Eeny Meany Miny Die (Cat Sinclair Mysteries) (4 page)

With the time difference between Illinois and California, I was able to make a few phone calls to Frank's home state before closing. What I learned in such a short time blew me away.
Anyone
could do this.

I found out Frank had been married before, had no children, no criminal history, and he was the contact for DataSync. Bingo! Excitement tingled down my spine. This was my first hit and the rush was incredible.

Next I called the DataSync office, but the number was directed to a messaging service. The woman on the other end offered to give my message to the president of DataSync.

"Is that Frank Karvea?"

"Yes."

I thanked her and hung up.

I now had a direct connection between Karvea and DataSync, but I needed more. It was unethical to advise one of his clients to invest in his own company, but not illegal. Nor was it illegal for a company to use a messaging service to answer its calls, although it didn't seem appropriate for a medium-sized firm. Messaging services were generally used for one or two person businesses that didn't want to hire a full-time secretary.

Not a bad start, Cat Girl
. But what I really needed was someone to check out the DataSync offices and find out first hand how large they really were. I had a few contacts in L.A., so I started dialing.

The first two couldn't help out because they were too busy on set. The third was on location in Mexico, but she did mention that Frank Karvea had been in trouble before when I just happened to drop his name.

"My boyfriend was a client of his a few years ago," Athena said. "He's an actor too, been in a few big budget movies. This was before Karvea set up Play Group. Anyway, Mitch got suspicious that he wasn't getting paid enough for a few roles he'd taken, and when he confronted his manager, Karvea shot him down for not trusting him. Mitch dumped him and he's since heard it happen to someone else too."

"Did Mitch file charges?"

"Are you kidding me? His name would be a curse in this town if he dared question Karvea's integrity. No, he just got another manager and moved on."

I thanked her and hung up. I definitely needed someone in L.A. to check out DataSync. Frank was looking shadier than ever. Instead of tracking down my reliable old buddies who all would have been too busy with jobs or auditions, I contacted an unreliable one. Someone I knew would have a lot of time on his hands.

One of my exes, Evan, had started out as an actor but ended up as a professional surfer and groupie. In his spare time—which I'd bet a pair of Birkenstocks he had in abundance—he hung around celebrity haunts hoping to get free drinks and the girls discarded by the stars.

I called him up and a woman answered. I asked for Evan.

"Who's this?" she snapped.

"Cat Sinclair. I'm a friend of his."

"I've heard of you." She made it sound like I'd passed on a deadly disease.

"Can I speak to Evan, please?"

There was a rustle at the other end and muffled kissing sounds before Evan's lazy voice came on line. "Hey, Catwoman, how's shit?"

"Good, Evan, real good. How's the surf?"

"Wet and warm, just the way I like it, Gorgeous." He chuckled until a female voice shouted, "Evan!" in the background.

God only knows what I'd seen in him to date him for two months. I guess I was young and bored and he was fun and carefree, which was exactly what I wanted at that time of my life. Evan was a sexy thirty-year-old with an athletic frame and a broad chest you just wanted to nibble. He was delicious, happy go lucky, and women loved him. When he was with someone, he gave her one hundred percent of himself. He said all the right things and showered her with gifts—flowers, jewelry, perfume. It would have meant so much more if he hadn't stolen them.

Our relationship hadn't lasted, but our friendship did. When we parted, there were no bad feelings, although he had seemed baffled as to why the "Ev-ster" was getting dumped. He'd tried to get me into bed several times afterward, but I only succumbed once and that was because I'd had several Tequila Slammers over my limit.

"I need your help, Evan," I said, trying to sound grown-up so he'd take my request seriously.

"Anything for you, Catwoman," he purred into the phone.

"I'm a private investigator now and—"

"No shit! Cool."

"Yeah. And I need someone in L.A. to check out a couple of things for me. It won't take long."

"I could be your man. What's in it for me?"

"Is my undying gratitude enough?"

"Only if you're coming to L.A. Phone sex doesn't do it for me, Gorgeous." He sounded absolutely serious.

I laughed to relieve the tension. Maybe asking an ex for help wasn't a great idea. "Cold, hard cash then."

"Sign me up. What do I have to do?"

I gave him the address for DataSync and asked him to check it out. "Find out what the company does, who's in charge, that sort of thing."

"You want me to turn up the bullshit meter? I can do that."

"That's why I called you, Evan. You're a natural."

I gave him the details and he promised to let me know what he found after visiting their downtown office the next day.

Will poked his head round my door, a grin from ear to ear.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You. You're working. I find it strangely sexy."

I threw a pencil at him. "Only you would find work a turn-on."

He came inside and spun my chair around to face him. He bent to kiss me on the neck and I tipped my head back and arched forward. "Maybe you should get glasses," he muttered in my ear. "And wear short skirts. Oh yeah, now
that
would be sexy."

I punched him lightly on the arm. "Let's go. I'm starving."

On the ride home, I filled him in on my background check.

"So Mr. Karvea has been a naughty boy," Will said. "Sounds promising for Jenny. If she can show the police that it happened to others, she'll have a better case."

My apartment building squatted in the heart of the mixed-class suburb of Flemming, a ten-minute drive northwest of Downtown Renford. It consisted of a single bedroom, small kitchen, and a bathroom so tiny my knees hit the under-sink cabinet when I sat on the toilet. There was nothing remotely interesting about it, except that it attracted a lot of attention from the neighbors when it was set on fire. I'd tried different decorating styles in the seven months I'd lived there, finally settling on minimalist because I ran out of money. After my decorating dilemma, I discovered that less furniture meant less clutter, which gave the appearance of cleanliness if not the actuality of it.

It was one of eight in a cream brick building housing an eclectic mix of tenants. I liked them and I liked the area, and I definitely liked the cheap rent, but I was getting tired of living like a sardine. Listening to the mad Russian who lived above me wasn't much fun either. He had a habit of shouting into his phone in the mother tongue so I couldn't even eavesdrop on his conversations. Not to mention the way he clomped across his uncarpeted floor. I lived the expression "waiting for the other shoe to drop" most nights as he undressed to go to bed.

One day I hoped to have enough money to buy a bigger place of my own, maybe even something with a back yard. That's if I could save enough for a deposit. My spending habits hadn't been informed of my savings goal and my bank balance hovered around zero way too often.

Will cooked pasta with a basil pesto sauce and we sat at the small dining table in the lounge with
The Voice
providing background noise to our mealtime chatter. I told him more about Jenny, but he took that as an opportunity to question me about my Hollywood days. Even Will liked to gossip.

"I'll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours," I said, leaning over my plate.

After a slight hesitation, he said, "I don't have any secrets."

"No? So how do you know Faith?"

He toyed with his pasta. "Cat, you're unbelievable. I told you—"

"Okay, I'll drop it. But trust works both ways, Will."

"What's trust got to do with anything? It's Faith's story to tell, not mine, and I wish you'd respect that."

"I do. Any stories I have involving celebrities are also their stories, so no more Hollywood gossip from me."

He grumbled out a half-hearted complaint as he picked up his wine glass and drained it.

I smiled to myself as I finished my pasta. Will picked the wrong woman to hide something from.

CHAPTER 3

The four people stepping through their routine on stage looked like something from a couture designer's weirdest fantasies. The two men and two women wore shiny silver bodysuits, silver boots, and silver gloves. Purple antennae bobbed like drunken flies above their heads. I think they were supposed to be aliens, although they could easily have passed for crackheads. The flailing arms and "woo woo" sounds didn't make the distinction any more obvious.

Jenny, the alien on the far right, waved at me as I entered the concert hall, earning a scowl from the choreographer taking them through their steps. A man and woman sitting in the front row turned round to glare at me, then turned back and watched the rest of the rehearsal. It finished ten minutes later with the aliens performing a boppy song-and-dance number.

"That's a wrap for today," called the woman down the front. She was about thirty with wild reddish-brown hair that looked like it would be a nightmare on humid days. "Good work, guys. Corey, keep that smile going the
whole
time. And Jenny,
don't
get distracted by the audience." Everyone looked at me and I slunk lower into my seat. "Taylor and Angel, you were fabulous. Keep it up." She placed her clipboard under her arm and clapped. The others joined in, so I thought I should too.

That earned me another scowl from the man in the front row. He was mid-forties, dressed in business attire with graying hair neatly cut and blow waved. When he stood, I saw that he wasn't tall, only about five-eight or so, but he was handsome in a Wall Street kind of way. He turned to the stage and held up his hands like he was about to catch a ball. The petite blonde alien—Angel, presumably—leaned down. He caught her round the waist and lowered her gently to the floor, much like a father would his child.

Standing beside him, she looked like a child too. About my height—five foot three on a big hair day—she had the whole pixie thing going for her with short hair flicked out at the ends, big blue eyes, delicate rosy lips, and high, sharp cheekbones with a fairy dusting of freckles across her ski-jump nose. She smiled like she barely registered the man's presence, then moved away. He let her go, but didn't look happy about the snub.

"Cat, you came!" Jenny trotted over to me, her antennae dancing. She bent to hug me and I nearly choked on her overpowering perfume.

"I wanted to see what all the fuss was about," I said. "Nice costume."

She did a ballerina twirl. "It's awful, isn't it? Possibly the worst yet, but the kids love shiny things." She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the aisle toward the stage. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the others. You'll love them."

Apparently "the others" didn't include the choreographer, the crazy-haired lady, or the suited man who I was pretty sure was Frank Karvea. In an earnest discussion about the lighting, the three of them didn't notice us rush past.

"I really should be talking to Frank," I whispered to Jenny.

"Talk to him later. He's in a bad mood now. He and Angel are fighting again."

The old, majestic concert hall seemed all wrong to host four shiny aliens and thousands of screaming tots. With its dress circle boxes, rich, burgundy color scheme, and decorative rosettes, an operatic production with an audience of European royalty seemed more appropriate.

Behind the stage, we descended steps to a narrow, dim corridor. A series of closed doors lined both sides, each numbered sequentially. Jenny opened the first one without knocking.

Angel sat at the long dressing table in a white robe, swiping at one eye with a cleansing pad. She half turned when we entered and smiled at me. "Oh, hello. You were watching us, weren't you?"

"You guys were great," I said. "Really energetic."

Jenny introduced us then sat on the stool beside Angel and started her own post-rehearsal ritual of makeup removal.

"Are you an actress? Dancer?" Angel asked me.

I shook my head. "I'm a private—"

"Secretary," Jenny interrupted. "Private secretary."

"What does a private secretary do?" Angel asked.

"Oh, you know," I said with a wave of my hand, "anything my boss wants me to do."

Jenny laughed. "Lucky him. From what I heard, Cat's a tiger in—"

"Jenny!" Christ, she had a big mouth. Although I was kind of curious as to where she'd sourced her information. Evan? Simon, my most recent ex? Both liked to talk about sex. Thank God they lived far, far away from Will.

"Will you be coming to our performance later this week?" Angel asked me.

"Hopefully," Jenny said before I could answer. "I was wondering, is it okay if Cat hangs around with us while we're here in Renford? It's been ages since we've seen each other and I miss her
so
much."

She was good. I hoped my lies sounded half as convincing. Or maybe she was telling the truth and she really did miss me. Now I felt guilty. I should have called more.

"Of course," Angel said with a sweet smile. She reached out and lightly squeezed my hand. "Any friend of yours is a friend of Play Group's."

It seemed strange that Jenny would ask Angel's permission if I could hang around and no one else's. Maybe Angel was the unofficial leader, being married to the executive producer and co-creator of Play Group.

I was curious about the woman who'd married a man twenty years her senior. The seven-year gap between Will and I seemed insignificant by comparison. With so many sexy men her own age in L.A., including two in her group, why choose a graying forty-something with all the baggage of a previous marriage? From what Jenny had told me, Angel was twenty when she married Frank four years ago. That's a lifetime by Hollywood standards. Marriage in Tinseltown is treated like just another fad where everyone
has
to have one, like miniature puppies or iPads. Fads usually didn't last long. Angel and Frank must be doing something right to be the exception.