DECOY
THURSDAY’S JOURNAL ENTRY
“It’s hard to look dignified with a dick in your mouth.”
“Excuse me?”
My new client, Carter Teague, needs to understand I’m a decoy, not a hooker. In other words, I’m not going to have sex with her boyfriend.
“Fiancé,” she says.
“Whatever. I’ll get him in my hotel room, and you can walk in on us from the adjoining room. But we won’t actually be naked.”
Carter looks exasperated. “He could come up with a million excuses if you’re dressed. But if I walk in and you’re both naked, what’s he going to say?”
She looks around my office.
I know what that means.
She’s noting the disarray. The fact I don’t have a secretary. And do have a bag of trash that’s overdue for the dumpster. She checks my business card for the second time and sees my name, Dani Ripper, is not raised or embossed. She rightfully assumes a female private eye in Cincinnati, Ohio, rarely gets the big clients.
She knows I need the money.
“What if I sweeten the pot?” she says.
“I’m not a hooker, Ms. Teague.”
“No, of course not!” Carter says, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”
I wave her off. “It’s okay. I just want to be clear.”
There are two faux leather chairs across from my desk. Carter’s sitting in the one closest to the door. She’s thirty. Dressing younger, but thirty, which makes her six years older than me.
I’d stake my life on it.
Her shoulder-length hair is russet, with amber highlights, if you care about such things. I do, and make a note to ask who does her hair, though it’s probably a week’s pay for me. I did happen to notice her Casadei back-zip wedge sandals when she entered, though they’re currently hidden by the desk. The part of her I can see is wearing an off-shoulder leopard tunic, with bracelets that match my annual house payment. She exudes wealth, and proves it by saying, “I’ll pay you two thousand plus expenses.”
“For two thousand you could hire the best hooker in town.”
“This isn’t about sex, Ms. Ripper. I don’t want to catch him cheating, I just need to know if he would. There’s a lot at stake here. The wedding alone will cost my father a quarter million.”
Two grand means I get to keep driving my car.
“Bra and panties?” I offer.
“Three thousand,” she says. “All cash.”
“In advance?”
“If you wish.”
I wince, thinking about it.
“Maybe I could lose the bra. But my panties aren’t negotiable.”
“Five thousand dollars!” she calls out with all the enthusiasm of a trophy wife at a charity auction. “All cash. In advance.” She pauses, then says, “My final offer.”
I bite my lip.
“Take it or leave it,” she says.
“No photos,” I say.
“What? Why not?”
“Are you serious?”
Carter sighs. “Deal.”
Her fiancé’s name is Joe Fagin. He’s thirty-two. We review his photos together. She wants to set it up for tomorrow night at the Brundage Hotel in Louisville, where he has dinner reservations at Simon Claire’s at seven-fifteen.
“Have you ever been there?” I ask.
“No.”
“The restaurant’s on the second floor. There’s an open area, then the bar.”
“Perfect.”
“Who’s Joe meeting for dinner?”
“Computer geeks, trying to raise money.”
“Joe’s a venture capitalist?”
“He thinks so, but my father suspects he can’t fund his deals. Mind you, there’s no evidence of that.”
“Do you know if they have plans for after dinner?”
“Joe Fagin hanging out with computer geeks?” she laughs. “He’s not the type. You’ll see. I expect he’ll lose them after dinner, probably hit the Brundage bar.”
“Or catch a cab somewhere more exciting.”
She frowns. “That could mess things up.”
“I’ll work it out.”
“I admire your confidence.”
“I’m confident I can get his attention. Enticing him to come to my room is something entirely different.”
“You’ll try your best?”
“Of course. But if he doesn’t take the bait…”
“Then we live happily ever after.”
“You’d consider him faithful if I can’t seduce him in a single encounter?”
“Absolutely.” She notes my puzzled expression and says, “I mean, look at you!”
I can’t look at me, but she does. In fact, she studies me so deliberately it makes me uncomfortable.
She says, “If he can resist you, I’ll marry him. If not, I’ll be heartbroken, but better off.”
She opens her purse and removes a bundle of hundreds wrapped in a Union City Bankpaper band.
“That’s five,” she says.
To her amusement, I spread the bills across my desktop and run a counterfeit money pen over them. When I’m satisfied they’re real, she reaches in her purse and removes another bundle of equal size and denomination, and peels five bills from that one.
“Expenses,” she says.
I run the pen over those, as well.
As I watch her leave my office, I recall how she entered it thirty minutes earlier. She knocked on my door, tentatively. I told her to come in. When she did, she looked at me and her eyes widened.
That was the first thing I noticed, her eyes. I’d never seen harlequin-green eyes before.
“Wow,” she said.
“Wow?”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s quite a compliment, coming from you.”
And it was, because Carter Teague’s a knockout. As a woman, I’m allowed to say that. I’m allowed to notice, too. It’s funny how we can get away with looking at, and even touching, other women. I wasn’t interested in touching her boobs, of course, but I could’ve said something like, “Are those real? No? Oh, my God, they’re spectacular! May I?” Then I could’ve reached out and touched them. She would’ve been embarrassed, but she’d have allowed it. If a man tried that, he’d find himself in an orange jumpsuit before the noon whistle signals lunch at county.
Funny, that.
I think she caught me looking at her boobs just then, because she suddenly averted her eyes and pretended to glance out my office window. She did that a few seconds, then turned back and focused her eyes on mine.
“You’re Ms. Ripper?” she said.
“Please. Call me Dani. And you’re?”
“Carter Teague.”
“Great name,” I said.
“Thanks.”
We were both quiet a moment.
“Um…you’re staring,” I said.
“Oh. Sorry!”
“No problem. I’m flattered. I think.”
She wasn’t blushing, more like flushed. And staring again.
“You’re married?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Happily?”
How does any married woman answer that question? Depends on the hour, the day, the time of month…
“I like to think so,” I say. “How can I help you?”
She removed my business card from the card holder on my desk and held it between her perfectly manicured thumb and index finger.
“You’re a private investigator?” she said.
“I am.”
“I was told you’re a decoy.”
“By whom?”
“I heard my father talking to someone. He’s a divorce attorney.”
“Here?”
“No. Cleveland.”
“And he’s heard of me?”
“He was telling someone you’re the best in the business.”
“I’ve done some decoy work. Not locally.”
“This would be in Louisville, not Cincinnati.”
I nodded. She explained what she wanted, and how she planned to walk in on her fiancé and me while having sex, and I explained how I don’t actually have sex with the husbands or boyfriends, and—wait. I’m wasting your time. You’re caught up. Let’s move along.
******************************************************************************
TWO THINGS HAVE happened. Carter Teague has left the building, and I’ve got another decoy job.
The sign on the door says Dani Ripper, Private Investigator. As does the ad in the phone book. The business cards. The social media listings all over the internet.
Dani Ripper, Private Investigator.
The word “decoy” cannot be found associated with my name, but that’s the work I get.
I’m not shocked, there are reasons I’m not on the short list for the big PI jobs. First, I’m a woman.
I don’t mean it the way you think.
What I mean is most clients think this type of work involves physical encounters with seamy, bent-nosed characters. Clients are conditioned to expect a PI who’ll hang a brute on a meat hook and beat the shit out of him with a tire iron to find out where he hid the jewels. They tend to view me as tight jeans, five-inch heels, and a kick-ass halter.
I’m the first to admit I’m not tough.
I don’t grunt, sweat, or smell. I know some basic moves, but I’m more at home on a dance floor than a kick boxing ring. In short, I don’t look the part. Which is funny, since ninety-nine percent of the job involves computer and camera work, and sitting in cars waiting for people to exit homes, hotels or businesses. Less than one percent involves physical contact.
The second reason I don’t get much PI business is I’ve never had a high-profile case. In this business one high profile case will feed you a lifetime of clients.
Let me amend that statement: I have had a high-profile case. I just didn’t solve it. And that’s the third reason I don’t get much PI business.
I scoop Carter’s cash off my desk and stuff it in my shoulder tote. I’m a Choo girl on a Kors budget, which is to say I’ll splurge to a point when I get a windfall.
Which isn’t often.
Today’s a windfall, but I’ve already earmarked Carter’s cash for practical things, like catching up on my car payments. And the mortgage. I’ll also put a grand toward my step-son’s college fund. Buy some groceries and household cleaning supplies. And…wait. I might have enough left to splurge. Tomorrow I’ll buy a nice gift for best friend Sophie Alexander, whose birthday happens to be today. This morning Sophie was the proud recipient of a whimsical email card and an invitation to a birthday lunch on Tuesday. Thanks to Carter Teague, Sophie’s lunch has been upgraded to dinner and a bracelet. I’ll get her something trendy, but tasteful.
So the clothes, jewelry, fancy cars, mansions, yachts and such will be placed on hold till I finally crack a high-profile case. And that’s fine, since I suspect it’s more fun to dream about exquisite material things than it is to insure and maintain them. While I admit to owning a few signature pieces, like my Gucci watch (a gift from Sophie) I’m not a clothes whore. I’d much rather have a fond vacation memory than a pair of designer pumps.
With ninety minutes to kill before my lunch appointment with Vicky Stringfellow, I go back to what I was doing before Carter showered me with cash, which happens to be the same thing I always do when I have time on my hands.
Check my emails.
It’s not what you think.
I check emails the same way you do, and read and answer them the same way you do. But, unlike you, I’m checking to see if my alerts have been triggered. I use all the alert programs, seeking hits to variations on the phrase that haunts my days and nights.
A quick scan shows no recent hits. But most of my alerts are updated every twenty-four hours, so I go to Google and type the word cherrystones.
167,000 entries.
I scan the first dozen pages, as always, but can’t find what I want. I narrow the search by typing Are your nipples like cherrystones?
That phrase turns up 19,200 entries, but none on the first dozen pages contain the exact wording. So I try nipples like cherrystones.
And get 11,100,000 entries.
Crazy, right?
But as I scan the first dozen pages of this search, I find two references. One on a dating site, another in a chat room.
The dating site would be an uncharacteristic departure for my target, but my pulse quickens, as it always does, whenever these (or similar) words are typed in a chat room that underage girls are likely to frequent. I copy the link into my browser, click it, and learn it requires an annual credit card payment of nineteen dollars.
I sigh.
That brings my total to fourteen paid sites and forty-seven free ones. That’s sixty-one sites if my math skills haven’t deserted me. I check each of these sites at least once a week. Do I have that much time to spare?
No. But what am I going to do?
I’m obsessed.
I create a new email account and sign up with a unique name and password, and record the information in my notebook. Most chat room sites are so simple to navigate it only takes a minute to catch the groove, and this one’s no different.
The boy/man/pervert? who made the reference is listed as ShawnInPain, and his current status is Offline. There’s no photo, but his avatar—consisting of the words Bad Boy scrawled in black ink with red blood dripping down the letters—is twisted enough to attract the twelve to fifteen-year-old female demographic my target seeks: those who think they want a brooding, dangerous, slightly-older guy.
I click his profile and roll my eyes. He claims to be from Everywhere. His age is described as Old Soul. His likes are Let’s just say you couldn’t handle it! His dislikes are Whiny girls who run to mommy.
A cold chill runs through my body. ShawnInPain is a prime candidate!
I scroll his recent posts till I find the reference, written nineteen hours ago: I saw my sister naked in the shower just now.
Her breasts are small, the exact size of the silicone inserts I found in her underwear drawer last week. On the box they claim to increase your bra size by 1.5 cups. But if you lay them on a table, they’re pretty damn flat. Sorry guys. My sister’s tits are flat and unattractive. But her nipples are hard, like cherrystones. More on this soon.
Asshole.
Not because he sneaks in the bathroom to spy on his sister, and not because he reports her nudity to the world. Sure, spying on your sister is over-the-top creepy, and this little shit has obviously got twenty-to-life issues.
But that’s not what makes him an asshole.
What makes him an asshole is he cost me nineteen bucks and he’s not the guy. ShawnInPain is someone else’s pervert. He’s my guy ten years ago. But my pervert is older. Late twenties, I think. Used to call himself ManChild. When he writes the phrase in a chat room, it won’t be an eye-witness report on his sister’s cleavage. It’ll be a question, asked by a grown man to a teenage girl between the ages of twelve and fifteen. And what he’ll ask is, Are your nipples like cherrystones? Are they hard and firm? Are they as hard and firm as the erection in my pants?
There’s more, of course, but I’ll spare you the details. Just thinking about it makes me want to take a shower.
******************************************************
Vicky Stringfellow AND I greet each other the way we’ve been socially conditioned to greet other women: by raising our voices an octave, gushing with fake enthusiasm, and finding something about the other to compliment. She chooses my figure, I choose her eyes. Since I called the meeting, social etiquette requires me to throw in an extra compliment, so I say, “Vicky, where on earth did you find that killer top?”
She smiles. “You really like it?”
“I love it!”
“Believe it or not, I found it at Leversons.”
We chitchat about where Leversons is located, and who I should ask for when I check it out. As we talk, we appraise each other the way we’ve been conditioned all our lives to appraise other women: by noting their flaws.
I’m well aware of mine, but if you want that information you’ll have to ask Vicky. As for hers, I’m not overly critical, and I want very much to like her, so I’ll just say she’s a little overweight, and could use some help with hair and makeup. On the other hand, she’s intelligent, pleasant, and available.
“How long have you been divorced?” I say.
I didn’t just blurt that out, we’re actually twenty minutes into the conversation at this point, and the waiter has just brought our salads, and fussed over us with offers of fresh-ground pepper and hand-grated cheese.
Vicky tells me what I need to know about her and Charles: they broke up two years ago, no kids, she teaches fourth grade at a private school, and has her own townhome in Willoughby Commons. She’s dated several men, but nothing clicked because she wasn’t ready to begin a new relationship.
Till now.
As she talks, I mentally tick each item with a checkmark on my list. Vicky’s not bitter or needy. She’s independent, self-sustaining, and ready to move on with her life.
“So…” she says, and I know we’ve come to the tricky part.
“Yes?”
“Tell me about this professor you’ve found for me.”
“He teaches at Clifton State.”
She arches her eyebrows. In a good way. But waits for me to continue.
“His name’s Ben Davis,” I say. “He’s thirty-six.”
She lifts her chin slightly, purses her lips. I know what she’s thinking.
Vicky Davis.
Her eyes widen the slightest bit. I wouldn’t have noticed had I not been studying her so closely. But her eyes tell me Vicky likes the sound of her name with Ben’s, a critical issue, since she’s still using her married name.
“How long have you known Ben?” she asks.
“Seven years.”
“And you still think he’s a good guy?”
She laughs.
I laugh.
“He’s a great guy,” I say. “A true gentleman. The smartest man I know.”
She frowns. “If he’s that great, why aren’t you dating him?”
I bite my bottom lip. “I’m married.”
She instinctively looks at my left hand.
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“It’s complicated.”
Vicky nods, slowly. She wants to pursue the conversation, but doesn’t want to intrude, or appear too nosey this early in our relationship. Steering the conversation back to Ben, she says, “How many times has the good professor been married?”
“Twice.”
“Oh,” she says, suddenly deflated. She frowns.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I say.
“Tell me why.”
“Well, he’s only been divorced once.”
She cocks her head. “One of his wives passed away?”
My turn to frown. I have to word this carefully. This is the part where I always lose them. I rehearsed it in my head ten times, but it should have been twenty, because the right words aren’t coming.
Vicky says, “Did one of his wives die?”
“Not exactly.”
She frowns again. At the pace she’s frowning, I wonder how long it’ll take her face to develop worry lines.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Vicky says. “He’s been married twice, divorced once, and one of his wives hasn’t passed away. Is this a riddle?”
“It can be.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here’s the thing. He’s still married.”
“What?” She jumps to her feet.
“Wait. It’s not what you think. Please. Sit down.”
She frowns again. Vicky’s quite angry, but we’re in a public place and people are staring at us. Common courtesy dictates she at least offer to split the check. She knows this, and starts fumbling around in her purse.
“Vicky,” I say, “please. Let me explain.”
She sighs, and reclaims her seat.
“I don’t appreciate your wasting my time like this,” she says. “You can’t possibly think I’d be interested in dating a married man.”
I hold up my hand. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t. But this guy’s special. You can get to know him on Mondays and Tuesdays.”
“He’s married, Dani. That’s a deal-breaker.”
“Here’s the thing,” I say.
“Yes?”
“He’s married to me.”
“What?”
“Ben’s my husband. And I swear, he’s a wonderful man.”
She looks around. “Are there cameras in here? Am I being punked?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then…what? Are you insane?”
“Not clinically. I don’t think. Well, maybe.”
Vicky places a twenty on the table by her untouched salad. “This should more than cover my lunch,” she says. She stands, walks about twenty feet, turns, and comes back to the table.
“Does Ben know you’re shopping him around?”
“No. It would kill him if he found out.”
Her eyes become slits. “Are you telling me he doesn’t even know you’re planning to leave him?”
I look down at my salad.
She says, “How long have you been cheating on him?”
I say nothing, though I’ve never cheated on Ben.
“When are you planning to tell him?”
“I won’t leave him till I know he’s got a better woman than me in his life.”
She frowns for a record fifth time. “No offense,” she says, “but I don’t think it’ll take much of a woman to be an improvement.”
I flash a hopeful smile. “Does that mean you’re willing to meet him?”
She spins around and starts walking away, swiftly.
I holler, “We could have you over for dinner!”
Want to know the rest of the story?