More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (24 page)

He said nothing but sat back against the car door, assessing me. There were opinions and thoughts going on behind those polarized lenses—positive ones, I hoped—but he was none too generous about sharing them.

“So you’ve been following me this whole time?” I already knew the answer.

“In between pursuing other leads, yes. I’ve kept my eye on you,” he said quietly. “Just as I said I would.” It almost sounded like a pass, and I felt a flip-flop in my chest.

“So how come the only time I’ve seen you was at the shooting range?”

I couldn’t see his eyes, but I’m pretty sure he rolled them.

“If you’re doing your job, I’m not supposed to see you, right? Okay, that was a dumb question. You wanted me to see you.”

“I have also been watching your boss, Ms. Harris, and have followed Ms. Cibulkova as well.”

“And?”

“The two of them have met eleven times that I am aware of, outside of the office where intimacies were likely exchanged.”

“Hmmm...that’s an interesting way to put it. Covers a lot of things, don’t you think?” A teasing quality had trickled into my voice. I felt the desire to tease him further but kept it in check.

“It could, yes. Ms. Harris attends many screenings and also spends a good bit of time on the treadmill at her gym.”

“The treadmill, huh. I would have thought she was more of an elliptical type. What about Titania’s workout routine?” I joked.
Miss Moldovan Molotov had quite the hot bod.

“She does an assortment of exercises, including extensive Pilates poses,” he said, missing my tone. He paused. “You were right about her, Ms. Cunningham.”

“What?” What did he mean? “What was I right about?”

“She is bisexual and has a boyfriend by the name of… ” He pulled out his little pocket pad and flipped a couple of pages.

“Yes!” Partial vindication anyway.

“...Boris Sizmansky. I obtained some photographs.” He put his pad away and produced his phone with a few racy pictures on it.

“Wow, you sure did.” I scanned the grainy shots of Titania and Boris in degrees of nubile nakedness assuming a variety of provocative poses.

I couldn’t tell what Frank actually thought about the duplicitous bi-babe, but chances were, if he was like other guys, he enjoyed visualizing two women together—even if one was decidedly hotter than the other. However, the idea of inserting a guy other than himself into that lesbian lusciousness put an immediate kibosh on the first visual.

The shots were incontrovertibly Titania—unlike the female image on the picture button I’d found. And the guy was definitely the same. Same chin, same pecs, same beautiful washboard stomach. Jamie would for sure have a reaction to
these
pictures.

“These are really good; really good resolution, too. Were you outside her apartment with a telephoto lens? Or did you somehow install a remote camera?”

Glancing at Frank’s tight lips, it was clear he had no plans to supply the details of how he’d obtained the pictures, and maybe I didn’t want to know. Those lips were tight, but they looked soft.

He closed the phone and started to put it away.

“I hope you’ll email me a few of those; they might come in handy.”

Pulling the phone out once more, he opened it, making a display of doing as I asked. “I am sending an encrypted email to the company. They’ll make sure you get them. These are for your private use only, for purposes of keeping your job,” he warned.

“Of course,” I said, and meant it. Boris was cute and everything, but the only use I had for the pictures was to prove to Titania that I could hurt her if she didn’t come clean.

He turned his face to glance at the passenger rearview mirror. “It’s better we keep moving,” he said, disturbing my daydream in which Jamie tossed Titania out on her ass.

“I was headed home.” I put the car back in drive and pulled out into the steady stream of cars on Robertson Avenue. “And after that, to dance class.”

“As you wish,” he said, after which the conversation summarily died. After going several long city blocks without a peep, I decided to continue on by myself.

“How is that going, the pole dancing?” I asked myself. “It’s going very well, thanks for asking,” I responded. “How long have you been dancing, Ms. Cunningham?” “Oh, about two years, and please, call me Quinn.” “What is it you like best about pole dancing, Quinn?” “Well, let’s see...I really like the platform shoes, plus it’s great exercise—not to mention a terrific stress reducer while also being a very expressive form of dance.” “Wow, that’s amazing. You must be…”

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Frank. “I’m not much of a conversationalist.”

“Do ya think?” I said, teasing.

“When I’m on the job, I’m thinking about a lot of other stuff, not small talk.”

This comment begged two questions: What was the other stuff? And how would he be at conversing off the job? I found myself interested in both.

We continued along in silence for another couple of blocks. “Think you’ll ever do anything with it—the pole dancing, I mean?”

So he
could
make conversation! “Like what?” I asked, encouraging him.

“What do other women do with it?”

“Some dance for their boyfriends or husbands. Others work at strip clubs. Too bad I’m over thirty. It might have been something to explore if I get fired.”

He cleared his throat. “That won’t happen.”

Did I detect in his voice more concern about my future than he perhaps intended? Or was I just wishing I had. I glanced over at him. He was facing forward, lips—nice lips—tight. If only I’d been able to see what his eyes were doing behind those lenses, it would make it a whole lot easier to know how to behave.

“I hope you’re right. I’d sure miss the employee insurance plan,” I said, as we passed by the trendy shops north of West Third. “Do you want me to drive you back? We’re going to be so far from your car. How will you...?”

“I’ll get myself back.”

He was so damned
capable
, which reminded me of Vicki’s comment about finding a guy to get her through an apocalypse. Frank seemed like a great candidate for the job. But he was so stingy with words, it would be awfully quiet before the apocalypse arrived. Maybe if I kissed him, his lips would loosen up and stimulate another form of lip loosening.

Turning onto Melrose, I realized I was now driving aimlessly and would have to turn around to get to my apartment. I wasn’t sure why he thought it was better to keep moving. Besides, he’d already moved me a little just sitting in a parked car, and he hadn’t even touched me. Certainly, my little problem at work did not rise to the level where someone would hire another someone to tail me. So why were we driving around? I had an
ah-ha
moment—someone might not be tailing
me
but might be tailing my private investigator.

“Frank?”

“Yes?”

“What’s the real reason you have me driving us around? What aren’t you telling me?”

As it was rush hour and the car was moving, I couldn’t turn to look at him, but I felt his body flinch.

“Is the reason you just show up all the time and you won’t let me call you because you’re involved in something other than my little problem?” If Frank was a full-time employee of a corporate espionage company, which he was, there probably
was
something else afoot.

“No,” said Frank, offering nothing more.

“Is it a girlfriend?” I asked, getting an idea. “I know! In an ironic twist, you have a girlfriend who’s having
you
tailed, in which case, what must she think!”

“No, Ms. Cunningham. There’s no girlfriend.”

There was another pause, again with no additional information. I was concentrating so hard on a way to get a rise out of him—to find out what else might be going on—that I ran a red light.

“Please concentrate on the road, Ms. Cunningham. In fact,” he was once more checking the rearview, “pull over when you can.”

“My
name
is Quinn!” I said, angry that I couldn’t seem to penetrate his tough exterior.

I saw an empty spot and swerved into it without slowing, which made him reach for the handle above the door to steady himself. He had the good sense not to complain about my driving, as he faced me and removed his sunglasses.

“I have told you what I intended to. However, before I get out of the car, I want you to tell me all about your boyfriend, Steven.”

Though I immediately felt the absence of Frank’s solid and comforting presence once he got out of the car, I also felt lighter than I had in awhile, knowing I could now prove what I had suspected about the self-serving, two-timing Titania. And notwithstanding Frank’s request that I dredge up my relationship with Steven—the details of which I would have preferred to keep buried—part of me hoped it was Frank’s romantic speculation about me that made him ask. That said, he refused to tell me his reasons unless and until he discovered something legitimate that related to my case.

I was also sad to see him walk away because, in my mind, he’d solved the case and now he might not have reason to make an appearance ever again. I realized I would be very happy to have him around, even if his part in the proceedings was over. Unlike on TV, I come to find out, a private detective doesn’t bust down doors and make arrests unless he or she is pushing the limits of his or her authority. A P.I. finds out things his or her client wants to know and turns that information over to the client to do with as he or she sees fit.

Frank had found out that Titania was a switch hitter. Now it was up to me to go to Titania and, depending on how that went, to Jamie. The piece of the puzzle I did not yet have, which Frank said he’d continue to work on, was connecting Titania to the pictures that were sent to Jamie. So far he hadn’t been able to gain access to the database that would tell him. So there was still hope I might see him again.

After an invigorating dance class, I stopped at Whole Paycheck to spend a good portion of it picking up nuts, gluten-free bread, yoghurt, and local organic produce and had the thought that, considering all the money I spent in the place on a weekly basis, maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss
Dateafarmer.com.
A non-stop supply of organic produce, though boring as an all-day-slash-everyday solution to hunger, would still be great if I lost my job. And it was superior to becoming a bag lady, that’s for sure.

I returned home and poured a glass of Pinot Noir made from grapes grown in the Santa Rita foothills. That might sound hoity-toity, but it’s actually the only bit of impressive wine trivia I know. Someone told me once that any Pinot Noir from the Santa Rita foothills region of Santa Barbara County was a sure thing and, so far, that piece of advice has held true.

After a few savoring sips, I set about preparing a beet salad with walnuts and goat cheese, which I ate while catching up on unanswered emails and planning my strategy for exoneration the following day.

My personal email box was stuffed with missives of all kinds. Frank’s pictures were there, along with Muffia emails and action requests sent by every environmental, animal, and political group I’d ever heard of. There were also at least forty emails sent by
NowLove
alerting me to prospective matches: “
ClassyChassis
sent you a wink,” and “
Pantheon
wants to meet you,” they beckoned cheerily. The handles of these heartthrobs ranged from
QuasiCoachPotato
and
JohnGaltWasHere
to
Bioforce
—all of which I deleted for sounding either too lazy or too egotistical. There were also a few emails from a guy named Gary, aka
ManforYou,
whom I’d been corresponding with before my date with John. Curious, I clicked on the most recent.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Us

Where’d you go? I thought we were having a good time.

If tossing sexy
bon mots
back and forth constituted a good time, we’d been having a ball, but did I want to get back into that game? I found myself thinking about Frank as I took another sip of wine. Frank didn’t seem interested so,
why not?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Us

Hi Gary, how goes the dating?

I hit
send
and clicked over to my main email account to read one of numerous emails from members of The Muffia—this one the first in a thread started by Jelicka.

To: TheMuffia

From: [email protected]

Subject: Shut ’em down

Thanks, Kiki, for a scrumptious lunch on Saturday. For those who couldn’t make it (missed you), K laid out a spread and served up some tasty Sangria (recipe pls), while showing us what she’s dealing with at the house next door. Oy, she wasn’t kidding about the cement animals. We noshed on garlic shrimp while listening to the owner planning his porn shoot—which M says is illegal without a permit (not to mention tacky in a residential neighborhood), so we’re going to shut ’em down, ladies. Who’s in?

Before I could continue reading the multiple responses in the thread,
Ding
—another email from Gary hit my “dating” box. He must be up late trolling, too.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Us

I was hoping to meet you then you disappeared. What are you doing now? Wanna Skype?

I’d already taken off the make-up, and my hair was in a knot on top of my head, so there’d be no Skyping for me tonight. We didn’t know each other well enough for him to see me like that anyway. Hell, I’m not sure I want someone to ever see me like that.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Us

No can do, but I’m ready to talk on the phone, tomorrow maybe?

Hitting
send
, I clicked on a response from Maddie to Jelicka’s email:

To: TheMuffia

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: Shut ’em down