Kristmas Collins (16 page)

Zee did briefly chat with former professional wrestler Coldblooded Carter. But he really only had eyes for one person in the room—Sophie—even if they went out of their way not to be seen together.

Zee and I made our way through the crowd, and up to Duma’s office. We found him with Wintry. Their sons, Jarren and Terrance, were also there, wearing miniature tuxes. I could tell that we’d just interrupted a fight. And when he sent Wintry and the kids away, it seemed to make things even wintrier.

We didn’t have much time, so I quickly detailed the events that occurred since I’d left this office last night—an unpleasant ride with the FBI, an even more unpleasant visit from Gooch, a trip to the North Pole, and Zee being taken in for questioning.

Duma then summarized his day at the mall, which went off without a hitch. He did mention that he preferred the Santa suit to the tux he was forced to wear tonight.

There was really nothing left to say. In football terms, we were 24 hours away from kickoff and the game was a toss-up. Duma stood to signal the end of the meeting and said, “I’m putting you two at the head table.”

And that was before I handed him the Wainwright donation. When I did, he made the expected joke about being surprised I didn’t try to sail away with it. Then he let us know the reason for our prime seating was to best keep us out of trouble. We all knew that would be easier said than done.

Prior to dinner, Duma briefly addressed his guests. It wasn’t the preachy speech you normally get at charity events. He spoke from the heart, focusing on his own childhood, and how hard his mother had to scratch and claw just to feed her children each night. When he finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the strip club, and more importantly, checkbooks were out. When he trotted out his closers, Jarren and Terrance, I was confident that the cuteness factor would add an extra zero to each contribution.

Our table featured Duma, Wintry and their family, along with Duma’s mother. The mayor of New York—who unlike the last mayor, was a big supporter of Temple of Duma’s—was also present, along with a couple of select homeless invitees. The mayor couldn’t take enough photos with the homeless, but stayed as far away from me as possible. It was good for business to be seen supporting the downtrodden, but not with the man who’d become synonymous with enabling corporate greed.

After dinner, the band began to play and the party started to heat up. At one point, Maria DeMaio and Natalie Gold joined them onstage in an up-tempo version of “Little Drummer Boy.” But everyone’s attention was hijacked by a curvy blonde who’d begun dancing on one of the stages like she hadn’t got the memo that it wasn’t business as usual tonight. She was going for the naughty librarian look, wearing a professional business suit with glasses, her hair tied up. But in a flash, the clip came out of the hair and it fell to her shoulders. Then the jacket came off, followed by the skirt.

A murmur could be heard throughout the room. At first I’d thought it was one of the dancers from the club who’d had one too many, but then I realized who it was. As did the rest of the room. The dancer, who was down to nothing but a skimpy bra and panties, was Candi Kane. And with each shake of her bottom she was putting new meaning in
pa rum pa pum pum.

Sadly, most people in the room had seen this before. Candi’s attention-seeking, often drug-fueled antics had become too common of a sight in the Hollywood scene. The incident that got her banned from the Chateau Marmont Hotel had become a thing of legend. Judging by the looks of those around me, all this latest incident did was confirm their belief that Candi’s comeback was nothing but a farce. The crowd was so uninterested that nobody attempted to stop her, and the band played on like they were on the Titanic.

Duma shot me an “I told you so” look for including her. When security asked if they should remove her, he told them to wait until she finished and then remove her as quietly as possible. But Candi was a long way from finished.

She hopped off the elevated stage—not easy to do in six-inch heels—and moved in our direction. Wintry held her hands over her boys’ eyes to shield them from the scene. The mayor looked horrified, while a couple of the homeless guys seemed to like the idea. But I knew she was coming for me, and I braced.

“I told you all I wanted for Christmas was you, Kris Collins,” she whispered in my ear. When I tried to move, she held me down.

She kicked off her pumps and did a long, seductive production of unhooking her garter and rolling her black stocking down one leg. She danced around with it, before hooking it around the back of my neck and pulling me toward her for a kiss. She left it there like a scarf, before repeating the process with the other leg. Then the remainder of the clothes began to come off.

Once the bra was removed, she’d crossed the red line, and security moved in. She fought them as they dragged her away. Just another in a long line of sad and destructive Candi Kane moments. It’s what the crowd thought, and it’s what I was thinking.

Until I found the note in her stocking.

Zee and Sophie returned to his apartment and locked the door behind them.

Sophie pulled him into an embrace. “You’ve had a long day, ZT, why don’t you go take a shower. And then I’ll give you what you really want … a burrito.”

He grinned, and headed to the bathroom.

He soaked in the hot shower for twenty minutes—trying to wash off the stress of the day. But it seemed like every day was a battle against the demons for him. Today was no different.

He returned to the living room, wearing just a towel. But to his surprise there was no Sophie, and no burrito … except for the one Agent Boersch was munching on as he sat on his couch.

“Hey, ZT—your girlfriend can really cook her hot ass off,” he greeted him, and took another bite.

“Wow—look at those abs. If I had a girlfriend who could cook like that, I’d be three-hundred pounds,” Falcone said with a sly look. “Of course, I’m sure you two figure out a way to burn off the calories.”

“I doubt he’s dating a stripper for the conversation.”

“I admire it, Boersch. They don’t waste time on frivolous things like talking. They get right to the important stuff like eating, sex … and helping Kris Collins steal money.”

Zee just stared at them, trying to figure out where this was headed.

“Since you don’t like to waste your energy on talking, ZT, let me answer your questions for you. Sophie let us in, and when she realized that we needed some alone time, she went out for a walk … it’s a beautiful night for it.”

“But she’s still with us in spirit … or at least on video. Why don’t you come over here and take a look?” Boersch said.

Zee reluctantly joined them on his couch, his eyes fixated on the television screen. Playing was a black and white surveillance video, featuring a man and woman in a hotel room.

“I hardly recognize her as a brunette, and how can I put this … she wasn’t as filled out back then,” Falcone said.

“And here I thought those were real … it’s very disappointing,” Boersch added.

“We took some amateur video the other night at Duma’s when those girls got into a scrap over you.”

“I need your life, ZT. Beautiful women fighting over you. Sure would hate to see you go to prison and screw that up.”

Falcone continued, “And we have this really cool technology at the Bureau, called Face Recognition. When we ran the video through, guess who came up as a match?”

When Zee didn’t answer, Boersch said, “It turns out that Sophie isn’t her real name. It’s Gertrude, which is unfortunate, as is the fact that she was born and raised in a trailer park in Ohio—abusive father, alcoholic mother, yada, yada, yada. Seems that little Trudy left her broken home to move to LA when she was just fifteen, and by seventeen she was working as an escort.”

Zee remained stoic. None of this was new information to him.

“And the agency she worked for only ‘escorted’ upper-echelon clients. CEOs, professional athletes, actors, and I know this one is hard to believe … politicians,” Falcone said.

“The problem, besides the obvious, was that this agency catered to clients who had a thing for underage girls,” Boersch added.

“But I have to hand it to your Sophie—even though she got herself in a bad situation, she ended up doing the right thing. She cooperated with the FBI to bring down the entire operation, which is why we have her on file.”

“And because she was underage, her identity was never revealed. She was able to move across the country, dye her hair, change her name, and get out of the adult entertainment industry … well, she dyed her hair and changed her name, anyway.”

“It would have been a big problem for her if the Madam figured out who was responsible for their prison sentences. Good thing they never learned what sweet little Gertrude did … or where she is today.”

“And by Madam, we don’t mean a Heidi Fleiss wannabe, or some aging beauty queen. The agency was run by the Tamarez crime syndicate, which is best known for their expertise in human trafficking and murder.”

“They make Stone Scroggie seem like a pussycat.”

Zee tensed. He wanted to lash out at them for threatening Sophie, but he knew he had to keep his cool.

“It’s time for you to follow your girlfriend’s lead, ZT, and do the right thing.”

“Collins was there for you when you were at your lowest point. Now it’s your turn to help him. If Scroggie finds that money before we do, your friend is going to be expendable. You’ll be saving his life by helping us.”

“And when we get the money back, and put Scroggie away, we’ll have more time to dedicate to making sure that Sophie’s file isn’t accidentally leaked. You know how accidents can happen when people aren’t paying attention.”

Zee’s stare met Falcone’s, neither backing down. He also noticed that Falcone was twirling the locket in his hands, which he’d left on the table before entering the bathroom. It was as if he was gloating in the fact that he had the upper hand … mocking him.

“We need you to wear a wire for us, and be our eyes and ears, ZT. And we got a few bugs for you to drop up at the ranch in Vermont. We need access on the inside, and you’re our ticket.”

Zee looked straight ahead, but he knew he didn’t really have a choice. He nodded that he would.

Falcone stood to leave. As he headed for the door, he tossed his necklace back to him. “You made the right decision, ZT.”

The power cord fell out of the cigarette lighter and the computer screen went blank. As did the editing project Dora Woods was working on.

She’d been doing freelance work for almost a year now. The work was sporadic, and it sure wasn’t enough to save their home, but with the price of gas these days it wasn’t exactly cheap to be living in your car. Every little bit counted.

“This thing is a lemon, I’m going back there tomorrow and demand a new one,” she bristled, jiggling the power cord they purchased at the mall with the voucher money that they’d received for Susie’s visit to Santa.

“It’s not the cord, Dora—it’s the outlet,” Edmund said, maintaining a calm voice.

She slammed her fist into the dashboard. It felt cathartic, so she did it again. “I hate this goddamn car!”

“Shh—you’re going to wake the kids.”

“I wish somebody would wake me up from this nightmare!”

“We’re already awake,” Susie belted out enthusiastically from the backseat.

“Speak for yourself, kid,” Payne followed in a groggy voice.

“I don’t know how you can sleep, Payne—Christmas is only
one
day away!” his sister exclaimed.

Dora snapped, “Susie—I told you there isn’t going to be a Christmas this year. It’s going to be like every other day—crammed in here, riding around with no place to go, and nothing will work.”

Edmund countered, “There will be a Christmas, Susie … it just might not be like it was in past years. But Christmas is about family, and as long as our family is together there will be Christmas.”

“Will you stop telling her lies—you’re just setting her up for a big disappointment.”

“Don’t worry, Mom … I asked Santa to bring us a house. He’ll come through, I just know it.”

Dora blew out a frustrated breath. “Susie—that wasn’t a real Santa Claus in the mall.”

“Dad says the ones in the store are Santa’s helpers. I’m sure he’ll tell him what I said.”

“Santa’s helpers don’t have the authority to make decisions on gifts. So I’m sorry that your father got your hopes up, but there isn’t going to be Christmas this year, or a house. But at least we still have this lovely three-bedroom with central air and a great stereo system.” She clicked on the radio at full blast to make her point, and John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” shook the vehicle. Obviously Lennon wasn’t referring to them.

“I asked him for a bigger gift last year and he came through.”

“A lot of things were different last year.”

“What did you ask for that was bigger than a house?” her father asked, inquisitively.