Player & the Game (4 page)

Stephanie's sisters gathered around her on the sidewalk.

“Did that really just happen?” Dawn asked, still gaping.

“Yes, it did,” Lauren answered quietly. “Isaac's car was repossessed.”

“Oh, hell, no!” Cynthia shouted. “Enough of this bullshit! Get Isaac on the phone, Steph! If you don't track him down and beat the hell out of him, I sure as hell will!”

Stephanie shook her head. “I'm not calling him. I'm going to his house . . . and he better explain what the hell is going on!”

L
auren and Dawn winced at the sound of screeching tires as they watched Stephanie and Cynthia hurtle down Main Street in Cynthia's black SUV. A postal courier with boxes in his arms who had been idly ambling through the crosswalk suddenly jumped onto the curb to escape being sideswiped by the speeding vehicle. He turned around and yelled a few choice four-letter words at Cynthia. She beeped her horn in reply before disappearing around a corner, sending a few more pedestrians running for their lives. It looked like the sister duo was headed toward Isaac's home.

Isaac might stand a chance of survival with Stephanie alone, but if Cynthia got her hands on him, he certainly was a dead man.

Dawn couldn't believe Stephanie had let this happen.
Hoodwinked by a conman?
How could she possibly have been so naïve . . . so trusting . . . so
stupid?

“Well, this is a complete and utter travesty,” Dawn said as she stood beside Lauren with her hand on her hip. “A.k.a. hot mess.”

“Tell me about it,” Lauren muttered.

Dawn turned to her sister. “I wonder what they're going to do. Hopefully nothing that lands them in jail.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, who am I kidding? They know we'll bail them out.”

“I've got my checkbook ready when the time comes.” Lauren held up her purse to demonstrate.

Now that the show was over, both women turned around and walked toward their cars. Dawn took out her keys, pushed the loose strands of hair out of her eyes, and clicked the button on her remote to open the door to her cobalt blue Mercedes-Benz convertible.

“Well, I have to get back to the gallery. Gotta zip up the beltway to get into the city and who knows what the traffic will be like. A nightmare, I would imagine,” she mumbled then fluttered her fingers in good-bye at Lauren as she climbed inside. “I'll catch you later. You take care of that little bun you've got in that oven, girl. And let me know if you hear any updates from Steph or Cindy, OK?”

“I will. Don't worry,” Lauren said, smiling as she walked toward her car. “Keep your phone nearby.”

Dawn nodded, put on her purple-tinted aviator sunglasses, and closed her car door behind her. She pulled off.

After enduring forty-five minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, Dawn finally arrived a little after two o'clock at Templeton Gallery. It was nestled on a street block in the newly gentrified part of the U Street Corridor in DC, bordered to the right and left by coffee shops, boutiques, and an upscale French restaurant. Dawn tiredly tugged off her sunglasses as she stepped through the revolving doors into the ceramic-tiled lobby then onto the hardwood floors of the gallery itself. A few men were on a ladder, carefully hanging one of the gallery's new artworks—a twenty-four-by-thirty-inch abstract painting—on one of the exposed brick walls. Dawn's assistant stood off to the side, watching carefully as they worked.

Dawn always liked to say that her assistant, Kevin, dressed the way she would if she were a gay man. Today he was dressed smartly in a leather vest, slim dove-gray slacks, and suede ankle boots. Horn-rimmed glasses were perched on his blond head. He lowered those glasses to his nose as he assessed the painting now dangling precariously on the wall.

“Drop it about a couple of inches lower . . . lower . . . Yes, that's it! Perfect!” Kevin said before turning his focus toward Dawn. “Hey! You're back already?”

“I told you I was only leaving for lunch,” Dawn answered breezily, striding down a hallway toward her office. Kevin trailed behind her. “I would have been back sooner if it wasn't for the damn backup on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.”

She glanced down at her iPhone. There was still no call or text message from any of her sisters. She supposed it was still a little bit early for updates on the latest drama. Maybe she'd get a message by the end of the day.

“Did I miss anything while I was out?” Dawn called over her shoulder to Kevin as she opened her office door.

They both walked into the understated eight-by-eight-foot space. Dawn wanted the artwork to be the showcase so she kept her furniture in her office clean and minimal. A glass-top industrial table sat in the center with a leather swivel chair behind it. Stainless steel bookshelves were along the walls. But the room was filled with as many vibrant colors as the silk wrap dress Dawn wore thanks to the paintings and sculptures that dotted the space. A few of the paintings were even her works.

Kevin shrugged. “No, you didn't miss anything. I reviewed the proofs for the invitations that are supposed to go out next week. They looked fine. I spoke to Vince Loy also. He swears that he's going to have his final work finished in enough time for the exhibit in two months.”

Dawn chuckled as she dropped her purse onto her desk. “Fingers crossed.”

“Yes, fingers crossed,” Kevin repeated, holding up his crossed fingers for illustration. “The installation for the show in two weeks seems to be going well. Besides all that . . . things have been pretty quiet around here.”

Dawn flopped back into her desk chair. She adjusted the front of her dress, smoothing the collar. “Good. I'm glad to hear it. Let's hope it stays that way.”

“My eyes have been opened!” someone shouted in the gallery foyer.

At the sound, Dawn and Kevin let out a collective groan.

So much for things staying quiet,
Dawn thought.

The voice was all too familiar. It belonged to the gallery owner, Percy Templeton. The eccentric Brit burst into Dawn's office a few seconds later, holding up his hands toward the ceiling. He was wearing virtually the same outfit as Kevin today, though his vest was red, not gray. Unfortunately, the look didn't seem quite as polished or as flattering on Percy as it did on Kevin. That wasn't surprising, considering Percy's tall, paunchy build, and the fact that he was more than thirty years older than Kevin.

“Good afternoon, Percy,” Dawn said flatly. “How can we help you?”

Dawn loved her job, but if there was one thing that made her hesitate about taking the director position at Templeton Gallery, it had been the knowledge that she would have to work for Percy. Not only did the man have “delusions of grandeur,” but he was a total letch: he kept a harem of young playthings around him at all times and had even tried to add Dawn to the list on more than one occasion. But each time she had politely fended off his advances. Of course, Percy fit the profile of the guys she usually dated: rich men with bloated egos who were willing to throw money around. But Dawn approached her life a lot more cautiously than her sisters. She followed the Gibbons family rules and didn't believe in mixing business with pleasure.

“Have you
seen
the
New York Times
this morning?” Percy asked. His blue eyes were wide. His skin was flushed pink. He looked almost frantic.

Dawn shook her head. “No, the morning's been kind of . . . umm . . . hectic,” she said, thinking back to Stephanie's whole conman catastrophe. “I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Why?”

“The Arts section . . . It featured new and up-and-coming artists and one, I simply must have in my gallery,” Percy said, pacing in front of her desk. “We
have
to have him, darling! I don't care what we have to do to get him . . . throw bags of money at him, offer him women . . .” Percy paused mid-stride. “. . . Or
men
, if that's more his style. I don't care if we have to kidnap him! I want him here! He's a . . . a visionary!”

Visionary?
She looked up at Kevin. She could see the same skeptical look on the young man's face.

“Hey, Kev, can you get me a copy of the
Times
? We should have it in the waiting area up front.”

“Sure. No problem,” Kevin said before walking around Percy and heading out of the office.

“You have to see his work!” Percy continued. “It's evocative! Sensual! Thought-provoking! It's . . . It's . . .”

Percy closed his eyes and started to shake, then swivel his hips rhythmically, making Dawn raise her brows. She was going to have to hose Percy down if he continued to hump the air like that.

Definitely not proper office behavior
, she thought, stifling a laugh.

Percy finally went limp and sighed, holding his chest. “I cannot . . . I cannot put it into words, darling!”

“Obviously,” she murmured dryly just as Kevin walked back into her office. He handed her the Arts section, then quickly exited, preferring to remain scarce whenever Percy was around. She couldn't blame him. There were days when she really didn't want to deal with her boss either.

Dawn flipped open the paper and spread the broadsheet on her desk. Just beneath the fold was the photograph of a young man with white paint splatter on his tan, muscular chest and what looked like an orange sari wrapped around his waist. A wall covered with halogen bulbs was behind him, creating a halo effect. He looked to be in his early- to mid-twenties and certainly was handsome. He also looked like he knew how handsome he was, judging from the arrogant smirk on his bearded face.

Dawn read a few paragraphs in the article while Percy walked around her desk and stood over her shoulder, breathing down her neck. The artist's name was Razor, though he was born with the name Trent Horowitz. He had a strong pedigree, being the son of a Yale art professor and the grandson of a family of tycoons who routinely had college buildings and household products named after them. Trent/Razor had studied at one of the best art institutes in the country before quitting his junior year to move to Brooklyn to “live among the people.” He started with a group of guerilla artists who would spray-paint obscene pictures on public buildings, but now he was on his own, doing art pieces with light and movement.

He had been flagged by quite a few in New York's art scene as “the artist to watch” this year. So far, he hadn't exhibited in any of the major galleries in Manhattan, but everyone assumed it wouldn't be long before he did.

Dawn let her eyes scan over some of the pictures of his work, including photos of his guerilla art. She looked up from the newspaper and sat back in her chair.

“He's fantastic, isn't he, darling?” Percy asked, rounding her desk, facing her again.

“He's certainly . . . interesting, but I don't know how we could get him for the gallery, Percy. If everyone is fawning over him in New York, why would he want to exhibit down here in DC?”

Percy stared at her, looking taken aback. “What . . . What do you mean?”

“Well, we're not exactly a prime art market. There's so much more this Razor guy could do up there than he could ever do—”

“Oh, please!” Percy scoffed. “You read yourself that he wants to be one with the people! Why would he waste his time with a bunch of Upper West Side snobs when he could be here elbow to elbow with those who love art and life just like he does? We are the pulse of this city, darling!”

“Yeah, I get that, but—”

“I'm glad you agree,” Percy said, cutting her off again. He braced his hands against her desk and leaned forward. “So you also should agree that we need to start wooing him as soon as possible. I want his work in my gallery this season.”

“
This season?
” Dawn cringed. “But we've already booked exhibits for the next several months! We have artists that we've promised—”

“So we'll rearrange some things!” Percy said dismissively with a wave of his hand. “Darling, I'm sure Razor will outsell any of those little exhibits you already have lined up. An artist like him could put our gallery on the map!” He grinned and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “So you'll go to New York then? He has a studio in Williamsburg. I heard he throws parties there every weekend. You should attend.”

Oh, wonderful,
she thought. Now she would have to trek all the way to Brooklyn to go to some twenty-something, hipster party and to try to win over a pretentious artist who probably had no intention of showing his work in a place like D.C.

“Sure, I'll . . . I'll do it, Percy.”

Percy almost did a jig in response.

“All right, then, darling.” He turned toward her office door. “You let me know when. I'm off to a meeting. I'll follow up with you in a few days.”

Percy then strode out of her office and Dawn sank further back into her chair and moaned.

This was turning out to be quite a day. Dawn hoped Stephanie was having a better afternoon than she was. Maybe Stephanie had found Isaac and was finally getting some answers.

T
hank God she didn't carry a gun!
If she did, Isaac would be in a dump-truck load of trouble right now. Stephanie was ready to rain more vengeance upon him than a multi-armed Hindu goddess. She was ready to release a tirade of curses that would have had any minister or priest clutching for his Bible, prepared to start the exorcism to rid her of her demons.

Man, I wish I had a gun
, Stephanie thought morosely.

A 9mm would feel just perfect in her delicate, manicured hands—that's how downright furious at Isaac she was. Even her can of Mace would have sufficed.

“Should have brought that with me too,” she muttered under her breath.

But her Mace was tucked in one of the deep pockets of her snakeskin hobo bag, which was sitting on the floor in front of the passenger seat of her locked BMW. Her sedan was double-parked at the other end of the subdivision's neatly ordered lot with its black-and-white numbered parking spaces and crisp white lines. She wasn't about to head back there now.

No, all she had was her fury and her clenched empty fists. Well, her fury, clenched empty fists, and her stilettos. In a pinch those spiked heels could serve as weapons too. Isaac still stood a chance of death by Louboutin when he opened his front door if he didn't immediately start talking and giving her answers.

She marched up the brick front steps to Isaac's rental home and planted her feet on the tan WELCOME mat. Stephanie could have rung the doorbell, but she didn't. She could had tapped the brass knocker, but she didn't do that either. Instead, she pounded her fists on the front door, making the frame rattle.

“Isaac! Isaac! Open up the door, goddamn it!” she shouted. When her hands started to throb, she stopped pounding. She didn't hear the telltale sound of a deadbolt being unlocked or hear his feet shuffling on the other side of the front door.

She banged again and waited. There was still no response.

Stephanie raced down the steps and crossed the front lawn, feeling her heels sink into the plush turf as she went. She then walked to the front windows and stood on the balls of her feet, gripping the window frame for balance as she peered inside.

A quick scan showed that he wasn't there, and not only was
he
not there, but his cat, furniture, and window treatments were also missing. All she saw was the living room's stained carpet, a few bare lightbulbs, and an empty kitty litter box.

“See you Thursday,” Stephanie angrily muttered, slowly shaking her head as she gazed at the vacant home, recalling the last thing he said to her. “That son of a
bitch!
”

Stephanie had initially tried to give Isaac the benefit of the doubt. She had even asked her sister Cynthia to drop her off at home so she could get her car and drive to Isaac's house and confront him alone. If Cynthia got her hands on him, he wouldn't have lasted long. Stephanie wanted to talk to him alone on the fleeting chance there was a possible explanation for all this.

But she couldn't give him the benefit of the doubt anymore. Though she hated to admit it . . . though it humiliated her to come to the final conclusion, she had to accept that Isaac had conned her. He had skipped town with her money—and her pride. He had pretended to fall in love with her and had gained her trust. Worse, he had managed to do it in a matter of weeks!

Dawn was right; Stephanie should have known better. Though they had never outright
stolen
money from men, all the Gibbons girls were tutored in the skills of deceit and manipulation. They had been taught by their mother and her mother before her. Running a scam like this was part of their basic education! She should have seen this one coming! But she hadn't, because she never considered that she'd one day be the prey, not the hunter.

“Doesn't feel good when it happens to you, does it?” a little voice in her head whispered as she walked back to her car to start her drive to the Sheriff's Office to file charges against Isaac. “You don't like it when the shoe is on the other foot, huh?”

Stephanie frowned.
Where had that come from?
She was the victim here! What she had done in the past was irrelevant.

“Sure it is,” the voice mocked.

Stephanie shoved that chastising voice aside and instead chose to focus on the one that called for revenge.

She wanted Isaac arrested! She wanted him Tased over and over again until he was a twitching, frothy-mouthed mass on the Sheriff's Office floor! She wanted him to become the sex slave of some big hulking prison cellmate with bad breath and a big libido! In short, she wanted Isaac to feel sheer agony for what he had done to her.

Stephanie made an emergency call to her assistant and told her to handle the rest of today's showings as she pulled into one of the few empty spaces in front of the one-story brick building that was the Chesterton Sheriff's Office. When she hung up her cell phone, ending the call, she was certain she would get justice now. The cops would track down Isaac for sure.

Stephanie walked across the parking lot toward the double doors with efficient strides and pushed one of the doors open. She strode over the scuffed linoleum tiles in the Sheriff's Office lobby to the front desk where a short white woman in a tan police uniform stood in a cutout window.

The dispatcher's desk was visible behind her. The woman stared over the top of her glasses at a small book on the desk in front of her with pen in hand. When Stephanie drew closer, she saw the woman was playing a game of sudoku. The nametag on her chest read “Deputy Mitchell.”

“I want to file charges!” Stephanie proclaimed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, putting her hand on her hip.

The deputy slowly raised her gaze from her sudoku square, squinted, and gave a patronizing smirk. “You want to file charges, huh? Against who?”

“My fian—” But Stephanie stopped herself. Isaac wasn't her fiancé. He never was! “I want to file charges against my . . . my ex!”

The deputy's smirk disappeared. She leaned forward and stared at Stephanie with concern. “Are they assault charges, ma'am?” she asked quietly. “We can have someone from victim services come out to talk to you if—”

“No . . . no, not assault,” Stephanie hastily clarified. “Theft charges! Fraud!” She shrugged. “You know, stuff like that.”

The deputy's shoulders slumped. “Oh,” she murmured, sitting back in her chair.

Oh?
What did she mean by “oh”?

The deputy turned around and grabbed a manila folder from a tiered rack on her desk. She flipped the folder open. “Well, I'm gonna have you fill out this form. I want you to list what—”

“
Form?
My ex stole nearly sixty thousand dollars from me, skipped town, and left me with almost nothing, and you want me to fill out a
form?
” She pointed down at the desk. “I want him tracked down now! I've seen those detective shows. Pull his cell phone records! See what was the last cell phone tower his calls pinged off of.
Whatever!
I'm not filling out a damn form! I want this taken care of
now!
”

The deputy narrowed her eyes. “Ma'am, you fill out the form with basic information, then—”

“Now,” Stephanie said firmly, letting the deputy know that she meant business.

The deputy pursed her thin, wrinkled lips. “All righty then,” she muttered, taking the form back and dropping it into her manila folder. “If you could have a seat over there,” she said, pointing across the lobby. “I'll have one of the detectives come out to speak with you.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie said haughtily, before strutting to one of the leather chairs shoved against the lobby's left wall. She wiped at a speck of dust on the seat fabric, sat down, crossed her legs, and placed her purse on her lap.

She was happy she had stood her ground. Sometimes you had to “show your ass” to get things done.

They should be out here any minute now,
Stephanie thought with a self-congratulatory smile.

Two and half hours later, a couple of detectives finally opened one of the doors near the front desk. Stephanie had just glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time when she saw them casually stroll toward her. They were sipping from coffee cups and chatting. She instantly recognized the slender one in the ill-fitting suit. When he grinned at her behind his thick mustache, her stomach plummeted.

Of all the damn people,
she thought morosely.

“How ya doin', Steph?” he asked, still smiling, winking one of his blue eyes.

“Hi, Ted,” she answered flatly.

“That's
Detective
Ted Monroe,” he corrected, proudly hooking his thumb in his waistband.

Stephanie fought the urge to roll her eyes heavenward.

She had no idea Ted had been promoted from patrol to detective at the Chesterton Sheriff's Office. If she had, she wouldn't have bothered coming here. She would have driven straight to the Virginia State Police barracks seven miles up the road.

She and Ted had dated briefly about a year ago. He had been all big talk and bravado, claiming at the time that he was a DEA agent/trust-fund baby and single with a two-bedroom condo and a hard-charging Mustang. He had taken her out to dinner a couple of times, but she quickly got bored with him. He was strictly of the “meet you at the door with a dozen roses, take you to Ruby Tuesday, then try to get into your pants” variety:
not
the caliber of man she was looking for. But Ted didn't take rejection well. He pursued her like she was a winning lottery ticket, and he showed up at her place one night, ready to convince her to go out with him again. Unfortunately, he hadn't realized that
his wife
had been tailing him the whole time.

When he climbed out of his Mustang and tried to plead with Stephanie as she opened her front door, his wife came leaping out of her Camry and charging across the parking lot screaming at the top of her lungs. That's when it all came out that Ted was a lowly patrol cop, not a DEA agent. He was married with three little ones at home, and if he had a trust fund, he certainly didn't spend it on his family. The poor woman's clothes were so threadbare, they seemed almost transparent.

Stephanie shut the door on them both as they argued. She could take drama over a man (she had her share of run-ins with crazy, jealous girlfriends and wives in the past), but she would not take drama for a man whose idea of fine dining was a platter of chicken quesadillas and sliders. Ted also proved her theory that married men were nothing but trouble.

She thought that night would be the last time she would ever see Ted again. Unfortunately, it looked like she had been wrong.

“So I hear you want to file charges,” Ted said minutes later as he and his partner guided Stephanie down a long hall and past a series of doorways. He sipped again from his coffee cup. A few Sheriff's Office deputies passed them as they walked.

“Yes,” she said, raising her chin. “Money was stolen from my bank accounts. I want the guy who did it arrested.”

“Uh-huh,” Ted murmured dispassionately as he waved her inside a room.

It was a stark white twelve-by-twelve foot space with four metal chairs with plastic bottoms. A wooden table sat in the center. There were no windows.

Stephanie assumed it was their “questioning” room. At least, that's what she believed they called it on those police television shows. She lowered herself into one of the chairs and crossed her legs.

“I guess you know who stole it then?” the other detective drawled as he plopped in the chair across from her.

This detective was as thin as Ted but a redhead with an aquiline nose. He cocked his eyebrow at Stephanie.

“I know
exactly
who stole it,” Stephanie said vehemently, pointing her French manicured nail at the table in front of her. “My ex. His name's Isaac Beardan. That's B-E-A—”

“He sounds like a keeper,” Ted muttered with a chuckle, leaning back in one of the chairs.

Stephanie glared at him. “Pardon me?”

Ted continued laughing. “Nothin'.”

The redhead began to chuckle too.

She glared at them both. Shouldn't they be taking notes? Shouldn't they be recording this? How were they possibly documenting everything to press charges against Isaac with no notepad, pen, or digital recorder? She was about to ask that before they started asking her questions again.

“So why do you think
he
did it?” the redhead asked, sounding incredulous.

“He's the only one who could have done it! He's the only one who had access to my accounts! Then he just skipped down! It's so obvious!”

The redhead frowned. “How'd he get access to your accounts?”

“Well, I gave it to him . . .” She shrugged. “ . . . Kind of.”

The detective nodded. “I see. So these were accounts he was authorized to have access to.”

“No! I gave him the password to my investment account and he used that to get access to the others.”

“I see,” the redhead said, nodding again. “But you can't prove for sure that he had access to those other accounts too, can you? You don't know for sure that he did it?”

“Well, no. Not for sure, but I told you that soon after the money disappeared, he skipped town! I could only assume that—”

“Did you have access to his?” Ted asked suddenly, finally putting down his coffee cup.

“His what?”

“To . . . his . . .
accounts
,” Ted said loudly and slowly as if she were the world's biggest simpleton. “Did you have access to any of his bank accounts?”