In answer, he closed what little distance there was between us, kissing me senseless. I was practically on top of him when the door opened. I jumped away and straightened my top as Addison walked in, mumbling something about Jake getting called away for work. Then she froze, looked from us to the uneaten food on the table, and glared at me.
“I told you not to cave!” she said.
“Relax, Sis,” Asher said, reaching for my hand again. “I was simply telling Dylan about the referral I just gave you.”
Addison’s eyes lit up. “Referral?”
I giggled, unable to control my giddiness. “Yep. I hope you’ve got a good camera, Addie, because we’re gonna go nail some cheaters.”
Asher was watching me. He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I hope I’m not making a big mistake.”
Addison
THE CALL FROM Ethan Sinclair came in the next day. Dylan sat on the edge of her seat and listened as I set up the interview for the following morning. Then I calmly hung up the phone before she and I jumped out of our chairs and danced around the office.
“The interview’s tomorrow?” Dylan asked when we finally settled down enough to speak.
“Yep.” I rubbed my hands together. “Ohmigod, we need to close the office and go shopping.”
“No, we don’t,” she replied, her tone emphatic. “We went shopping before we opened the office. You know, last week? We have plenty of business clothes to choose from.”
“But do we have anything from the line of ‘I can spy on dirty cheaters without getting caught’?”
Dylan laughed. “I don’t think that’s an actual line of clothing.”
“Well it should be, because that’s what we need. I could always go for Thug Barbie again.”
“You promised Jake no more wearing lingerie in public.”
“I’m sure I can find something else.” I whipped out my cell phone and started scrolling through my contacts. “In fact, I bet Monique will know exactly what we need.”
“No...not Monique,” Dylan groaned.
Monique was my personal shopper. Dylan still hadn’t forgiven her for their last encounter. “How can you still be upset with her? You looked gorgeous in that gown.”
“I know!” Dylan agreed. “But you guys tricked me.”
I laughed. “Dylan Linn James, you are not that stupid.”
“She had me try on sixty-three hideous dresses before she trotted out the one you’d already decided I’d wear. That counts as a trick in my book.”
“Yep, we had to fool you into looking good. What does that say about you?”
Dylan snapped her mouth shut and glared at me. Then her glare turned into a very satisfied, and slightly frightening, smile.
“What? No snappy comeback?” I asked.
She shook herself. “Sorry. I was stabbing you and Monique in my mind.”
“Sometimes you’re a little scary,” I said, dialing Monique.
Dylan giggled maniacally, and an hour later, Monique met us at Anthropologie, where we found the perfect interview outfits.
The next morning, we arrived for the interview at eight forty-five. The Law Office of Ethan S. Sinclair was only a few blocks from our office, but miles away in terms of style. There was no doorman for the dilapidated building, so we had to call up to be buzzed through the security door. The elevator was out of order (and looked a bit shady anyway), so we took the stairs to the third-floor where a mousy receptionist seated us before disappearing into the adjoining room.
Moments later, a handsome, dark-haired man in a rumpled suit introduced himself as Ethan Sinclair and showed us into his Cracker Jack box of an office. He gestured us toward seats barely better than folding chairs before sliding a manila file across his well-used desk at us.
“What’s this?” I asked, reaching for the file.
He smacked a hand over it, trapping it to the desk, while he pulled a sheet of paper from the top of his file cabinet. “Sign this first.”
I skimmed the paper while Dylan asked what it was.
“Typical non-disclosure to protect the privacy of myself and my clients,” Ethan provided.
After I confirmed the non-disclosure didn’t set us up for failure (or liability) we signed the form. He filed it away, and then released the folder. I picked it up and started thumbing through the contents while Dylan scooted her chair closer so she could see.
“This is your first job,” Ethan said. “My client, Mary”—he pointed to a photo of a plain-looking woman in a conservative dress—“is convinced her husband, Greg”—he pointed to the big man in a business suit standing beside Mary—“is cheating on her with his coworker.” He picked up another photo and added, “Jean. There’s a copy of Greg’s work schedule in the file. What I need you to do is follow him and catch him in the act with Jean, or any woman other than Mary for that matter. Snap a few pictures, bring them back to me, and I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”
I’d done some charity event planning for my family but hadn’t ever officially been interviewed before. But this didn’t seem like an interview. I looked to Dylan, whose forehead was scrunched up in confusion.
“And this is...our interview?” I asked Ethan.
He gestured at a stack of files on his desk. “I don’t have the time to even post an ad, much less interview investigators, so I figured we’d just go ahead with a trial run. You get proof of him cheating, you get paid and I give you another file. You don’t get proof, you don’t get paid or another file and we go our separate ways. Nothing gained, nothing lost.”
Well that was pretty cut and dried, but it didn’t sound anything like the business practices we’d learned in class. “What about a retainer?” I asked.
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I just started my own practice and am busting my ass to keep it afloat. If I could afford a retainer, you’d be sitting in better chairs and I’d be hiring a PI with references.”
“Well, we charge one hundred fifty per hour, plus expenses,” I countered.
“We do?” Dylan said, then added quickly, “I mean, we do.”
“I’m not paying for your on-the-job training,” Ethan said. “My client will fork out five hundred for proof, but that’s it, so if you want one-fifty an hour, I suggest you get proof in three hours.”
“Uh...what if Greg’s not stepping out on Mary?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, he’s cheating,” Ethan replied.
Intrigued, I asked, “How can you be so certain?”
“I’ve been doing this long enough to know, but trust me...even if I were a blind man sitting in on their mediation, I would have been able to see it.”
“That sucks for Mary,” Dylan said, studying the photo of the two of them.
I glanced back at the file, my blood boiling, my hatred of cheaters overtaking my ability to study the information with any kind of logic.
I have always believed there will be a special place in hell for cheaters, but I became acquainted with the devastating effects of them when my parents fired Yolanda, Asher’s and my nanny. I was ten at the time and Asher was twelve. Yolanda had always been with us, and then one day she was gone. We didn’t even get to say good-bye to her. The only explanation our parents would offer was that our nanny had been fired for “lewd behavior.”
A few years later, during one of our parents’ epic fights, we overheard the truth. We sat at the top of the stairs and listened to Mom rage at Dad. She’d just come from one of her luncheons, where the cousin of Yolanda’s new employer loudly “let it slip” that our father had badgered our nanny for years. The day she told him she’d never sleep with him, he fired her. All those years, Mother had believed Yolanda had come on to him. The worst part about it was that Mother didn’t give a damn that Father had propositioned Yolanda or that he had fired her unjustly when she rejected him. The only thing our mom seemed concerned with was her reputation. She was so mortified he’d dragged our family into the middle of a scandal, she threatened to leave
and sue him for everything he had. Like usual, Father threw money at the problem until it worked itself out, and Mother stayed.
After learning the truth, Asher spent years trying to find Yolanda without success, but back then we’d been young and had to hide the search from our parents. After we grew up we never looked for her, because what would we say? Would she even want to see us again after what our dad had done?
Dylan squeezed my arm, giving me a sympathetic smile. I took a deep breath and closed the file. “We’ll do it.”
“Great,” Ethan said. “Can you start tonight?”
“Yes,” I replied.
The lawyer stood, shook our hands, and we headed back to the office to plan.
Dylan
LATER THAT EVENING, on our official first day of sleuthing, Addison and I formed an epic plan. We studied the pictures laid out on the desk again, and checked the clock for the hundredth time.
“An hour and a half,” Addison said, clapping her hands together. “I wonder if we should just head over there now...in case we hit traffic.”
I grinned, happy to see her so stoked about our first job together. Greg’s office was just across the river—maybe fifteen minutes away in heavy traffic—but neither of us could contain our excitement enough to sit still. Addison and I were both still dressed in the skirt, blouse, and heels we’d interviewed in. The new camera was packed and ready, as were our guns, pepper spray, flashlights, snacks, drinks, napkins, ski masks, blankets, folding chairs, headphones, and Kindles. Turns out Addison was no slouch at planning stakeouts, and we were going to be both comfortable and well-entertained. The only things we were missing were personal potties, and yeah, we’d looked at them but decided there was no way we could pee in public. When the time came, we’d have to find a restroom.
“Maybe we should go to the bathroom first,” I suggested, already feeling the pressure of my bladder not having immediate access to facilities.
“Good plan,” Addison agreed.
After taking care of business, we forwarded the office phone to Addison’s cell, packed up the pictures, and carried everything down to Addison’s Mercedes. Her car was never more than a year old because her dad upgraded it for her every birthday. This year’s model was iridium-silver metallic with a sunroof and custom rims. In the east Portland industrial district, we’d stand out like cotton candy in a field of kale. It’d be a miracle if someone didn’t steal her tires and leave the car on blocks while we were in it. Still, it was better than taking my hooptie that guzzled oil and backfired like a twenty-gauge every time I started it up.
We loaded up the gear and headed out, pulling into the parking lot of Bridge City Accounting almost an hour before Greg’s shift ended.
“Where should I park?” Addison asked, scanning the lot.
The building had multiple tenants, which would help us not be too conspicuous, but the lot was open, without many options for cover.
“Maybe between that van and SUV,” I suggested, pointing.
Addison parked and got the camera out of the bag. “There’s his car,” she said, pointing at a silver Prius. “What do you suppose she sees in him?”
“Who? The wife or the side piece?”
“Either. Both.” She pulled Greg’s photo out of the file. “Look at him. He’s definitely not all that.”
Greg was thirty-seven, with brown hair, average features (not ugly, but a long way from jaw-dropping hot), and the body of a gym rat. He worked as an accountant and was uninterested in marriage counseling when his wife had suggested it three months ago. “Uh...he’s got a job, he’s in shape, and he’s probably economical.”
Addison rolled her eyes and continued to study the picture. “He must be really great in bed.”
I laughed. “Or there’s that.”
I pulled out my Kindle and read as Addison checked her e-mail. At about ten till five, people started filing out of the office building, so I put away my Kindle and watched. Greg emerged from his office building at exactly 5:12. The parking lot was a happening place, which made it easy for us to blend in with the other vehicles as we followed him out of the driveway. Well, as much as a new Mercedes can blend in.
“What are you doing?” I asked when she let a car get between us and Greg.
“You’re supposed to leave a car between you and the perp so they don’t get spooked. You really need to watch more TV.”
Before I moved in with Addison I hadn’t even owned a television, and I had serious doubts about what the murder shows she loved so much were teaching her. “It’s five o’clock traffic. He wouldn’t notice if we were riding his bumper.”
“Fine,” Addison said. She flicked on her turn signal and merged with the next lane, accelerating to get in front of the car between us and Greg. The light ahead of us turned yellow and Greg sped up, barely making it through before it went to red.
“Damn it! Hang on,” Addison said, braking hard.
I gripped the “oh shit” handle and watched the rearview mirror, hoping the guy behind us wouldn’t plow into our bumper. When there was no impact, I grabbed the file and started thumbing through it. “Where do you think he’s headed? Jean’s house?”
“Maybe. We didn’t see her leave, so she might still be at work. Maybe he has to pick up some dirty cheater supplies.”
I didn’t even want to know, but I had to ask. “Dirty cheater supplies?”
“Yeah, like Ho-Guard.”
I choked on a laugh. “Ho-Guard?”
“Yeah, you know”—she went into announcer mode—“when you smell that stank, it must be a skank...Ho-Guard.”
“Holy crap.” I burst out laughing. I definitely shouldn’t have asked. Needing to get Addison back on track, I pulled myself together. “Do we double back and try to follow Jean?”
“Let’s go a little further. How far could he have gotten in this traffic? Just keep an eye out for his car.”
“Uh...how about that silver Prius?” I asked, pointing at the car a half block ahead of us turning into a Whole Foods parking lot.
Colorful language flew from Addison’s lips as she crossed two lanes of traffic and almost missed the driveway. We parked in time to watch Greg walk into the building.
“Now what?” I asked. “Maybe he’s meeting up with Jean or some other girl in there.”
“Yeah.” Addison unfastened her seat belt. “We’ve gotta get in there and check this out. Here, take the camera. I’ve got a plan.”
Dread crept up my spine. Addison’s plans...though entertaining...weren’t always that great. “I’m not about to end up in jail again, am I?”
“No, silly. It’s nothing like that,” she said, fluffing up her ta-tas. “I’m gonna dangle my girly bait in front of little Mr. Greg and see if he bites.”
Her words conjured up way too much imagery. I shook my head. “Wait, what?”
“Just be ready to take a picture,” she said.
Out of morbid curiosity and the desire to pay my car insurance this month, I followed my best friend into the grocery store with our small surveillance camera in hand.
Addison grabbed a basket and tracked Greg as he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and a protein bar from health foods section before heading to the register. Realizing he’d just stopped for a snack and not wanting him to get ahead of us, we bolted for the door, ditching the basket on our way out.
We slid back into Addison’s car and buckled up, waiting. Moments later, Greg emerged. We followed him out of the parking lot and onto I-405.
“Wonder where he’s going,” Addison said.
I was wondering the same thing. The house Greg shared with his wife was in northeast Portland, and Jean lived in an apartment in Gresham. We crossed the Ross Island bridge and hit 26 West toward Beaverton. Traffic on Highway 26 was stop-and-go, and Addison had no trouble keeping up with Greg. We followed him onto 217 and into a sketchy part of Beaverton. When he turned into a self-proclaimed “gentlemen’s club,” that appeared to be anything but the kind of p
lace gentlemen frequented, Addison didn’t hesitate to follow. She parked across the lot from him and turned off her car.
Looking from Addison, to the seedy strip club, back to Addison, I asked, “Uh... what’s the plan here?”
Addison’s gaze was tracking Greg as he climbed out of his car and headed for the front door. “We’re taking that camera in and catching that asshole in the act of pawing some stripper.”
Right. That’s what I was afraid of. Before I could bring up all the valid arguments running circles in my mind, Addison was out the door, throwing the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Hurrying to join her, I patted the camera in my bag and tried to keep up.
“Don’t you think we’ll stand out in there?” I asked, gesturing wildly at our dressy business attire.
Addison paused long enough to look me over. “You’re right.”
Thinking she was coming to her senses and abandoning this hairbrained scheme, I let out a sigh. “Good. We can stake out Jean and see what she’s up to.”
Addison unbuttoned the top button of my blazer.
“What are you doing?” I asked jumping back.
“Trying to make us look the part.” Turning her attention on her own blouse, she unfastened two buttons, revealing the top of her lacy bra, and fluffed up her boobs. “Undo a second button. Show some cleavage.”
I gaped at her as she pulled a small compact and makeup out of her purse and freshened up.
“Come on, Dylan, are you in? Or are you in?”
“I’m concerned about what being ‘in’ entails. Do you happen to have a breakdown?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a strip club. We must look like the type of women who’d frequent one.”
Greg opened the door, blasting a twenty-foot radius with rock music as he slipped inside.
“We’re going to lose him, Dylan. Now, undo your button so we can catch up or I’m going in without you.”
There was no way I was letting my best friend face whatever dangers the club held alone, so I unfastened my second button. Looking down, I could see the top of my white cotton bra.
Asher Page 2
