“
Mmmm
… ” Maddie shook her head and dabbed some chimichurri sauce from her lip. “I don’t think she’d jeopardize her career by risking exposure now. Unless she’s stupid, she’s already done the damage she set out to do.”
“She could always do more.” I glanced out the front window again
. No Yankees.
“By the way,” Maddie said, “what did you do with the button you found—the one with Titania’s picture on it kissing the guy? Oops— I hope that wasn’t a secret. Lauren told me.”
I wondered if Lauren had also told her about the private investigator. I decided to play that close to the chest for now.
“No secret. And the answer is nothing yet. Outwardly, Titania doesn’t seem to know the button’s missing, and Jamie’s been quiet on the subject of Picturegate since a couple days after she brought it up. I’m hoping she’s forgotten.”
“Not if what you’ve been telling us about her for the past three years is any indication. She doesn’t sound like a woman who forgets much.”
“True. I was thinking I might leave the button where Jamie could find it, but in a place that won’t look like it was planted. The trouble is if
Jamie
finds it, it has to be where Titania left it. Otherwise, Titania will know somebody else was snooping in her desk, took the button, and planted it for Jamie to find. And if that happens, she’s going to know right away that that snooper was me.”
Despite my enervating situation, the asparagus soup was delicious. I began to slurp some more.
“Mmmmm,” said Maddie pensively. “You have a point—maybe you
should
wait until Jamie brings it up again. When she does—‘desperate situations call for desperate measures,’ and all that.”
“Desperate measures,” I repeated, musing about what those might be.
“What’s the third reason?”
I sat back in the chair. “Steven.”
Maddie stopped chewing. “Why would Steven have you followed? You said it was all over with him. Oh, Quinny, please don’t say you’ve fallen off the wagon.”
“No, no, I haven’t. Not really. I’ve refused to see him, and that’s why it could be him. I haven’t returned any of his calls since—gosh, I have to think about this— the day
after
the day after I got back from Japan.”
“What happened the day
after
you got back?” She gave me a hard appraising stare. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“I’m weak.”
She rolled her eyes.
“But since then, I’ve been extremely good.”
“He
did
seem obsessed with you,” Maddie agreed. “Maybe you should call him and ask if he’s having you followed. The direct approach is usually best.”
“I would, but whenever I’m on the phone with him, he always talks me back into seeing him. I just...if I could get myself interested in someone else, it would be a lot better.”
“Quinn, listen; that’s the past. You’re changing your life now. You’re
meeting other men, having a good time—mostly. Forget about the Venezuelan. All you need to do is ask Steven if he’s having you followed.”
I pushed my soup bowl away, determining she was right. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“Why do you need my phone?”
“Steven won’t recognize your number.”
“My number’s blocked.”
“Even better. Hand it over.”
Maddie frowned but fished her iPhone out of her bag. I dialed Steven’s number and put the phone to my ear. It rang once, twice, three times—then there was a click, followed by his recorded message.
What a nice voice he had.
“Didn’t pick up.” I hit “end” and handed the phone back to her. “I’ll try later.”
“Don’t forget. Confronting him directly might put an end to the whole thing.”
“
If
he tells the truth. But he’s been carrying on an affair with me for two years, so we already know he’s a gifted liar.”
Maddie, mid-chew, let out a
mmmm
in agreement.
An idea struck. “I know...”
“Uh-oh, I’m not sure I’m going to like this.” She put her fork down and picked up a third roll, which seemed very out of character.
“Are you extra hungry or something? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat this much.”
“I know, it’s terrible. Peri-menopause. I need to get it under control, too; I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe.”
“So give me the roll.”
Maddie stared at me blankly.
“I’m peri-menopausal, too, but it doesn’t make me hungry, just sharp-tongued. Give it to me, Madelyn,” I repeated firmly.
A couple of seconds went by before she dropped the roll into my outstretched hand, and I put the whole breadbasket out of her reach.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. So here’s my idea: what if I follow Titania one day when she leaves work? If I catch her with a guy and get a really good bunch of pictures to show Jamie… ”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Maddie. “If you’re close enough to get the picture, she’d see you. No, if you were going to follow her, the only way to do it is to pay someone
else
to do it; like someone did with
Yankees
. But that gets expensive.”
I glanced out Babalu’s front window again, searching for the man I suspected was following me. “Maybe I should just ask
Yankees
how much he charges.”
“I wouldn’t give it away that you know you’re being followed. Not yet anyway. You might still need to play that card, er...button.”
“Good point. Okay, skip that idea. You’re so smart, Maddie.”
“Glad I could help. The truth is, other peoples’ problems are always so much more manageable than my own. Speaking of which, what do you think about Lila wanting to get her pubes waxed?”
When I started pole dancing, most of the Muffs raised their eyebrows. For one thing, they’d never known me to exercise. For another, they thought pole dancing was only for women who worked in strip clubs or wanted to perform lap dances for their boyfriends. Though this was untrue, no amount of wind expended on my part had been able to change their minds.
After meeting K-Love at a client’s book signing and attending an introductory session at S-Factor in Encino, I’d been coming to class for about ten months—granted, sporadically—and I was convinced that even if it
was
a guy who motivated a girl to try pole dancing, class is too physically challenging for it to be only about pleasing men. Most of the women who dance—some of whom are gay—are doing it for exercise and to get in touch with themselves.
That was my reason, anyway. Sometimes, working for “The Man,” can leave a person feeling disconnected from everything that matters. Being in a class led by K-Love helps me reconnect.
And so it was, after another busy day at work, one day closer to D-day on Picturegate and still no sign of the private investigator who was supposed to help, I left early for the drive to S-Factor for some reconnecting. From the first moment Nicki Minaj let loose of her voice, I let go of my angst. I even felt the lines on my face smooth away; my only thoughts were of breathing and releasing.
And, per usual, it worked. When class ended with deep stretches to John Legend singing “Save Room,” I felt wonderful, as I always do, and resolved, as I always do, to get there more often. Why is it we humans don’t always do what we need to do to stay healthy?
As I left the dance studio, pushing open the glass door and stepping into the evening, I had a new outlook and faced a new beginning. It may be cornball talk but, with every passing moment, you really do have a chance to turn it all around. Everything was going to work itself out; I was sure of it, and I was
not
going to worry about the future. After all, what did worry get me except stress? And stress kills, right? If I lose my job—I’ll get a new job. And looking for guys—?
Puh.
I’ll eventually meet someone to spend the rest of my life with, and hey, it might even be a dog, and that might be perfect. Might? No, it
would
be perfect, if that’s what happened.
As all these thoughts ran through my head, I noticed a man sitting on a low wall in front of Katsu-ya, the Japanese restaurant adjacent to S-Factor. His face was pointed down, his eyes focused on his phone, but big relief—he wasn’t
Yankees
. Just thinking about the man in the baseball cap made me tense, threatened to undo all the good I’d just worked so hard to achieve. I exhaled the thought away.
Yes, yes, yes...
So engrossed was the guy in his phone, he didn’t even look up as I approached, not that he should have, but I guess the vain part of me wanted somebody to notice how radiant I felt. Once again I had to kick myself because I’d just spent an hour and a half re-learning that
I
was the only one who had to notice how radiant I felt.
Sheesh, it was
hard getting these lessons to stick
.
Why should I care if he notices? He wasn’t even my type; I’d passed up a few of his ilk on
NowLove
, superficial though that was of me. Khakis and a white oxford cloth shirt, brown loafers, and matching belt—he looked like a corporate type on casual Friday. Only his body seemed bigger and blockier—like he worked out too much to have a corporate job. His hair, what there was of it, was cut very short, so I figured he might be ex-military, though those loafers looked too expensive for the pay grade.
As I walked past him, heading for the parking lot, he glanced up suddenly. “Quinn Cunningham?”
I stopped, turned, and found myself looking down into a pair of startling blue eyes that penetrated me at a glance and put me in mind of an airport scanner; not a person, but the actual machine that reveals all.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Ma’am,” he said in a voice void of emotion but not the least bit threatening. “My name’s Frank Sexton. I’m with Source Security.”
He knew better than to assume I’d take his word for it. “Please have a look.”
His eyes flashed to his phone. He moved a couple of fingers over the screen and stood, extending the phone toward me.
Clasping the phone, I scrolled down over the thread—an email from Lauren, followed by one from George to Source Security’s CEO, then on to the head of the HR department, and finally, the assignment of “Frank Sexton.” My name appeared throughout.
“I was wondering when you’d show up. It would have been nice had someone let me know,” I said, handing the phone back.
“I believe you were informed,” Frank said calmly, though his eyes remained disturbingly active as he surveyed the courtyard and surrounding environment. He closed the phone and clipped it to his belt.
Don’t take his word for it, Quinn
. Powering up my iPhone, I discovered that Lauren had sent me a text during class spelling everything out while, at the same time, intelligently adhering to the practicalities of potential phone hacking—not that anyone would care enough about my little problem to hack my phone. Suffice it to say that leaving aside the cryptic nature of the text, she’d given me enough information to make me feel confident that Frank Sexton—though probably not his real name—was not a serial killer.
“Nothing like waiting ’til the last minute.”
“It’s safer that way.” Frank stood and gestured to Katsu-ya’s entrance. “I thought we might go inside and have a brief discussion about your situation.”
I hesitated. A voice came from behind me. “Everything okay?”
I turned to see K-Love standing just outside the door to S-Factor. Everything
was
okay; the new leaf I’d turned over in class was still facing up.
“Everything’s good, K,” I said. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Frank Sexton and I were seated at Katsu-ya’s sushi bar—Frank with water in front of him, me with a hot Saki. He hadn’t cracked a smile, but all still felt pretty good in my post-pole world, even after getting Frank up to speed on
Yankees
and Picturegate.
“Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself,” Frank said calmly. “But do you see the man who’s been following you?”
Hmm
, the only way I’d be able to answer that question is if I turned around and looked around the restaurant, which would surely draw attention to myself
.
Suddenly having a private investigator seemed like an overreaction. “Not at the moment,” I said. “Mr. Sexton, I feel a little silly… ”
“Call me Frank. Can you tell me why you feel silly?”
“I guess it’s because this whole thing could be a big misunderstanding.”
“Could you explain what you mean by ‘this whole thing?’ ”
Frank was cordial and professional, though lacking in a certain charm one might want in a private investigator—especially in light of all the interesting, sexy, and brave private investigators in movies and T.V. whom I grew up watching. Magnum P.I. he was not. And yet, he had a lot going on in those eyes. He appeared ageless and might have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five.
“What I mean is that I might have leapt to the conclusion that a man I’ve seen several times in a few different places is actually following me. It could just be coincidence.”
“So you do
not
believe someone is following you?” He glanced past me, his eyes observing, taking in the details of his environment. It was probably a habit he had, a handy vestige of his days in the military.
These corporate espionage guys don’t fool around.
I took a breath. “No, I don’t
not
believe someone is following me.”
Those piercing blue eyes narrowed. “That sentence contained three negatives. Are you aware of that, Ms. Cunningham? It makes the determination of what it is you do mean to say very difficult.”
Skip the cordial, professional description; the guy was anal
. “I’m sorry,” I said. “What I meant was, I have reason to believe someone’s following me, but I don’t know for sure.”
Frank was appropriately named, even if it was a put-on, and his frankness was disconcerting—his questions those of an automaton programmed ahead of time. I didn’t know any Marine Drill Sergeants personally, but I had the notion that when one of them retired to the public sector, he’d be a lot like Frank Sexton—by the book, upright, and more than a little uptight.
He pulled out a little notebook, which fit perfectly into his shirt pocket, and I watched as he jotted something down. “In preparation for our meeting this evening, I have been going through data I had access to regarding your online presence and digital footprint... ”