? What was the big deal?

  I'd get an answer out of her one way or another, even if I had to sit through endless discussions on the weather. In my experience, getting people talking about anything at all often led them to open up about themselves. It was a tactic I'd used in Hollywood when I wanted to needle my way into a particular celebrity's little black book. It had worked like a charm. Their egos never allowed an opportunity to talk about themselves pass by. Faith might be a harder nut to crack, but almost everyone could be broken eventually using that tactic.

  Sitting at my desk, I switched my thoughts to Jenny's problem. If I'd stayed in L.A., would she have gotten into financial trouble? She usually consulted me before she did anything stupid, but since I'd moved away, we rarely spoke. I guess it was just one of those friendships that wasn't destined to survive the tyranny of distance.

  I opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a notepad and pen. The office still contained traces of Carl, even though the police had given it a thorough going over and I'd packed his personal belongings in a box. A small box. He didn't have any photos or other things that people hung around their workspaces. The box, stashed in the storeroom with all the other junk, held a mug with a Far Side cartoon on one side, a blank postcard of the Sydney Opera House, and a yellow stress ball.

  I hadn't gotten around to personalizing the room yet, but I had plans, starting with a potted plant and a few framed photos of me with my Hollywood friends. I think that called for a shopping excursion later in the week.

  First, Frank Karvea. Jenny had sent me a text with her manager's details, and I wrote them down on a notepad. I wasn't sure if it was enough for a background check, so I flipped open The P.I.'s Manifesto and skipped to the relevant chapter. After half an hour, I had a page of notes on what I needed to find as well as phone numbers and websites to start my search.

  With the time difference between Illinois and California, I was able to make a few phone calls to Frank's home state before closing. What I learned in such a short time blew me away. Anyone could do this.

  I found out Frank had been married before, had no children, no criminal history, and he was the contact for DataSync. Bingo! Excitement tingled down my spine. This was my first hit and the rush was incredible.

  Next I called the DataSync office, but the number was directed to a messaging service. The woman on the other end offered to give my message to the president of DataSync.

  "Is that Frank Karvea?"

  "Yes."

  I thanked her and hung up.

  I now had a direct connection between Karvea and DataSync, but I needed more. It was unethical to advise one of his clients to invest in his own company, but not illegal. Nor was it illegal for a company to use a messaging service to answer its calls, although it didn't seem appropriate for a medium-sized firm. Messaging services were generally used for one or two person businesses that didn't want to hire a full-time secretary.

  Not a bad start, Cat Girl. But what I really needed was someone to check out the DataSync offices and find out first hand how large they really were. I had a few contacts in L.A., so I started dialing.

  The first two couldn't help out because they were too busy on set. The third was on location in Mexico, but she did mention that Frank Karvea had been in trouble before when I just happened to drop his name.

  "My boyfriend was a client of his a few years ago," Athena said. "He's an actor too, been in a few big budget movies. This was before Karvea set up Play Group. Anyway, Mitch got suspicious that he wasn't getting paid enough for a few roles he'd taken, and when he confronted his manager, Karvea shot him down for not trusting him. Mitch dumped him and he's since heard it happen to someone else too."

  "Did Mitch file charges?"

  "Are you kidding me? His name would be a curse in this town if he dared question Karvea's integrity. No, he just got another manager and moved on."

  I thanked her and hung up. I definitely needed someone in L.A. to check out DataSync. Frank was looking shadier than ever. Instead of tracking down my reliable old buddies who all would have been too busy with jobs or auditions, I
contacted an unreliable one. Someone I knew would have a lot of time on his hands.

  One of my exes, Evan, had started out as an actor but ended up as a professional surfer and groupie. In his spare time—which I'd bet a pair of Birkenstocks he had in abundance—he hung around celebrity haunts hoping to get free drinks and the girls discarded by the stars.

  I called him up and a woman answered. I asked for Evan.

  "Who's this?" she snapped.

  "Cat Sinclair. I'm a friend of his."

  "I've heard of you." She made it sound like I'd passed on a deadly disease.

  "Can I speak to Evan, please?"

  There was a rustle at the other end and muffled kissing sounds before Evan's lazy voice came on line. "Hey, Catwoman, how's shit?"

  "Good, Evan, real good. How's the surf?"

  "Wet and warm, just the way I like it, Gorgeous." He chuckled until a female voice shouted, "Evan!" in the background.

  God only knows what I'd seen in him to date him for two months. I guess I was young and bored and he was fun and carefree, which was exactly what I wanted at that time of my life. Evan was a sexy thirty-year-old with an athletic frame and a broad chest you just wanted to nibble. He was delicious, happy go lucky, and women loved him. When he was with someone, he gave her one hundred percent of himself. He said all the right things and showered her with gifts—flowers, jewelry, perfume. It would have meant so much more if he hadn't stolen them.

  Our relationship hadn't lasted, but our friendship did. When we parted, there were no bad feelings, although he had seemed baffled as to why the "Ev-ster" was getting dumped. He'd tried to get me into bed several times afterward, but I only succumbed once and that was because I'd had several Tequila Slammers over my limit.

  "I need your help, Evan," I said, trying to sound grown-up so he'd take my request seriously.

  "Anything for you, Catwoman," he purred into the phone.

  "I'm a private investigator now and—"

  "No shit! Cool."

  "Yeah. And I need someone in L.A. to check out a couple of things for me. It won't take long."

  "I could be your man. What's in it for me?"

  "Is my undying gratitude enough?"

  "Only if you're coming to L.A. Phone sex doesn't do it for me, Gorgeous." He sounded absolutely serious.

  I laughed to relieve the tension. Maybe asking an ex for help wasn't a great idea. "Cold, hard cash then."

  "Sign me up. What do I have to do?"

  I gave him the address for DataSync and asked him to check it out. "Find out what the company does, who's in charge, that sort of thing."

  "You want me to turn up the bullshit meter? I can do that."

  "That's why I called you, Evan. You're a natural."

  I gave him the details and he promised to let me know what he found after visiting their downtown office the next day.

  Will poked his head round my door, a grin from ear to ear.

  "What's so funny?" I asked.

  "You. You're working. I find it strangely sexy."

  I threw a pencil at him. "Only you would find work a turn-on."

  He came inside and spun my chair around to face him. He bent to kiss me on the neck and I tipped my head back and arched forward. "Maybe you should get glasses," he muttered in my ear. "And wear short skirts. Oh yeah, now that would be sexy."

  I punched him lightly on the arm. "Let's go. I'm starving."

  On the ride home, I filled him in on my background check.

  "So Mr. Karvea has been a naughty boy," Will said. "Sounds promising for Jenny. If she can show the police that it happened to others, she'll have a better case."

  My apartment building squatted in the heart of the mixed-class suburb of Flemming, a ten-minute drive northwest of Downtown Renford. It consisted of a single bedroom, small kitchen, and a bathroom so tiny my knees hit the under-sink cabinet when I sat on the toilet. There was nothing remotely interesting about it, except that it attracted a lot of attention from the neighbors when it was set on fire. I'd tried different decorating styles in the seven months I'd lived there, finally settling on minimalist because I ran out of money. After my decorating dilemma, I discovered that less furniture meant less clutter, which gave the appearance of cleanliness if not the actuality of it.

  It was one of eight in a cream brick building housing an eclectic mix of tenants. I liked them and I liked the area, and I definitely liked the cheap rent, but I was getting tired of living like a sardine. Listening to the mad Russian who lived above me wasn't much fun either. He had a habit of shouting into his phone in the mother tongue so I couldn't even eavesdrop on his conversations. Not to mention the way he clomped across his uncarpeted floor. I lived the expression "waiting for the other shoe to drop" most nights as he undressed to go to bed.

  One day I hoped to have enough money to buy a bigger place of my own, maybe even something with a back yard. That's if I could save enough for a deposit. My spending habits hadn't been informed of my savings goal and my bank balance hovered around zero way too often.

  Will cooked pasta with a basil pesto sauce and we sat at the small dining table in the lounge with The Voice providing background noise to our mealtime chatter. I told him more about Jenny, but he took that as an opportunity to question me about my Hollywood days. Even Will liked to gossip.

  "I'll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours," I said, leaning over my plate.

  After a slight hesitation, he said, "I don't have any secrets."

  "No? So how do you know Faith?"

  He toyed with his pasta. "Cat, you're unbelievable. I told you—"

  "Okay, I'll drop it. But trust works both ways, Will."

  "What's trust got to do with anything? It's Faith's story to tell, not mine, and I wish you'd respect that."

  "I do. Any stories I have involving celebrities are also their stories, so no more Hollywood gossip from me."

  He grumbled out a half-hearted complaint as he picked up his wine glass and drained it.

  I smiled to myself as I finished my pasta. Will picked the wrong woman to hide something from.

  Chapter 3

  The four people stepping through their routine on stage looked like something from a couture designer's weirdest fantasies. The two men and two women wore shiny silver bodysuits, silver boots, and silver gloves. Purple antennae bobbed like drunken flies above their heads. I think they were supposed to be aliens, although they could easily have passed for crackheads. The flailing arms and "woo woo" sounds didn't make the distinction any more obvious.

  Jenny, the alien on the far right, waved at me as I entered the concert hall, earning a scowl from the choreographer taking them through their steps. A man and woman sitting in the front row turned round to glare at me, then turned back and watched the rest of the rehearsal. It finished ten minutes later with the aliens performing a boppy song-and-dance number.

  "That's a wrap for today," called the woman down the front. She was about thirty with wild reddish-brown hair that looked like it would be a nightmare on humid days. "Good work, guys. Corey, keep that smile going the whole time. And Jenny, don't get distracted by the audience." Everyone looked at me and I slunk lower into my seat. "Taylor and Angel, you were fabulous. Keep it up." She placed her clipboard under her arm and clapped. The others joined in, so I thought I should too.

  That earned me another scowl from the man in the front row. He was mid-forties, dressed in business attire with graying hair neatly cut and blow waved. When he stood, I saw that he wasn't tall, only about five-eight or so, but he was handsome in a Wall Street kind of way. He turned to the stage and held up his hands like he was about to catch a ball. The petite blonde alien—Angel, presumably—leaned down. He caught her round the waist and lowered her gently to the floor, much like a father would his child.

  Standing beside him, she looked like a child too. About my height—five foot three on a big hair day—she had the whole pixie thing going for her with short hair flicked out at the ends, big blue eyes, del
icate rosy lips, and high, sharp cheekbones with a fairy dusting of freckles across her ski-jump nose. She smiled like she barely registered the man's presence, then moved away. He let her go, but didn't look happy about the snub.

  "Cat, you came!" Jenny trotted over to me, her antennae dancing. She bent to hug me and I nearly choked on her overpowering perfume.

  "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about," I said. "Nice costume."

  She did a ballerina twirl. "It's awful, isn't it? Possibly the worst yet, but the kids love shiny things." She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the aisle toward the stage. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the others. You'll love them."

  Apparently "the others" didn't include the choreographer, the crazy-haired lady, or the suited man who I was pretty sure was Frank Karvea. In an earnest discussion about the lighting, the three of them didn't notice us rush past.

  "I really should be talking to Frank," I whispered to Jenny.

  "Talk to him later. He's in a bad mood now. He and Angel are fighting again."

  The old, majestic concert hall seemed all wrong to host four shiny aliens and thousands of screaming tots. With its dress circle boxes, rich, burgundy color scheme, and decorative rosettes, an operatic production with an audience of European royalty seemed more appropriate.

  Behind the stage, we descended steps to a narrow, dim corridor. A series of closed doors lined both sides, each numbered sequentially. Jenny opened the first one without knocking.

  Angel sat at the long dressing table in a white robe, swiping at one eye with a cleansing pad. She half turned when we entered and smiled at me. "Oh, hello. You were watching us, weren't you?"

  "You guys were great," I said. "Really energetic."

  Jenny introduced us then sat on the stool beside Angel and started her own post-rehearsal ritual of makeup removal.