White Offerings (17 page)

“Nothing. Dad could never prove it, but he was rather sure someone was on the take.” She felt a knot forming in her throat. “I think he dropped it because it was around the time that I came out and my mom got sick again.”

“Oh,” Molly said. “I can see why. We don’t have to talk about it anymore. That was a long time ago.”

“Do you think it could have anything to do with your case now?”

“Highly unlikely. Most of those guys have all retired, and none of the players are the same. Now, no more talk about work. I keep getting this image of David Ruskin in my head, standing over my desk and yelling at me.” Molly pecked her on the cheek and began carrying dishes into the kitchen.

Ari instantly smirked at the mention of Ruskin, a man she detested and who had sexually harassed her whenever she’d visited her father at the precinct. “You definitely don’t need him in your head.” She drained her wineglass and joined Molly. “I’m sure that he thinks this could somehow advance his career.”

“Of course. He’s the talking head for the department.”

“Lucky you. Still, you get to work with the FBI, so it could help your career, too.”

“Hopefully,” Molly said. “I’ll say one thing, from what Connie Rasp has told me, working for the FBI isn’t much different than the Phoenix P.D., at least if you’re gay.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize she was gay.” Ari glanced at Molly before she added, “Is she attractive?”

Within seconds Molly was blushing, and she wouldn’t look up from the sink. She shrugged, but her face had already betrayed her. “I guess so.”

Ari grinned and rested her chin on Molly’s shoulder, trying hard not to laugh. “How attractive would you say she is?” Molly stammered for an answer and her face grew redder while Ari’s grin widened. “Really hot, huh?”

“Baby, it’s strictly professional,” Molly said defensively.

Ari cupped Molly’s chin in her hand. “I know it is. And I trust you, too.”

Molly nodded in understanding and kissed her. They cleaned up the kitchen, and Ari mused over their simple domesticity. They fell into their unspoken assigned roles, Molly stacking the dishwasher while she cleaned the counters and scoured the stewpot. She knew she could spend every night like this with Molly, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She watched the sink drain and wiped her hands on a towel.

Molly’s strong arms encircled her waist, and she nibbled on her ear. “Are you staying the night or do you need to get home to Jane?”

She laughed. “Jane’s not home. She’s out at Hideaway, and I’m rather sure she’ll be spending the night in someone else’s bed. It’s just a theory, but I’d bet my next commission on it. Sex is Jane’s way of forgetting her troubles.”

Molly kissed her neck, and she leaned back into the embrace. “Well, I think you should stay here tonight. We could curl up in bed and watch a movie.”

“Hmm,” Ari said, her eyes closed. “What movie did you have in mind?”

“I thought of
White Oleander.
”

Ari laughed. “Or we could watch
Flower Drum Song.”

“What about
Flowers for Algernon
?”

Ari thought for a second before she said, “
Driving Miss Daisy
?”

They both laughed and retreated to the bedroom, their sanctuary from work.

Tuesday, October 17th

11:54 PM

Hideaway’s dance floor couldn’t accommodate the swell of lesbians grinding and twisting to the music bursting from the oversize speakers. Women moved freely between partners, a few danced with groups, and some, like Jane, set their sights on a woman who danced alone. Jane shimmied against a voluptuous femme, her hands roaming down the woman’s sizable hips.

From her stool at the opposite side of the bar, she watched. She avoided eye contact with everyone and chose to sit in the shadows of the bar. She projected herself as observer, not participant. She’d been there two hours and not a single woman had asked her to dance, which was fine. She was there to watch Jane. Occasionally she glanced at the dance floor and Jane’s progress with the femme. They were leaning against each other, thrusting their hips together, as if starting a fire between them. The femme reached up and unbuttoned Jane’s shirt, exposing much of her cleavage.

Jane stepped away to give her the show she wanted. She danced alone while the femme, and many of the other dancers, watched her shameless exhibitionism. She reached behind her head and thrust her chest forward. It was obvious she was braless, as her breasts gently bounced to the music. She was an exceptional dancer, her gyrations revealing enough to be risqué but not indecent.

She thought Jane was truly magnificent, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. The femme remained rooted in one place until Jane brushed past her and took her hand. They ducked into the back room, and the crowd resumed their own displays of sexuality on the dance floor.

She finished her martini and moved toward the door where Jane had disappeared. Two women emerged, locked in an embrace. She imagined they would head straight for the exit and the nearest motel—if they could wait that long.

She slipped into the darkness of the back room. Soft jazz muffled the quiet conversations and hushed whispers of the women who lounged on the plush couches, limbs and torsos splayed across them. She thought they looked like mannequins tossed aside, but the silhouettes moved together, kissing, touching and innocently fondling. It was the complete picture of foreplay—the legal part of sex. Everyone was clothed, and a few provincial couples sat a foot apart, holding hands and talking quietly. Only a few lamps glowed, providing enough light for players to identify their partners and connect with the desired body parts. While the rules of the back room explicitly forbade sexual touching, who would know if a thumb innocently grazed a nipple?

Most of the patrons clearly stayed on the side of decency—except Jane. She caught sight of the femme’s bleach-blond hair as it rose above the back of a couch off to the left. She moved slowly in that direction, her eyes focused on the couch—where she knew Jane lay—when she unexpectedly felt arms wrap around her middle. Strong hands groped her breasts, and lips kissed her neck.

“Who are you watching?” the stranger asked.

“No one,” she lied.

“Is it the brunette over there?”

She saw the brunette—her head thrown back over the arm of a couch while her partner kissed her neck. “No,” she said.

“Then who?”

The stranger’s hands slid inside her waistband and caressed her belly. Her eyes remained focused on Jane’s couch, but she sighed when the stranger’s fingers burrowed inside her bikini briefs. Suddenly Jane shot up from the couch and kissed the femme deeply.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” the stranger asked.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Do you love her?”

“I do. She’s the only one for me.”

“But she’s with someone else.”

She parted her legs slightly, and the stranger’s fingers swept across her crotch. She sighed as she explained, “She doesn’t know she wants me—yet.”

“She won’t want you. She’s not the type to want anyone.”

Her temper rose, and she tried to pull away, but the stranger held her tightly.

“Look at her,” the stranger continued. “You can tell she enjoys sex. She could never be monogamous.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. The stranger was right. Jane was a whore, and she needed to be taught a lesson. Jane needed to change, and she realized how she could help. She would take what Jane valued most.

“Here’s a proposition,” the stranger whispered. “I’ll fuck you and you pretend that you’re fucking her.”

She grabbed the stranger’s busy hand and exited the back room, heading for her car and privacy.

Wednesday, October 18th

8:18 AM

Files and printouts stretched across Molly’s desk, a paper trail of John Rondo’s professional and personal life. Andre had minored in finance during college, so he analyzed the business holdings of Johnson Enterprises, which was really just an umbrella company owned by Rondo using his wife’s maiden name. Molly learned what she could about the man through his credit cards. Much of the shopping was done by his wife, Jennifer, a respectable Yale graduate with a business degree. An Internet article showed the Rondos at a charity function, their cute children in tow. Molly shook her head when she saw that each month he still amassed hundreds of dollars of charges at the High Life, Phoenix’s premier gentlemen’s club, despite being married to an incredibly beautiful and intelligent woman who had her own Web site and designed upscale purses.

“What are you finding?” Andre asked across the sea of paper.

Molly leaned back and stretched. “Guy’s got a gorgeous wife, who’s more than a trophy, but he’s still hitting the clubs, and she spends an easy three grand at Saks Fifth Avenue in an afternoon.”

Andre snorted and dropped a file on the desk. “Then I guess they both get what they want. And they’ve got it to spend. Rondo’s easily worth five mil, and that’s the money I
can
find. God only knows how much he’s hidden, and how many dummy corporations he’s created to launder Carnotti’s money.”

Molly picked up the phone. “Let’s call Rasp and see if the fibbies have better luck. Maybe their data banks can give us an accurate profile of John Rondo. While they’re looking, we can go visit the man.” When the call immediately went to voice mail, she left a quick message for Rasp to call her, and she and Andre headed for the car.

They had reached the lobby when Sol Gardener and David Ruskin came around the corner. Sol smiled and Ruskin immediately frowned and stuck his hands into his pockets.

“Molly, how good to see you,” Sol said, squeezing her arm. “David tells me that your informant was murdered.”

I’m sure he did
, she thought. “Yeah, he was hit and left in a trunk. We’re working on a new lead, the guy who owned the building where the meet was supposed to happen. Have you heard of John Rondo?”

Sol searched his memory and slowly nodded his head. “Yes.” He turned and pointed at Ruskin. “Wasn’t he involved somehow in that case with Jack Adams?”

Ruskin only shrugged. Molly smiled slightly at his clear discomfort. He hated Ari’s father, the man who had hazed him endlessly during his rookie year in an effort to push him to quit.

“For some reason,” Sol continued, “I thought he was connected. Maybe you should call Jack.”

Molly froze, unable to fathom how she would ever have a conversation with Ari’s father when he had no idea she was his daughter’s lover. She only nodded and waved good-bye as they hurried away to the elevator.

Andre covered his mouth, but he couldn’t silence his chuckle. “Yes, why don’t you call Jack? You could introduce yourself.”

Molly ignored him and breezed through the door into the parking lot. They grappled with the last few minutes of morning rush-hour traffic and headed toward central Phoenix and the Biltmore Corridor, the most expensive commercial real estate in Phoenix. Rondo’s offices were located in the Esplanade, a matching set of glass twin towers that boasted extraordinary views of Camelback Mountain. They pulled into the visitor parking and took the elevator to the lobby. From there Molly could see Rondo’s personal digs—a multimillion-dollar condo building called the Embers that hugged the Esplanade property. The homes stretched to the sky, and she knew the cheapest ones were valued at two million.

“I wonder if he walks to work,” Andre mused.

“I doubt it,” Molly replied. “He probably
still
takes his Mercedes, just to use his private parking space.”

They rode up to the twentieth floor and saw that Johnson Enterprises and Rondo Dynamics filled the entire floor with several offices. As Andre checked in with the receptionist, Molly toured the lobby, noting the expensive furniture and several hallways with offices and cubicles, but after ten minutes, she only saw three employees and never heard the phone ring.

“You’d think it was a holiday,” she whispered to Andre.

“It is. It’s Bust Your Favorite Money Launderer Day.”

“Now, Andre, we shouldn’t be too quick to judge.”

Andre rifled through a back copy of
Phoenix Living
. “Right.”

After five more minutes of waiting, she returned to the receptionist with a scowl on her face. “We need to see John Rondo right now, or we’ll go look for him ourselves.”

Clearly that idea seemed far less desirable to the twig-like blonde, who used her pencil to punch in numbers on the enormous phone bank. She whispered into the headset, and Molly was sure the young girl really had no idea what occurred at Rondo Dynamics, which was probably a good thing. Molly turned away and stared down the corridor. A man in a blue suit turned the corner, and she instantly recognized him as John Rondo. He looked like a large football player with a buzz cut, and from the way he walked, she guessed he hated wearing a suit. It clung to him as if it were still on the hanger.

“Detectives,” he said, shaking their hands, “I’m John Rondo. Let’s go to my office.” They followed him down the long corridor, past several closed doors to another waiting area without a receptionist. Molly noted the soft lighting and the smell of expensive leather, a marked difference from the reception area.