Whiskey Sour (9 page)

I was mostly sober, so I pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top and grabbed my Mac Air from my desk
and flopped down on my bed. I pulled out the Sirin Escorts file and started reading, spreading the papers out on the top of my bed. I did a few Internet searches and printed out a few things I thought might be pertinent. I was a champion researcher.

There was nothing even remotely controversial written about Natalie Evans that I could find. She was the most squeaky clean madam I
’d ever heard of—not that I had a massive amount of experience with madams or anything, but you’d think they’d have a blip
somewhere
on their record. Natalie had dated the Sexiest Man Alive a few years back and she was currently dating a Junior Senator from Massachusetts.

The Sirin Escorts website was very tasteful—just a picture of a silver fleur di lis on a satin background telling interested parties that all business must be conducted in person
. They listed a contact number and an email address and that was it. The site looked tasteful and expensive, and there was no gossip on any forums or chat rooms I could find. Sirin had a very good troubleshooter, whoever he may be.

I finally found the courage to look at the picture of Amanda Whitfield
’s body again. She didn’t look any better the second time. Nick had mentioned the attack being up close and personal, and from the cursory notes Agent Savage had jotted down, he suspected that the killer was someone she’d felt comfortable with. This wasn’t a run of the mill escort job.

According to the report, Amanda and her guest had shared an intimate dinner and expensive champagne as
if they’d been celebrating. The police had found two used condoms in the bathroom trashcan, but they’d also found evidence of semen in the victim, making me think Amanda might have known her attacker
really
well to let him get away with something like that when they’d been so careful before. There hadn’t been any bruising on her body, so evidence showed all sexual activity was consensual.

The FBI had only done a cursory background check on Amanda
so far. It didn’t really tell me who Amanda Whitfield had been. I picked up the phone and dialed Kate.

“McClean,” Kate
snapped.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

There’d been something off about Kate the last couple of days. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew by the way she kept avoiding much direct conversation that she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Nothing. Long day. What do you need?”

I was silent for a few seconds, a little hurt that she didn’t feel like she could tell me what was wrong. We’d shared every event in our lives from the time we could walk. We’d never had secrets from each other before. I regrouped and decided to give her a little longer to stew.

“Can you have someone run a deep background check on Amanda Whitfield? I’ve got the basics, but I want a list of her closest friends and contacts
, and I don’t want to wait to get it from the FBI. The exclusivity of Sirin makes me think the girls might need to keep their circle of friends from within the company itself just out of necessity. It’s easier to keep secrets when your friends have the same ones. Less of a chance of slipping up.”

“Good thinking,” Kate said. “I’ll get Wally on it. He’s in between cases at the moment. I’ll email it over once it’s complete.”

There was another awkward silence on the phone. Another first for us, and I wondered what the hell was going on. I was starting to get worried.

“So I’ve been thinking about what you were saying about getting your P.I. license,” Kate blurted out. “And I think it’s a great idea. You should go for it.”

“What?” I asked, holding the phone out from my ear and staring at it as if it could tell me what the hell was going on. “Have you been drinking?”

“Stone cold sober. Unfortunately. I think taking the classes will be good for you. And I’ll make you a deal. If you finish at the top of your class I’ll hire you here at the agency
full time. But you’ll need to be able to pass the conceal to carry test as well as the written test.”

“How hard can that be?” I asked. “You just point and shoot.”

“Right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll write a recommendation for you to get into the class and the agency will take care of any fees since it’s considered an investment on our part. The next Citizens’ Police Academy starts next Thursday, and you’ll need to do that on top of the classes for your license. You’ll also need to be able to pass a physical fitness portion of the test. Just like a regular cop.”

“I don’t suppose that involves lifting donuts to my mouth?” I asked.

“Buck up, Buttercup. If everything goes as planned, you should have that license in the next six to eight months. Barring disaster, of course. Which come to think of it—”

“Be nice. I’ve done pretty well at averting disasters lately.”

“True. And your eyebrows are growing back nicely from when Danny Gorman tried to barbecue you with that flamethrower.”

I made a note to myself to remember to go by the unemployment office to see about benefits. Hopefully
, they’d be sufficient enough that I could afford to go without a full time job for six to eight months. Otherwise, I was going to have to sell Slurpies and condoms at the nearest 7-11. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but the 7-11 in Savannah had been held up three times in the last six months and I had an aversion to having my head blown off.  

“Thanks, Kate. You’ll see. I’m going to ace the shit out of that test.”

Kate laughed her real laugh, and some of the tension melted between us.

“And Kate,” I said. “When you’re ready to talk
, I’ll be here day or night. Whatever you need.”

I heard her take a deep breath on the other end and knew from habit that she was letting it out slowly as a way to control her emotions. Kate didn’t get emotional. She was steady as a river in winter.

“I know,” she said. “Thanks.”

She hung up the phone and I knew there was nothing left for me to do until she emailed me the information on Amanda Whi
tfield. I flipped the TV on to a Friends marathon and settled into bed. I needed a good night’s sleep and a clear head to face Agent Savage tomorrow afternoon.

Saturday—barely

A
pounding at the door woke me some time after midnight. I’d been a cop’s daughter long enough to know that usually wasn’t a good thing. A million different scenarios raced through my mind as I tried to untangle myself from the covers—my mom had been in a plane crash, Kate had been in a shootout, Rosemarie had been eaten by her dogs—the list of possibilities was endless.

I tripped over the hall runner and banged my shoulder into the doorframe, racing to some unknown catastrophe.
The house was completely dark, but I didn’t stop to turn on the lights.

I
flipped on the porch light and checked the peephole, becoming even more upset when I saw Nick standing there. What if the double homicide he was working was someone I knew? Or worse, what if I was being accused of the murder? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I didn’t do it!” I said as I opened the door.

“I hope not,” Nick said. “I just got here. I’d hate to have to kill anyone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about?

“If you don’t know
, then never mind,” I said, standing back to let him in.

I flipped on the overhead light and got my first good look at him. He looked dead tired. His face was shadowed with heavy stubble and his eyes were drawn and shadowed. Whatever he’d seen today must have been really bad. He looked sad, but at the same time he was practically crackling with anger. He had a shitty job sometimes, but he was damned good at it.

“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, noticing the bag slung over his shoulder for the first time. He was wearing his off duty clothes—old jeans that were worn thin in places and a black t-shirt that clung to every muscle in his chest and arms.

“I’ve got exactly five hours until I have to be up and back at the station,” he said
, dropping the bag where he stood and giving me a look hot enough to melt butter. “Sleep is overrated.”

The light bulb clicked on above my head and I licked my lips and swallowed nervously as he came closer.

“Umm—”

“What? No response?” he asked, smiling a little.

He put his finger beneath the strap of my tank top and pulled me closer until I was flush with his body. His lips teased and nipped at my chin and down my throat and he backed me up until I hit the edge of the dining room table.

“Bedroom,” I moaned as he pulled my tank top off over my head and his mouth latched onto my nipple. “Condoms. Bedroom.” My speech was reduced t
o Neanderthal level, and then his fingers found their way up the wide leg of my shorts and I stopped thinking all together.

“I’ve got the first round,” he said, pulling back and digging in his pocket. He threw a condom down on the table and lifted m
e so I sat on the edge. All I could think was that I was glad my dad had insisted on buying good solid oak. Otherwise this could have been an embarrassing situation.

“Right,” I said, pulling his t-shirt from his jeans and jerking it over his head. “I’ve got forty-eight more in the bedroom. Just in case.”

He pulled back and stared at me incredulously. “I hope you’re not planning to use them all tonight. I have to be able to walk tomorrow.”

I laughed and frantically tugged at his belt buckle, and he sucked in a breath as I finally took the hard heat of him in my hand.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “I’ve been waiting too long to be inside of you. I’ll be lucky to last five seconds.”

“You’ll have to make it up to me.”

He kissed me hard, sliding his tongue against mine in a dance that had every nerve ending in my body ready to detonate. Sight and sound had stopped working at some point, and all I could do was feel—the cool wood of the table beneath my back and the scrape of the denim of his jeans against my thighs as he pushed them past his hips.

He settled himself between my
legs and then he was pushing inside of me. I forgot to breathe and immediately spasmed around him.

“Oh, God,” I said, as my eyes rolled back in my head.

He clasped his hands with mine and rode me through the wave, burying his head in my neck and calling my name as he followed.

***

An alarm sounded somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, so I rolled over to turn it off except there was an obstacle in the form of a hard male body in my way. He turned toward me, draping his arm across my waist, and I could tell he was awake in more ways than one.

“Why do I hear bells?” I asked.

“I set an alarm. I’ve got to get back to work.” He nibbled at my neck and hiked my leg over his hip, probing against me.

“Hey! I’m trying to sleep here,” I said grumpily. “I thought you had to go to work.”

“I set it early so I’d have time to do this.”

His fingers worked some magic that made my eyes cross, and I decided maybe I could learn to be a morning person. “It’s a good thing I like you.”

He laughed and rolled me to my back, sliding deep inside of me and hitting my new favorite place, and I forgot all about being sleepy.

***

The next time I opened my eyes it was after noon. I didn’t remember Nick leaving, but considering I’d all but been a puddle of jelly by the time he’d finished with me, my unconsciousness was pretty understandable.

I rolled out of bed, wincing as my muscles
protested in remembrance of what they’d been doing all night, and I hopped into the shower. I jumped out again just as quickly and pulled on a royal blue strapless sundress and black flip-flops with giant flowers on top. My skin was healthy and glowing, my eyes were bright, and I had a stupid grin on my face. I looked like I’d spent a day at the spa. Apparently amazing sex was the next best thing.

I checked my email and was happy to see
Kate had sent me the information I’d requested on Amanda Whitfield. I printed it out while I popped a hazelnut coffee blend pod in the Keurig and made some toast. I was a step away from bursting into song I was so cheerful.

“Ouch, shit,” I said, blowing on my burned fingers as I pulled
out the toast and buttered it. I took my breakfast to the table and had a hot flash as I remembered what Nick had done to me there. I gathered my stuff and went into the living room, but I was also having hot flashes about the sofa, the upright piano, and most of the walls. It had been a busy night.

I shoved all the papers into my oversized purse and poured my coffee into a to go mug. I
figured I might as well head into the agency and use one of the spare conference rooms.

Whiskey Bayou was pretty active on Saturday mornings.
I weaved in and out of traffic, mostly women hitting their weekly garage sales, and pretended not to notice when a few students and their parents pointed at my car and turned to each other to whisper.

I thought the gossip was bad after
I’d exposed John Hyatt—pillar of the community and bank president—for being a cross-dressing murderer, but I had a feeling being fired was going to take the cake.

The people in Whisk
ey Bayou thrived on gossip when another person’s life was spiraling down the toilet, heading for imminent destruction. They were like piranhas waiting to devour every scrap of soul crushing news until there was nothing left but bones.

I needed to get the hell out of this town. The Holmes were sixth generation in Whiskey Rebellion,
so we had
a lot
of mishaps marring our family tree. We hadn’t even been allowed to mention Uncle Jimmy’s name when I was a kid.

I
f I had anything to say about it, I wouldn’t be contributing to the continuity of the Whiskey Bayou population. The Holmes were a dying breed. Unless my sister Phoebe decided to move back from Atlanta after she found herself, but there was a pretty slim chance of that happening. She hated it here more than I did.

My fingers unclenched from the wheel and I let out the breath I’d been holding once
I got on Harry Truman Parkway and pressed my foot to the floor. The Volvo lurched and maxed out at fifty-five, but it was good to put distance between me and insanity.

It was almost two o’clock by the time I found a parking spot in front of the agency. Lucy was manning the desk, the phone to her ear, typing rapidly on her keyboard.
She didn’t spare me a glance as I waved and walked past her. I didn’t hear her actually conversing with anyone on the other end of the line. Maybe she was using her ninja powers.

I peeped through the glass window into the conference room and saw it was empty, so I went inside and made use of the giant table, spreading out all of the papers I’d printed out on Amanda Whitfield
and opening my laptop. I grabbed a yellow writing tablet from a shelf in the corner and a pen and got to work making notes.

On the surface, Amanda seemed like any normal twenty year old kid. She was originally from North Carolina and wa
s attending Emory on a full academic scholarship. She’d been first in her high school graduating class and she’d been Miss Teen South Carolina. The money trail from Sirin led back to October of her freshman year of college, and I wondered if Sirin specifically recruited her for the job. With the promise of that kind of money, eighteen year old girls would do just about anything. I could see how the lure would be attractive.

Amanda visited her family for a week at Christmas every year, but that was the extent of her contact with them, though it seemed like they’d been close before she hooked up with Sirin. There was no hint of drug abuse in her medical records, and she’d been tested every six months by a Dr. Isobel Lee for venereal diseases.

I made a note to get more information about Dr. Lee. It would make sense for Sirin to use one doctor for all the girls. I read through Amanda’s emails, but they were all very generic, not referring to anything they shouldn’t, but I matched the email address of her correspondents to a couple of names in her file. Becca Gonzales and Andi Bachman were two of the last people to speak with Amanda before she was killed. There were a couple of mentions of a third friend—Noelle Price—and I jotted her name down as well. It definitely wouldn’t hurt to follow up with these girls.

My head jerked up as I heard a knock on the door. Agent Savage stood in the doorway and it took me a minute to remember that he was supposed to meet with me this afternoon. I looked up at the
clock and saw it was five after three. I’d lost track of the time.

“Sorry,” I said automatically, my mind still fuzzed from being buried in papers for the last hour and a half. “I was just getting to know Amanda Whitfield a little better.”

“Not a problem,” he said, coming in and taking the chair across from me.

He was back in another black suit, white shirt and black tie, and I snuck a glance at his ankles to see if the socks from yesterday had been an aberration—maybe he’d been out of
clean laundry—but today’s socks were just as crazy. They were lime green and decorated with little martini glasses. I wasn’t an expert on the FBI, but I was pretty sure socks like the ones Agent Savage wore weren’t in the dress code.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, gathering up all the papers. “Are we going to do a stakeout?
Throw our weight around? Capture a couple of Natalie Evans’ goons and practice our torture techniques? This is exciting stuff. I never got to do this teaching history.”

Savage looked slightly horrified
, but he seemed like a man that wouldn’t break under pressure. “I thought we’d take it a little slower. We’ll work our way up to the torture. Also, we might have a few obstacles in our way during this investigation.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that the FBI has been ordered off the Natalie Evans investigation. We’re still supposed to find the gems, but we can no longer explore the lead that Sirin or anything associated had anything to do with the theft of the gems and the murder of Sasha Malikov. The order came from pretty high up. Not even my Director could question it.”

“At least you know you’re on the right track. You’re making someone nervous.”

“The question is why,” he said. “I’ve got a theory.”

“You seem like the type of man who has them.”

His lips quirked in a semblance of a smile. “Natalie Evans has political clout and influence. We can’t find out anything about her. There’s nothing even remotely interesting in her FBI files, which I have my own theories about. Asking questions about her sends up enough red flags to have a dozen bulls chasing you down. She can’t be touched. But I think she’s involved in this. The only thing that can explain why one of the Romanov diamonds was found beneath one of her girls is if she were using her company to find buyers. After this many years in business, she’d have a select number of clients she could trust. Those will be the ones she tries to sell them to.”

“Only someone got greedy and decided he didn’t want to pay for the merchandise after all. Which means Natalie Evans knows exactly who killed Amanda Whitfield.”