Satisfaction Page 3

  “Or she could be lying.”

  “Georgie never lies, so she must have seen something that made her—”

  “Everybody lies, Mr. Horton,” Ethan said on a world-weary sigh as he settled into his chair. “It’s why they lie that’s important.”

  The alluring woman with the glorious brown hair and sexy little bod had lied through her pearly whites, and no doubt about it. As a police officer, he’d learned to read faces, gestures, listen to the tone of a person’s voice, pay attention to the word choices made. Georgie Mundy had lied. What’s more, she knew he knew it, and she didn’t care.

  Catch me if you can, her eyes taunted.

  It’ll be my plea sure, he’d promised.

  “I’m going to assign a man to keep an eye on Miss Mundy,” he said to Horton, “but that will just be our little secret, okay?”

  The station manager’s eyes brightened. “Ah? Aha, yes. Good, good, good. I get it. Our little secret. Reading you loud and clear, Ethan. But how? She made it absolutely clear she doesn’t want a bodyguard.”

  “Too bad,” Ethan said dryly. “She’s got one. She just doesn’t know it.”

  She may have lied about why she’d fainted, but there was no way she could have faked a racing heart. Something had scared her, sent her pulse through the roof. He wanted to know what it was.

  A few minutes later, Ethan stood in Georgie’s dressing room while she was in Horton’s office, discussing her next taping.

  He looked around. The space was just big enough for a dressing table with lighted mirror and a few pieces of essential furniture, plus a wardrobe rack. The cookbooks she’d authored were stacked neatly on the table next to a bouquet of flowers—a dozen pink roses, with ferns and those little white flowers they always put in with them. He remembered Cathy had called them baby’s breath. Crystals of various sizes and shapes were scattered among makeup brushes and cosmetic pots and other assorted feminine doohickeys.

  Though the room was a bit cluttered, it had a light and airy feel to it. Crouching, he checked the baseboards and corners. No mice droppings, no gnaw marks on the wood, nothing to indicate the place had been invaded by any unwelcome critters.

  He stood and walked to the window. While it was large enough to let in a fair amount of natural light, the view sure sucked. This side of the Golden Gate Towers was neighbored by a slightly taller office structure. Because it was paneled with nonglare glass, it was easy to observe the goings-on in the interior across the way. Most of the windows offered views of desks and cubicles, people milling around or pounding their fingers on keyboards. Anyone standing at a window would be clearly observed.

  Had Georgie seen something in one of those windows that had frightened her? If so, what in the hell could it have been? Except for the darkened glass directly across from hers, the place was bustling with what appeared to be normal activity.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pad and made a few notes, then calculated where that darkened office across the way would be located in the building.

  As he shoved the pad back into his pocket, he heard a tapping on the door. A second later, Horton stuck his head through, then his whole body.

  “She’s gone to lunch,” he whispered clandestinely. “You find anything?”

  Instead of meeting Horton’s gaze, he looked around the room. “A couple of things. Maybe they’ll pan out, maybe not.”

  “Great. Great, great. What happens now, Ethan?”

  “What happens now is, I’m going to put Paladin’s best man on it.”

  Horton’s brows shot up and he clapped his palms together in quiet applause. “Your best man, you say? And who might that be?”

  With one final glance out the window, Ethan turned back to Horton, met the man’s anxious gaze, and said, “Me.”

  Chapter Three

  If life’s too much for you to handle lately, here’s the cure. Find a large faceted crystal sphere, and using a nine-inch strip of red ribbon, hang the crystal in the center of your house. Then step back and wave buh-bye to all your troubles.

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  Ethan entered the foyer of the Stanford Building and took the elevator to the thirty-first floor. Exiting to the left, he walked down the hall, stopping in front of a door marked MENDOCINO FABRIC IMPORTERS AND DESIGN. Based on his calculations, the window that faced Georgie’s dressing room would be right about here.

  Turning the knob, he entered the office. A cadaverous thirty-something woman wearing a boxy black-and-red-checked suit sat behind a U-shaped desk. She stopped typing, but didn’t remove her fingers from the keyboard. The plastic plaque on her desk read FIONA NAKAMURA.

  “Yes, sir?” Fiona said, and smiled, giving him the impression she had about a hundred too many teeth for her mouth. “How may I help you?”

  He offered her his business card.

  “Private investigator?” Her black unibrow arched and she smiled past lips painted the color of charred beef. “You are Ethan Darling?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking into an incident that occurred this morning in the building next door. It would help me a lot if I could locate the window that directly faces the office where the incident occurred. I promise, it would only take a moment and I’ll try not to disturb anyone.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “An incident? Like, did somebody get whacked?”

  “No, but whoever sits at that window might have seen something that could help my investigation.”

  She looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess it can’t hurt. Just a sec.”

  Ethan waited while she called someone named Trent and explained the situation.

  A moment later, the door behind the receptionist opened to reveal a man holding a bundle of silky fabrics in his arms, his narrow glasses shoved up onto his forehead, a yellow tape mea sure wrapped several times around his neck. Giving Ethan the once-over, he grinned. “Fiona, sweetie, you were absolutely right. He is darling.”

  “Wrong team, Mr. Trent,” Ethan said lightly. “I just want to look out your window.”

  Trent rolled his eyes. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that!” With his free hand, he shoved a long lock of frizzy brown hair off his shoulder and again gave Ethan the once-over. “Well, it’s true what they say. All the good ones are straight.” He snorted a laugh. “Come along, baby doll. This way to the windows.”

  Ethan followed Trent down a hall that opened into a large workroom filled with cutting tables and people in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Bolts of fabric were shoved onto shelves along the walls or were lying in colorful heaps on chairs and tables. Skinny young women with tape measures gracing their necks discussed sleeve and hem lengths with skinny young men holding scissors or trays of long silver pins.

  But what snared Ethan’s attention was the bank of windows on the far side of the room. Looking out, he realized his position was a little off. Georgie’s dressing room was a few more feet to the right, yet an interior wall prevented him from moving in that direction.

  “What’s on the other side of this?” Ethan said to Trent, indicating the barrier.

  “Storeroom. Just junk, nobody ever goes in there.”

  “Does it have a window?”

  “Oh, sure,” Trent said as he set the bolts of fabrics he was carrying on one of the tables. “Door’s this way, across the hall from the potty.”

  As they walked down a narrow corridor and rounded a corner to the closed storeroom door, Ethan said, “Pretty hidden back here. Somebody could go in and out and never be seen.”

  “Guess so,” Trent agreed. “Of course, they’d have to get past Fiona first.” He bared his teeth and made a clawing motion with his hands.

  Opening the door, Trent walked into the room and flipped on the light. Shelves lining the walls were crammed with dusty fabrics, huge rolls of paper, boxes of scissors, broken mannequins, and God knew what else, but Ethan’s only interest was the bare window. He walked to it and stared across the cha
sm between the two buildings, directly into Georgie’s dressing room.

  Her dressing table and garment rack were clearly visible, though she probably pulled the drape closed when she changed clothes. Otherwise, it was undoubtedly kept open as it had been this morning.

  “Not much of a view,” Trent said from behind him.

  “Not much,” Ethan said absently. While the view afforded glimpses of some of the other KALM offices, only this window faced Georgie’s dressing room directly. More importantly, Georgie would have a clear view of anyone standing here.

  Crouching a little, he checked the window frame. The dark metal was covered with a thick layer of dust, but it looked as though it had been recently disturbed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic box.

  “Fingerprints?” Trent squealed. “Fabulous! Oh, God, this is so CSI! Can I watch?”

  “Sure. It’s not as exciting as what you see on TV, though.” He grinned as he twirled the small brush across the sill. Blue powder poofed in the air as he worked. Two prints emerged clear enough to lift, so he lifted them while over his shoulder he said, “Mind if I talk to some of your people? Maybe one of them saw something this morning that could help.”

  “Oh, ask everyone!” Trent said cheerily. “Is this a murder case or something?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. Just possible harassment. I appreciate your help.”

  For the next hour, Ethan talked to every member of the staff, while Trent followed close on his heels like an overeager puppy. But when all was said and done, no one had seen anything.

  Ethan extended his hand to Trent, and as the two men shook, he said, “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Trent. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call if you see anyone prowling around who doesn’t belong.”

  “And you give me a call,” Trent cooed, cocking a brow. “If you ever decide to change teams.”

  Releasing the man’s hand, Ethan smiled. “I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

  On his way out, he stopped by the reception desk. “What time do you get in, Ms. Nakamura?”

  She paused with a bagel halfway to her lips. “Usually about eight-thirty. Then I go down the hall and get water to make coffee.”

  “Who sits at the reception desk while you’re gone?”

  She shook her head. “No one. I’m only gone a minute or two.”

  And anyone watching Fiona’s routine would know that.

  As he sat behind the wheel of his SLR McLaren, Ethan’s gaze stayed locked on the exit doors of Georgie’s building. He tried to relax, but a sense of impatience buzzed around him like an irritating insect, and had all day.

  In frustration, he rubbed his jaw. It was after five. What was taking the woman so frigging long? Maybe she was changing out of her “protective white light” into some color more appropriate for after hours. Protective white light, my ass, he thought.

  Thanks to the information he’d obtained from Horton, he knew that Georgie drove a candy-apple-red Miata MX–5 with California vanity plates that read georgie. He had also discovered the automobile had no car alarm. Perfect. Stupid, but perfect.

  When the parking lot attendant went to take a leak, Ethan had moved quickly, obtaining entry to the Miata, attaching a listening device under the dash. Yeah, it was illegal and he was putting his license on the line, but at the moment he didn’t care. If she chatted somebody up on her cell phone on the way home, he wanted to hear every word.

  Relocking and closing the door, he went to the rear of the Miata and slipped a magnetized homing device inside the wheel well.

  He returned to his car with a sense of anticipation. Sexual anticipation. At his age, he knew the feeling for exactly what it was, so why deny it? Rubbing his jaw, he admonished himself for behaving like some hormonal teen on prom night.

  A few minutes later, several women exited the building through the double glass doors leading out into the back lot where he waited, parked between an ancient VW camper and a late-model BMW. Huddled in a group, the women were a chattering amalgamation of feminine faces from black to brown to white, tailored gray suits, fluttering print dresses, stacked heels, open-toed sandals, briefcases, straw totes, smiles, and cell phones—and at their center, Georgie Mundy, looking as luscious as ever in her summery pink.

  In his pocket, the green silk seemed to have a life of its own, warming his palm whenever he touched it—which had been several dozen times in the last few hours. She had been kind to give it to him, and in remembering the compassionate look in her eyes as she’d placed it in his hand, he felt his heart soften.

  No, dammit. Not going there.

  Ethan tightened his jaw, warning himself to stay in control. She was a job. Hands off. If his hands had a different agenda in mind, he’d just have to deal with it.

  Georgie waved good-bye to the other women, who smiled and waved back as they peeled off one by one to go to their cars. She passed in front of him, her head down, her attention focused on the contents of her handbag as she did a deep dive for her keys.

  From behind his mirrored aviators, he tried to ignore how the breeze tousled her silky brown hair, how her tits jiggled real nice under the fabric of her pink top, how her hips swayed. She was at ease with her body; his defiant hands itched a little in response.

  She got to her car, started the engine. In his ear-piece, he heard her radio, the strains of some bland New Age instrumental had him rolling his eyes.

  He pulled into traffic a few cars behind hers, following her along the Embarcadero until she hooked a left onto Bay. A few blocks later, the Miata made another turn and headed up to Russian Hill, where hundred-year-old Victorians were stacked side by side like books on a library shelf.

  As he listened, her cell phone chimed. Abruptly, the radio cut off midnote.

  “Hey, yeah,” she said, her tone anxious, her words clipped. “No, now’s good. I’m in my car. You okay?” There was silence for a moment, then, “I’m fine, but I, uh, I have a situation here. Actually, I have several. I saw him. Yes, him, here, in San Francisco! I thought he was in Europe, too, but he must have come back. No, he hasn’t actually contacted me, but if he’s here…He hasn’t shown up there, has he?”

  Her voice rose, as though the thought panicked her, and Ethan wondered who in the hell he was.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said on a rush of breath. “I’ve been super careful, but if he’s following me, we’ve both got to be extra cautious now. Promise me you’ll be on guard.”

  She turned a corner and downshifted; a moment later, Ethan did the same. With two cars between them, she was still unaware of his presence.

  “I’ve got this other problem,” she continued. “Ozzie hired a private investigator. He wanted this guy to be my bodyguard. Shit is right! God, no. I put an end to it. That’s all we need is some guy snooping around, watching my every move.”

  She listened for a few seconds, then said, “There is absolutely no way this PI could know about you, but keep a lookout, just in case. If you spot him, let me know right away. What’s he look like? Okay, yeah, well, he’s tall, over six feet. Dark hair, um, sort of green hazel eyes with gold flecks…”

  Ethan peered over his dark glasses into the rearview mirror. Huh. Damn. They did have gold flecks in them.

  “You can’t miss him. Broad shoulders, rugged good looks, the kind of guy women dream about going to bed with…”

  Ethan admonished himself to stay on task.

  “…hot and really sexy. Swear to God. No, I am so not kidding. And get this, his name is Ethan Darling. Is that a hoot and a half! Thank God I only have to cooperate with him while he investigates at the studio…What? No, I’m not. I am not. Because he’s an arrogant jerk, that’s why! He’s all scowls and smirks and straight edges and sneers. A real stuffed shirt. No sense of humor. None. Never smiles, barely talks. I’d bet my last organic bean sprout his house is decorated sparsely in black and white leather. Nothing that lives or breathes or requires nurturing, like pets or plants. Lives alone. On
ly has company for sex. It’s a onetime deal, then probably sends her home in a cab before midnight.”

  Ethan swallowed uncomfortably.

  Georgie said something that got lost when a truck coming down the hill noisily shifted gears.

  He scowled. Just what in the hell was wrong with leather anyway? And he had plants…several of them. A couple anyway. There was that brown-leafed thing in the bathroom. Of course, maybe the leaves weren’t supposed to be brown.

  “…very smart. Besides, I get the impression he can’t be bought.”

  Ethan’s spine straightened. What did she think he’d discover, that she’d want to buy his silence?

  “…Mrs. Beebes doing? Yeah? That’s so great! I can hardly wait to see her. Yeah, to night. I don’t have to be back at the studio until noon on Monday.”

  Her brake lights flared as she slowed, then turned into the stubby driveway of a wood-frame, tan and black Victorian, complete with tiny garage to the right of the staircase.

  He kept driving, his tinted windows concealing him from view—not that she looked. Turning at the next corner, he slowed, his hand against the receiver in his ear as he listened.

  “…hate that we’re separated all the time, and I wish it could be different, but for now, this is the only way. Mrs. Beebes…too risky…”

  His reception was interrupted as a car pulled up behind him and began blasting its horn for Ethan to get a move on.

  “…was him I saw…worried…watching me, I won’t have any choice but to…meantime…keep that PI distracted…or kill him myself…”

  Georgie zipped the top of her overstuffed suitcase closed and grabbed it by the handle. Glancing around her bedroom, she turned out the lights and headed downstairs to her car. If the weather was good and Friday evening traffic was light, she would be in Santa Barbara by midnight.

  The boring five-hour drive to Southern California was worth it, though, and she made the trip as often as she could—which was usually at least once a month. If she didn’t have to stop off in San Jose every time, the trip would go a little faster, but she needed to make sure she wasn’t followed, so San Jose had become an integral part of her deception.