into the bedroom, studiously avoiding looking at the bed. On second thought, what the hell? “Did you sleep in here last night?” I ask casually.
“Nah. I slept on the couch.”
Just what I thought. He has no real interest in me. But like any other man, he just couldn’t turn down free pussy.
Since he’s close to six feet tall and I’m five four in bare feet, he doesn’t own a single pair of jeans or sweatpants that don’t look like they’ll swallow me whole. He finally finds me a long-sleeved, red plaid, flannel shirt that comes just above my knees, and with the knee-high socks I’d worn under my stiletto boots, I’ll at least be warm, if not particularly stylish.
I change in the bathroom, and when I walk back into the kitchen Marcus is making grilled cheese sandwiches in a cast-iron skillet over the stove. He turns around as I walk in and his eyes darken as he takes in my makeshift outfit, but he quickly turns back around to the stove, expertly sliding the sandwiches onto plates. He ladles tomato soup into two bowls and sets them on the table.
“Sorry it’s not fancier,” he apologizes.
Ah. That awkward post-coital conversation where you talk to each other with exaggerated politeness and try to pretend you weren’t just going at it like rabbits. Only it hadn’t felt like that to me; it had felt special. But he obviously didn’t feel the same.
I tamp down my hurt feelings. Two can play this game.
“No. This is great!” I say with forced enthusiasm. I take a bite of sandwich. It actually is pretty good, or maybe I’m just hungry. “So, tell me about the case you’re here for.”
He entertains me with the details of his case, and before long I’m so involved in talking shop that I’ve forgotten I’m mad at him. His client is a well-known insurance company that insures a jeweler by the name of Bridget Bowden whose business is flying around the country with her inventory of jewelry and diamonds to call upon the nation’s wealthiest clients who like to buy exclusive and expensive jewelry for their wives and mistresses from the comfort of their billion dollar offices. Whenever Bridget travels, the policy states that she must be picked up from her home, where she operates her business, by a private security driver who transports her to the airport. She’s picked up at the destination airport by another driver who takes her to her meeting, and then back to the airport where the process is repeated in reverse.
She’s based here in Denver, as is her driver. According to Marcus, several months ago, as Bridget was preparing to fly from here to meet with a client in New Jersey, she answered her door expecting to find her driver but instead was accosted by two men who forced their way into her apartment, tied her to a chair, beat her, and stole two million dollars’ worth of jewelry.
“Wow,” I breathe. “So who’s your witness? Not Bridget, right? I’m sure you’ve already gotten her statement.”
“Actually, I came to talk to the driver.”
I raise my eyebrows quizzically. “Was he there?”
“No. A neighbor heard her screaming and came to see what was wrong. When the neighbor arrived, Bridget’s jaw was fractured, her nose was bloody, and the men who’d attacked her were gone. Her driver showed up a few minutes later and called the cops. When I talked to him yesterday, he said he’d been running a few minutes late because he’d stopped at the store to get a pack of cigarettes. The security cameras at the store and his credit card receipt verify that’s where he was.”
“So…” I prompt. It sounds fairly straightforward, but I know from personal experience that insurance claims involving millions of dollars are usually not quite as clear-cut as they seem.
“I’d bet money on it being insurance fraud, but I just can’t put the pieces together. I’ve heard rumors the driver has some mob connections, but I haven’t been able to prove it. I’d hoped talking to him would
“Nah. I slept on the couch.”
Just what I thought. He has no real interest in me. But like any other man, he just couldn’t turn down free pussy.
Since he’s close to six feet tall and I’m five four in bare feet, he doesn’t own a single pair of jeans or sweatpants that don’t look like they’ll swallow me whole. He finally finds me a long-sleeved, red plaid, flannel shirt that comes just above my knees, and with the knee-high socks I’d worn under my stiletto boots, I’ll at least be warm, if not particularly stylish.
I change in the bathroom, and when I walk back into the kitchen Marcus is making grilled cheese sandwiches in a cast-iron skillet over the stove. He turns around as I walk in and his eyes darken as he takes in my makeshift outfit, but he quickly turns back around to the stove, expertly sliding the sandwiches onto plates. He ladles tomato soup into two bowls and sets them on the table.
“Sorry it’s not fancier,” he apologizes.
Ah. That awkward post-coital conversation where you talk to each other with exaggerated politeness and try to pretend you weren’t just going at it like rabbits. Only it hadn’t felt like that to me; it had felt special. But he obviously didn’t feel the same.
I tamp down my hurt feelings. Two can play this game.
“No. This is great!” I say with forced enthusiasm. I take a bite of sandwich. It actually is pretty good, or maybe I’m just hungry. “So, tell me about the case you’re here for.”
He entertains me with the details of his case, and before long I’m so involved in talking shop that I’ve forgotten I’m mad at him. His client is a well-known insurance company that insures a jeweler by the name of Bridget Bowden whose business is flying around the country with her inventory of jewelry and diamonds to call upon the nation’s wealthiest clients who like to buy exclusive and expensive jewelry for their wives and mistresses from the comfort of their billion dollar offices. Whenever Bridget travels, the policy states that she must be picked up from her home, where she operates her business, by a private security driver who transports her to the airport. She’s picked up at the destination airport by another driver who takes her to her meeting, and then back to the airport where the process is repeated in reverse.
She’s based here in Denver, as is her driver. According to Marcus, several months ago, as Bridget was preparing to fly from here to meet with a client in New Jersey, she answered her door expecting to find her driver but instead was accosted by two men who forced their way into her apartment, tied her to a chair, beat her, and stole two million dollars’ worth of jewelry.
“Wow,” I breathe. “So who’s your witness? Not Bridget, right? I’m sure you’ve already gotten her statement.”
“Actually, I came to talk to the driver.”
I raise my eyebrows quizzically. “Was he there?”
“No. A neighbor heard her screaming and came to see what was wrong. When the neighbor arrived, Bridget’s jaw was fractured, her nose was bloody, and the men who’d attacked her were gone. Her driver showed up a few minutes later and called the cops. When I talked to him yesterday, he said he’d been running a few minutes late because he’d stopped at the store to get a pack of cigarettes. The security cameras at the store and his credit card receipt verify that’s where he was.”
“So…” I prompt. It sounds fairly straightforward, but I know from personal experience that insurance claims involving millions of dollars are usually not quite as clear-cut as they seem.
“I’d bet money on it being insurance fraud, but I just can’t put the pieces together. I’ve heard rumors the driver has some mob connections, but I haven’t been able to prove it. I’d hoped talking to him would
Similar Books
