Private Investigation Page 6

  The man laughs, stops to pick something off the tablecloth, then laughs harder. “So her name is Eva?” He nods, assimilating it, confusing me in the process. “I’m not dating her. I just met her Monday.”

  My brows pull together hard. “How is that?”

  His eyes travel over my face, assessing me just like the hostess did. Only, where I knew exactly what she was thinking, he’s a lot harder to figure out.

  Mr. Perrelli smacks his lips, having decided the answer to whatever he was wondering about me. He pulls out his leather wallet from the inside of his blue coat and digs through it until he finds the card he’s searching for. He places it on top of the photograph, over Mrs. Cage’s face.

  It’s a glossy black business card with no name. Only a picture of glowing embers over a single piece of coal is on the front.

  “That’s my personal card,” he says with an oily smile that grates my nerves.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Turn it over.” I do as he says and see a phone number on the back. “Eva, as you refer to her, is number twelve to me. I call that number and leave a message. They call me back and I set up my heart’s desire. This time, she fit the description. And she’s so beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”

  My eyes flick from the card back to him. “She’s a prostitute?”

  Shaking his head, he snatches the card out of my hand. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t call her that. She’s so much more. She’s anything you want her to be. A dream come true or a nightmare, if that’s what you prefer.”

  “And what exactly did you want her to be?”

  He puts the card back in his wallet. “That is not your concern.”

  Shit. Eva Cage is a prostitute. I can’t wrap my mind around it—how it would work or the why of it.

  “Can I call that number?”

  Shaking his head vehemently, he says, “No. They only accept referrals.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Ember.” The way he rolls his r at the end sounds almost sexual in nature. He’s having fun with this, and I don’t like it one bit.

  “I want you to refer me to them.”

  He chuckles, his shoulders bouncing with each high-pitched sound. “How can you afford it, my friend? Do you need me to lend you the money?”

  “That’s not your concern,” I mirror his words. “How does this work?”

  “I give them your number. They contact you. You tell them what your little heart wants, and they grant your wish. But only after you pay a pretty price for it.”

  “Anything I want?”

  “Anything.” Sitting forward now, looking almost like a child describing Disney World, he says, “You want your high school teacher to spank your butt and call you naughty, they give that to you. You want someone to cuddle you and tell you she loves you? They give that too.”

  “And what if you want someone to slap you and tell you to go home to your wife?”

  He roars with hilarity. “Then they give that, if that’s what you want.”

  “I want them to call me.”

  “Why? You want to investigate them?”

  “Yes.” There’s no point in lying.

  “If you do that, I’ll no longer be able use them,” he whispers sadly.

  “It would be wise to stop for many reasons.”

  He nods. “But I hate to lose them.”

  “You’ll hate it more if you lose everything you have to your wife when she finds out what you’re up to.”

  Shrugging, he sighs and says, “Very well. It’s probably time for me to move on anyway. You’ll be getting a call from a blocked number. I suggest you answer; they do not try again. If you have a tracer on that phone, the call won’t come through.”

  “Are they that high tech?”

  His face turns serious. “They have the money for it. Are we good here?”

  “Yes. I suggest you don’t use Terry North as your…” As I say it, I realize why he was at the mall. “It’s The Ember Jewelry Company. They’re the front.”

  “I will be sure to stay away from Terry North. Good day.” He ignores my realization and stands, adjusting his red tie. “Don’t worry about the bill. It’s on me.”

  He leaves me drinking my water as I stare out at the ocean without really seeing it. My mind is reeling with this new information.

  So much for this being a simple case.

  Chapter 11

  Day four of the Cage case. I’m sitting outside Ember Jewelry. There has been no activity. No one has left the store. There have been no Bentleys pulling up, no fancy women walking out.

  It’s ten in the morning, and my phone finally rings. The screen shows a blocked caller ID. My breath nearly stops as I realize who it may be.

  “Grayson,” I answer.

  “Mr. Grayson, this is Ember. I’m calling regarding a referral made to us by another customer.”

  “Yes. Mr.—”

  “We don’t use names. Other than your own,” she interrupts.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You’ll become accustomed to our rules.” The woman’s voice is low, seductive. The type you’d expect from some phone sex company. That’s probably why they set her as the saleswoman. Smart people.

  “What is your heart’s desire, Mr. Grayson?”

  “My heart’s desire. Anything I want?”

  “We do our best to fulfill all desires,” she tells me.

  I pause, not because I can’t think of what to say but because I’m afraid to. There’s only one answer to my heart’s desire. “My wife. I’d like to be with her again. She…she died. A few years back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” the woman says quietly. “What was her name?”

  “Lena. Lena Marie.”

  “Mmm. Beautiful name. What kind of woman was she?”

  “Sweet. Funny. Kind. Tender. Delicate. Vulnerable. Loving. Terrible cook. Called me Matthew. I always hated that, but she refused to call me Matt.” I smile, remembering how she always said Matthew was her favorite name and if we ever had a son, she’d want to call him that.

  “How was she in bed?”

  “I don’t believe that’s your business,” I snap at her, completely surprised by the intimate question.

  “But it is, Mr. Grayson. Unless you didn’t sleep with your wife?”

  “Of course I did. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then you’ll want to sleep with her again?”

  I think about what she’s saying. There’s no way I’d sleep with a client’s wife. Anyone’s wife, for that matter. And there’s absolutely no way in hell I’d fuck a prostitute. But I can’t tell this woman that.

  “She was sweet. Liked to make love. Softly. Gently.”

  “She sounds wonderful.”

  “She was. Can you give that to me?” I ask.

  “Does the location matter?” the woman answers with a question.

  “There was an apartment she loved. We lived there when we first married. It was the only place where she really felt at home, actually.”

  “Do you see the number on your screen?”

  A text comes in as I pull the phone away from my face. All it says is Ember, but it has a phone number attached to it. “Yes.”

  “I would like for you to text me a picture of her.”

  It’s easy to do. There are hundreds of photographs of Lena to choose from on my phone. Selecting the last one, I attach it to the text and send it. “You should have received it.”

  The woman fumbles with her phone, then she’s back. “She’s lovely, Mr. Grayson. And I know exactly who can give her back to you.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t use names. She’s number twelve. As luck would have it, she’s had a sudden cancellation and will be available all next week.”

  If I were a betting man, I’d bet my soul that cancellation was Mr. Perrelli. “How much does she charge?”

  “Number twelve can be Lena, Monday through Friday, from nine in the morning
to one in the afternoon. The cost is five thousand dollars for the week.”

  “Five thousand dollars!” I nearly choke on my own spit as I say it. “For a week? As in a thousand a day?”

  “Yes.”

  Fuck! That’s two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I mentally go over my accounts. Most of my paycheck is deposited directly into my IRA and 401k, and it’s highly unlikely the bank would let me withdraw funds to pay for a high-priced call girl. Mr. Perrelli’s loan offer is suddenly so obvious. And appealing.

  Holding the phone to my shoulder with my jaw, I pull up my checking account. There isn’t enough. Not unless I want to live on ramen noodles for the rest of the year. I consider calling my father, asking him for a loan. He wouldn’t do it without seeing a receipt of where exactly this money has gone. Fuck!

  “She will be exactly like Lena?” I ask, buying time, desperately thinking of a way to pay this woman.

  “Mr. Grayson, we will strive to give you exactly what you seek. Just remember, this is a fantasy we’re creating from the few memories you’re giving us. There are limitations. But for all intents and purposes, when you’re with her, she will be Lena. She will respond only to that name. She will be your wife.”

  “Can I see her picture?”

  “I’m afraid we never share information on our girls electronically. I’m sure you understand?”

  “Yes.” How could I not? Keeping secrets is their business model. They know that the moment you put something out there, there’s no way to take it back. There’s no doubt in my mind her real name isn’t Ember, and I suspect the only reason she’s using my name is because she’s sure I’d never incriminate myself. Recording this call would be pointless.

  “You’ll have to trust me, Mr. Grayson. She will be what you’re looking for.”

  “This girl, number twelve, she’s not there against her will, is she?”

  There’s a giggle on the other end of the line, the smokiness of her voice just barely coming through. “You can ask her yourself when you see her. But I can assure you, anyone who works with me is here only because he or she wants to be here. Reluctant contractors are not productive.”

  The way she says it reminds me of what I’m dealing with. They may refer to it granting desires, but the truth is that it’s much uglier than that. I have to wonder if this woman’s laughter isn’t indicative of something more sinister. What if Mrs. Cage really is there against her will?

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. “So what’s next? How do I get this started?”

  “The first thing I’d like from you is as many pictures as you can provide of Lena and this place she loved. It will help us to create the perfect setting for you. You have thirty minutes to send them to this line before it’s no longer available. I will set up an appointment with the lab closest to you for blood work.”

  “Blood work?”

  “As she will be your wife, I assume there will be sexual intercourse.”

  “Isn’t there always?” I question sarcastically.

  “No. Not everyone has the same needs, Mr. Grayson. May I continue?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “We will get the results directly. In a few minutes, you’ll receive her latest screening. It will not have her name on it. The use of condoms will be left to her discretion, but we still need to take precautions. All of our contractors are on some form of birth control, but like I stated, the use of condoms is at her discretion.”

  “Understood.” Not that I’ll need condoms. I don’t plan on sleeping with her. All I need is enough time to see her. To confirm that she is, in fact, Mrs. Cage. And to get her face out of my system once and for all.

  “On Monday morning, a car will be by to pick you up and take you to the location we choose. Do not bring firearms, knives, or anything that can be construed as a weapon. Do not bring cameras, wires, recorders. You’ll be searched prior to entering the car, and if any of these items are found, the contract will be terminated. No refunds.”

  “Why can’t I drive myself?”

  “We don’t know you yet, Mr. Grayson. And we have no way of blackmailing you should you try to take us down.”

  Well, at least she’s honest. “What about a phone?”

  “You may bring that, but it will need to remain with Carlos. You’ll get it back afterward.”

  “How do I know this is safe? What if you’re murderers?”

  “What if you are? Mr. Grayson, I understand your apprehension. It’s the unknown.”

  “The expensive unknown,” I retort.

  “Yes, it is expensive. But I promise what you get in return is worth much more. If you need time to think—”

  “No. I want this.” I pull out my credit card. I’m about to max it out, but I’ll make Justin expense the cost. He won’t agree to it right now, but once I get the results he wants, he’ll have no choice but to do it.

  “Wonderful. You will need to pay for this in full today, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll see a charge from a company named Ember Jewelry. Monday you’ll get a card with your own contact information. A new number will be assigned each time you use it. I will need the address of the location where you’ll be picked up as well.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Mr. Grayson, you won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

  After giving her everything she wants and knowing I’ll be out the five grand if Justin won’t reimburse me, I hang up, having absolutely no idea how to feel. Confused, stupid. Anxious to begin.

  Chapter 12

  What the hell am I doing?

  “Okay, Mr. Grayson, I need you to make a fist for me.”

  I do as the phlebotomist asks, my muscle flexing against the band she’s tied around my arm. Turning away when she presses the needle to my protruding vein, I close my eyes and breathe slowly.

  Every pore in my body opens, making me feel clammy and faint.

  The older woman with the lovely dark skin and the pretty smile claims she has the soft touch. Her gentle voice has me believing in her, yet when the needle pierces my skin and she wields it around in search of that elusive vein, I find myself inwardly calling her a fucking liar.

  Finally, she takes the thing out, slapping a Band-Aid over the hole. I look back at her, getting squeamish when I accidentally see the vial of blood.

  Her mocking laughter shakes her entire body. “You scared of a little blood?”

  “Only my blood.”

  “Come on now. A grown man with those big arms. You can handle a little blood.”

  When I stand, I’m a bit woozy, but I ignore it, pulling my sleeve down and then taking my jacket from the chair beside me. “Is that why you pushed that thing around searching for a vein I can clearly see without a tourniquet?”

  “Child, you better watch yourself. Next time I’ll take twice as long.”

  “Bah.” I wave the threat away. “Do I get orange juice or something?”

  Her laughter gone, she brings me a tiny cup of juice and an old cookie. “Enjoy it.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I walk past, I eye my paperwork and see that the order has come from Ember Jewelry. There was a drug test too. I want to look further, to see what they use as a reason for the testing, but the bloodsucker is right at my heels, pushing me out of the room.

  By the time Sunday comes around, I’m frantic. My first meeting with Mrs. Cage is tomorrow, yet I’ve received nothing from Ember. Yesterday I shot a message to the number I sent the photos to. It came back as undeliverable.

  I hate this state of the unknown. Hate feeling like I’ve fucked up even worse than I already know I have.

  Finally, at eight in the evening, a call comes in from a blocked number.

  “Hello!” I practically scream.

  “Mr. Grayson, this is Ember.”

  “I was wondering if y’all forgot about me after you got my money.”

  “Of course not. But we needed to make sure everything came
back clear. You’re good to go,” she happily informs me.

  “So the poppy seed bagel theory is wrong, I guess.”

  “There are worse things we were looking for than poppy seeds. We have everything set up, and I’m confident that it will be exactly what you’re wanting. Carlos will be by at seven sharp tomorrow morning in a black Town Car.”

  “What, no limo?”

  “You don’t seem the limo type, but we can upgrade for a fee.” There’s humor in her voice, but I bet she’d charge another thousand for that little upgrade.

  “Who am I to say Town Cars aren’t fancy enough? I’ll be on time and waiting with bells on.”

  “Please do, Mr. Grayson. Carlos is not a patient man.”

  After I hang up, I go to my balcony and watch several seagulls being fed by the beachgoers at the water’s edge. One of the birds perches on the railing beside me, staring at the picture I’m holding as if it’s food.

  “Sorry, bird. This isn’t meant for you. And, really, I guess she’s not meant for me either.” I look down at the photo in my hand. “But I want her to be,” I whisper to myself, not wanting even my own ears to hear the silent acknowledgement.

  Tomorrow I can finally put her behind me.

  Chapter 13

  It’s six fifty-nine a.m. I’ve already been up for three hours. Not that I slept at all last night.

  I’ve been standing at my kitchen window, waiting for the black Town Car that’s supposed to pick me up any moment.

  Right as the alarm on my iPhone rings seven, the car comes into view, pulling into one of the parking spots below. Through the lower part of the blinds, I take a few pictures, making sure I capture the man that steps out of the vehicle and looks up at the window as though he knows what I’m doing.

  Putting my phone away, I head out.

  “Mr. Grayson, I’m Carlos. I’ll be your driver for the week. Please remove your jacket,” he orders in an accent I can’t make out, but by his tanned skin and his name, I’d have to guess it’s Hispanic.