But I was all over finding out what the fuck was going on. I’d had an informant tell me she worked that bar, although I didn’t know what “worked that bar” meant and only got the response, “you’ll see,” so I was there.
Informants sometimes sucked. A lot of time they were full of shit, and a lot of other times they got paid even better than me. Fortunately, this wasn’t my problem. My “clients” coughed that up.
But the case I was on was confounding me.
Usually, I loved a bit of confounding. Finding a piece, fitting it into the puzzle, making the picture become clearer.
But with this chick, things never came clear. They just got fuzzier. And it was annoying.
I didn’t get it.
But I would.
See, a friend of a friend of mine came to me, needing my services. He’d talked to his girl and his girl told him everything was a-okay.
But, according to him, she was totally lying.
Since her family didn’t have any money, he was saving up for the wedding of his girl’s dreams, seeing as he was gone for her. So he couldn’t go to someone like Lee because Lee was seriously pricey. But he was worried and he needed answers.
So my friend told him about me.
It was another boy/girl problem (most of them were; more indication you shouldn’t get mired down in romance). This time the girl had the boy’s diamond on her finger. She seemed into him; completely in love, over the moon at the prospect of being married, but dragging her heels in doing something about it.
Her behavior had also reportedly changed. She’d disappear, sometimes for long periods of time. Not weeks, but days and nights. She would also not return texts or pick up calls, and have weak excuses about where she was and why she was incommunicado.
They didn’t live together; not yet. This was because she was religious and wanted to wait until after marriage (fishy, because who did that anymore?—especially when she was letting him bang her; God could see all, so it wasn’t like she was pulling one over on the Big Guy).
But the dude had the keys to her place. He’d gone in when she wasn’t there and rifled through her shit, even bills and bank statements. Nothing was amiss. There were no drugs. No empty bottles of booze piled up in the recycling bin. No stockpiles of firearms and explosives or blueprints of banks.
Nothing that he could see.
Enter me.
I didn’t do this for a living. I didn’t do it for much of any payment. I spent my days in Fortnum’s, my nights at Brother’s, and not too long ago, got caught up in the next Rock Chick drama. This was my friend Stella’s big thing with another of Lee’s guys, Mace (seriously? How were we all connected, most of us for years, and this shit was happening now?).
That one got serious ugly with all the Rock Chicks again on the line; drive-bys, couch mutilations, and Stella’s apartment had exploded.
Yes.
Exploded.
Kaplowy.
Dust.
But now, as luck kept having it (thank God), all was good (outside of all Stella’s belongings being blown sky high and her being underinsured; but luckily, she’d just signed a recording contract and landed her hot guy, so her future was bright) and as usual, we were moving on while waiting for the next one up.
My guess, it would be Lee’s last unattached guy, Hector. But there were bets (yep, the posse bet on this shit) on me.
Not a chance.
I’d lived through six of these and had intimate details. No way that shit was happening with me. Some over-the-top macho guy forcing his way into my life, taking it over and bossing me around?
Unh-unh.
I didn’t care if it came with regular orgasms. That shit was not for me.
But, the thing was; with Stella’s situation, someone had leaked a lot of personal shit to the media about Lee, Indy and the entire crew. The paper had done exposés on all of their romances at the same time they followed Stella and Mace’s gig.
No one knew who leaked it, not even Lee, who had ways of finding out everything.
I’d also used my growing network of contacts to find out who the source was, but no one was talking.
It was weird. It wasn’t like it was a state secret. But all lips involved were sealed, as in with super glue.
So I worked, spent time on finding out who was talking about the Rock Chicks and did my other business. Not to mention, I often hooked up with Ren so I woke up in his bed, or alternately he woke up in mine, with more than a hint of frequency (in other words, nearly every morning).
Therefore, I didn’t have time to spend all of it following this woman. That meant it was about putting out feelers. With limited time, I needed to pinpoint my activities. And information sometimes came in slowly, especially about a girl who was not on the underworld grid of Denver. She worked in admitting at St. Joe’s, went to church on Sundays, had a Shih Tzu dog she doted on, a pastime of gardening (seriously, her backyard was the bomb—I’d jumped the fence and looked) and loved her fiancé.
Because I didn’t have the time, and this case was so weird, I’d called in reinforcements.
With the promise of a six-pack of Red Bull, a bottle of vodka and an entire afternoon of me at his place playing some game on his PS3 (this, a sacrifice for me; I rocked Guitar Hero, the rest of it I could take it or leave it—usually leave it), I’d talked my computer genius friend Brody into digging into this chick. I wanted to see if there was some electronic trail the fiancé couldn’t find rifling through her desk.
I also needed to learn how to pick a lock. I wanted inside her place to see for myself. I’d bought a couple of locks at the hardware store to examine them and try to figure them out, but I hadn’t had time to do that.
Alternately, I hoped the chick showed tonight and gave me some insight into why a good Catholic girl who loved her dog, geraniums and worked at a children’s hospital would be coming to this bar and giving lame excuses to her supposedly beloved fiancé about why she wouldn’t pick a date for the blessed event.
This was on my mind when I felt movement beside me.
