Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (12 page)

“M
r. Kolchev?” Cameron said into the telephone, lowering his voice a notch or two. “This is Detective Timothy Rea with the LAPD.”

I sat across from Cameron on his living room sofa, palms sweaty with anticipation.

“Is he buying it?” I mouthed.

Cameron nodded to me, and went on.

“I’m afraid one of our officers may have left his wallet in Stacy’s apartment. It probably fell out of his back pocket when he was dusting for fingerprints in the bedroom. Can you check and see if it’s there? It’s brown eelskin. The officer’s name is Webb. Frank Webb. If you find it, call me: 555-9565…Thanks.”

He hung up and grinned. “He bought it.”

Cameron was enjoying himself in spite of himself.

We raced to the window and peeked through a slat in the blinds, our eyes trained on Daryush’s front door. Sure enough, after a minute or two it opened and Daryush came out, popping what looked like the last of a cheese blintz into his mouth. He wiped his greasy fingers on his T-shirt, then took out his key ring and headed over toward Stacy’s apartment.

We waited until he unlocked the door and let himself in.

“Okay, let’s go!”

We slipped out into the courtyard and hurried across to Stacy’s place. Thankfully, no one was hanging around the pool.

“We’re crazy, you know that,” Cameron said. “What if we get caught?”

“Oh, come on. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“We go to jail for impersonating a police officer. Correction, I go to jail. You stay home and bake me a cake with a file in it.”

By now we were at Stacy’s front door. Just as we’d gambled, Daryush hadn’t closed it behind him. We slipped inside the apartment. We could hear Daryush mumbling to himself as he rustled around in the bedroom. Then we tiptoed to the coat closet and hid inside.

I must say it was rather heavenly, being trapped in a coat closet with Cameron. Standing there huddled next to him in the dark, feeling him so close, breathing in his citrusy aftershave….

Now do you see why I wasn’t about to give up this investigation?

Much to my dismay, Daryush didn’t linger in the bedroom. Before we knew it, he was stomping across the living room and back out into the courtyard, muttering something about a wild-goose chase. Only with Daryush’s accent, it came out “wild-koos chess.”

When we were certain we were alone, we ventured out of the closet, free to explore Stacy’s apartment. Everything had gone exactly according to my plan. (If you don’t count my heavy breathing in the closet.)

“Hey, look at this,” Cameron said. He was standing in front of an oak bookcase. “Who would’ve guessed Stacy was a reader?”

He pulled out one of the books from the shelves.

“
The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms.
”

“Oh, brother,” I sneered, “what an intellectual.” Meanwhile, I made a mental note to log on to Amazon to see if they had any copies.

Cameron walked over to a small desk in the corner of the living room, the desk I’d seen Daryush rifling through.

“Let’s see if we can find what Daryush was looking for.”

The desk had two drawers, and for the next half hour we went through their contents item by item. But all we found were a bunch of old bills and a pack of Care Free sugarless gum.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I bet there’s a hidden compartment somewhere.”

Cameron sighed. “Jaine, secret compartments are found in expensive pieces of furniture. I doubt very much we’ll find one in a desk made of particle board.”

We abandoned the desk, and headed for the bedroom, where we plowed through Stacy’s dresser drawers and closets, a search that yielded a treasure trove of crotchless panties and strawberry-flavored vaginal lubricant, but little else.

“I told you, if there was anything here, the police would have found it,” Cameron said smugly.

“Okay, okay. You’re right. Let’s go.”

We started for the door, when I stopped and headed back to the bookshelf.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sheepishly, “but I can’t resist.”

I took out
The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms.

“I’ve just got to take a look at this.”

Cameron grinned.

Like two naughty schoolkids, we opened the book and started to pore over it. And that’s when we found the photo. Stuck between Chapter Eighteen, smack dab in the middle of the chapter called “The Pros and Cons of Vibrators.”

It was a scenic shot of Stacy’s bed. Featuring Stacy in a pair of those crotchless panties. And lying there beside her, demonstrating the “pros” of vibrators, was none other than our lovable Russian handyman, Daryush Kolchev.

Cameron whistled softly. “I think we just found what Daryush has been looking for.”

I stared at the photo, stunned. And nauseous. The sight of Daryush naked is not a pretty picture.

“My God,” I said, “a person could knit a sweater with the hair on that guy’s back.”

Then suddenly we heard the sound of the key in the lock. We lunged for the hall closet, but it was too late. The door swung open.

And Daryush came storming in.

“What are you two doing here?” he growled.

It was one of those pivotal moments in life, when a person’s mettle is tested, and she finds out whether she’s got what it takes to come through in a crisis.

Unfortunately, I flunked the mettle test. My first instinct was to make a mad dash for the terrace and hurl myself into the lilac bushes.

But cooler heads prevailed.

Without missing a beat, Cameron said, “I just came to pick up a few of my things.”

And with that he pulled
The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms
out from where we had jammed it back into the bookshelf.

Daryush stared at him, slack-jawed. “That book belongs to you?”

“Yes,” Cameron said, strolling to the bedroom, as innocent as you please. “Be right back,” he added with a wink.

Daryush stared at me with glazed eyes. I was expecting him to chew me out for lying to him about being a reporter with
The New York Times
. But that whole episode was forgotten as Daryush stood there, breathing heavily through his mouth, trying to process this latest piece of information. I could practically see the wheels turning in what passed for his brain.

Undoubtedly he was asking himself if Cameron had been having an affair with Stacy. And that question was answered in the affirmative when Cameron came strolling out from the bedroom with the jar of strawberry-flavored vaginal lubricant.

“Well,” Cameron said. “I guess that’s about it.” He took out a key from his pocket and offered it to Daryush. “Would you like my key? I won’t be needing it anymore.”

Daryush nodded dully, and Cameron tossed him the key.

“I guess we’ll be going now.” He smiled cordially.

And with that, he took me by the elbow and led me to the front door.

Daryush wasn’t the only one who was dazed. Cameron had utterly floored me with his quick thinking and sangfroid. I was crazier about him than ever.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for sangfroid.

“We got away with it!” I whispered, as we hustled across the courtyard back to Cameron’s place. “Thanks to you. You were terrific.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” Cameron preened. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. This detective stuff is fun.”

At which point, Daryush stepped out from Stacy’s apartment. Cameron, the model tenant, waved to him.

“Bye, now!”

Daryush gave a feeble wave and waddled back to his apartment, a shaken man. He let himself in and disappeared inside, no doubt heading for the kitchen to sedate himself with another blintz or two.

“That key you gave Daryush,” I said. “It wasn’t really Stacy’s, was it?”

“Of course not.”

He reached down under a potted azalea at his front door and unearthed a muddy key. “Luckily, I keep a spare.”

He wiped off the key with his shirttail and let us in.

“What happens if Daryush tries the key in Stacy’s lock, and it doesn’t work?” I asked.

“I go to jail, and you bake me that cake with the file in it. Hey, how about I make us some lunch? This life of crime is making me hungry.”

“No, seriously,” I said, following him as he headed into the kitchen. “What happens if Daryush tries the key?”

“Seriously,” he said, taking a can of tuna down from the shelf. “I go to jail. Is tuna okay?”

I must’ve looked worried because he ruffled my hair and laughed.

“Come on. Daryush won’t test the key; that’s the last thing on his mind right now. He’s too worried about a missing X-rated photo.”

I took out the picture of Daryush and Stacy from
The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms
.

“What self-respecting Fotomat would develop stuff like that?” Cameron asked as he tossed the tuna into a mixing bowl and spooned in gobs of mayonnaise.

“I still can’t get over it,” I said. “Stacy and Daryush. Talk about beauty and the beast.”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s an incredibly studly lover.”

“Oh, please. Going to bed with Daryush would be like boffing a hairball.”

“Maybe she did it so he’d give her Marian’s apartment.”

“That’s a mighty high price to pay for a terrace,” I said, counting the folds in Daryush’s belly.

“Do you think it’s possible she was blackmailing him?” Cameron mused. “Maybe she threatened to tell Yetta about their affair.”

“That’s hard to believe. Daryush doesn’t look like he’s exactly rolling in dough.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Cameron said, spreading the creamy tuna mixture onto slabs of wheat bread. “Rumor has it that he’s not just the manager here. Marian once told me that she thought he owned the building.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Marian’s theory was that he and Yetta never told anyone, because it was the perfect excuse not to make repairs. They could always tell tenants that The Landlord said no.”

“Then the whole blackmail thing makes sense. If Daryush really does own the building, he’s got some major bucks.”

Cameron took a tomato out from the fridge and started to slice it.

“Mind if I use your phone?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, artfully arranging the tomato slices onto the tuna. “Who’re you calling?”

“The L.A. County Assessor’s Office. I want to find out who owns Bentley Gardens.”

Having had at least a gazillion clients (okay, three) who lived next to commercial property, I was an ace at writing angry letters complaining about noisy parking lots, loud music, and wheezing air conditioners. I was also an expert at ferreting out elusive property owners. It’s easy, really. You just call up the county assessor and give the address, and they tell you who owns the building. It’s all a matter of public record, and as a stalwart member of the public, you have a right to know.

So I called the assessor’s office and after only about seven centuries on hold, a cheery woman came on the line. I gave her the address of Bentley Gardens, and she told me the name of the owner.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, Cameron had assembled two gloriously thick tuna sandwiches, bursting with tomato and mayonnaise, sliced pickles on the side.

“Well?” Cameron asked. “Is it Daryush?”

“No,” I said. “Daryush doesn’t own Bentley Gardens.”

“Oh.”

“His wife does.”

“What?” Cameron looked up in surprise from the tuna.

“The owner is Yetta Vlasik Kolchev.”

“Very interesting.”

“Yep,” I said, “Yetta’s the one with the bucks in that marriage.”

“Which makes Daryush a perfect blackmail victim. ‘Cough over some dough,’ says the lovely Stacy, ‘or I tell your rich wife about our adventures with Mr. Vibrator.’”

Cameron set the two sandwiches down on the table.

“Voila!” he said, with a flourish. “How do they look?”

“Scrumptious. But what’re you having?”

“Harty-har. You’re a regular little comedian, aren’t you?”

(Oh, joy! He called me “little”!)

We dug into our sandwiches with gusto, mayonnaise dribbling down our chins.

“I guess Vlasik must be Yetta’s maiden name,” I said eventually, coming up for air.

“Maybe she comes from a wealthy family,” Cameron suggested.

“Wait a minute. Isn’t there a Vlasik auto dealership out in the valley?”

Cameron nodded. “Vlasik BMW.”

I was so excited, I almost choked on my pickle slice.

“That means Daryush had access to a BMW! He could be our freeway stalker.”

“But how do we know it’s the same Vlasik?”

“Easy.”

Cameron followed me as I went to the phone and called information. Two minutes later, I was talking to a bored receptionist at Vlasik BMW.

“Welcome to Vlasik Motors,” she intoned, “where customers come first.”

“Mr. Vlasik, please,” I said, in what I hoped was a passable British accent.

“May I tell him who’s calling?” the receptionist asked warily.

“Yes,” I said, revving up the accent a notch or two. “Tell him it’s Ms. Harrington from Cartier in Beverly Hills.”

Cameron rolled his eyes at my theatrics, but it worked. The receptionist put the connection through so quickly, I barely had time to hear the canned spiel about the award-winning service specialists at Vlasik Motors.

Mr. Vlasik came on the line. His thick Russian accent, unlike my British one, was undeniably authentic.

“Ivan Vlasik speaking.” (Of course, the way he said it, it came out, “Ivan Vlasik spikking.”)

“Mr. Vlasik, I’m calling about the diamond ring you ordered for your daughter Yetta.”

“I didn’t order a ring for Yetta.”

“But I’ve got the paperwork right here in front of me. I’m just checking on the inscription. ‘To Yetta with love from Papa.’”

“You’re talking crazy. I never buy retail.”

“You do have a daughter named Yetta?”

“Yes. But I didn’t buy any ring, and I better not be billed for one.”

“Of course not, sir. I’ll cancel the order posthaste.”

I hung up and grinned triumphantly.

“Yetta’s his daughter, all right!”

Cameron shook his head, incredulous.

“
Posthaste?
Where do you think you are? In a P.G. Wodehouse novel?”