Chapter 23
Once I’d put Malone’s patio door back to rights, I returned to my apartment with the shoebox.
Should I open it?
He hadn’t said I couldn’t. That said, curiosity did things to the cat that Brené Brown’s cute little ears were too young to hear.
But of course I was going to open it.
Inside I saw . . . shoes. Specifically, a part of faux-leather pull-on loafers that were so cheap, I could see the glue on the soles. I was about to put the lid on the box in disgust when something shiny caught my eye. Inside each shoe were a couple of thumb drives.
I grinned.
Backups for your backups really was sexy. Gotta love a man who was prepared. Even better? A man who knew his opponent well enough to know he wouldn’t look in a box of cheap, unfashionable men’s shoes.
I replaced the USB drives and put the shoebox in a safe place, then returned to my laptop.
It was past time to do a deeper dive on Blake Malone.
Tracers, my favorite search engine, didn’t show any additional residences, but it did indicate that the Florida home’s property taxes were delinquent.
Only one vehicle, the SUV that Trista drove, but I already knew the Lexus was being leased to Malone Construction, as was the apartment across the hall.
No arrests. Not even a traffic violation, other than a speeding ticket three years ago.
He had had only three employers of record: a movie theater when he was a teenager, a sandwich shop in his college years, and then Malone Construction. Nepotism at its finest, I supposed.
The Malone Construction website said he was on personal leave, though, so it seemed nepotism stretched only so far.
I turned my attention to my Malone.
Tiberius James Malone, born on January 25, 1981, in Santa Rosa, California.
He leased an apartment in California and drove an older-model Mustang convertible. His mother’s maiden name really was Franklin. She had been married to Malone’s father for almost forty years.
My heart leaped with hope, then thudded with the remembrance that our situation was temporary. More importantly, I was not supposed to jump from one long-term relationship to another for a variety of reasons.
I needed to get out there and do things for myself, so I would do Malone at his earliest convenience.
I would not, as Salcedo suggested, catch feelings, either.
We were two consenting adults. He had already shown concern for my welfare, and I was going to enjoy the arrangement he had offered me without thinking of anything more.
I didn’t need anything more.
I didn’t want anything more.
Relationships only led to heartache. Sexy times led to orgasms.
Besides, based on the years I’d wasted on Ken, the longer the relationship, the fewer the sexy times, so better to not have a forty-year marriage.
Keep telling yourself that, Stella. Keep making those rationalizations to cover up for the fact you’ve always wondered if things would’ve been different if either your nana or your mother had stayed married. Keep telling yourself that marriage isn’t important since—
Nope. Not going there. Not doing it. Absolutely not.
Focus.
Other than having way too many phone numbers for my liking, Tiberius James Malone was squeaky clean.
No arrests, convictions, bankruptcies, speeding tickets.
No mortgage. He voted frequently—yay for civic duty—and appeared to have at least partial ownership in the company where he worked, Chateau Cybersecurity.
And that was that.
Trista called just as I was trying to decide which frozen meal I wanted for lunch. “Is he still there?”
“Afraid not,” I said as I watched my entrée whirl around in the microwave. “I got his license plate, but it was a rental.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t the cousin?”
“Positive.” I almost told Trista that I knew the cousin very well, but that felt like the sort of information that should be on a need-to-know basis. Trista didn’t need to know even a tenth of the things I knew about Malone. Not about his tattoo and certainly not about his carnal promises.
I shuddered.
“How did he look?”
Delicious. Fit, but not so cut he would be cranky from lack of carbs—
She’s talking about Blake, Stella. “Uh, pretty pleased with himself.”
She sighed. “No. Like, what was he wearing?”
I bit back any sarcastic remarks about how the Bel Air Apartments weren’t exactly the Met Gala. Instead, I detailed what Blake was wearing, down to his expensive shoes and watch.
“What about his hair?”
“Uh, hanging over his collar. Didn’t seem to fit with the rest of his vibe.”
Trista let out a whoop.
“Uh, am I missing something?” I wanted to ask if she was having some kind of health emergency, but I was professional enough to keep that to myself.
“No, no. I’m fine. But I have an idea of where you can find him.”
“Oh?”
“Every four weeks he goes to Salon Blaise. The only person, and I do mean the only person, who can cut his hair to his specifications is Fabiano.”
“Surely he wouldn’t see that barber if he’s trying to keep a low profile.”
She laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Fabiano is more than a barber. He’s a stylist!”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. My last haircut had come from CheapClips, and there would be no trims for me in the near future.
“If his hair is over the collar, you might be able to catch him at Salon Blaise. In fact, go ahead and mark your calendar. We have sixty days to serve the papers, and if you don’t catch him this time, then you can try again in another four weeks. Mama did always say to have a plan B.”
Her accent slipped a bit on the last sentence. Slowly but surely, Trista was reverting to her natural state. She’d shed the posh affectation of her accent almost as quickly as she’d traded in couture for yoga pants.
“Your mama is wise,” I said, making a note to look up Salon Blaise and Fabiano. “Trista, that was very helpful. I’m headed over to your attorney first thing on Monday to get those papers.”
She sighed. “I’m going to make an awful confession.”
“I’m not a priest, but I’ll try to absolve you anyway,” I said, my mind already racing to how easy it would be to get information out of the famous Fabiano.
“I was a terrible snob the day that I met you.”
“Oh? I didn’t think so.”
She snorted in response.
“No, really. I mean, it was obvious you had more money than I do, but that, I can assure you, is a low bar to clear.” Maybe she’d been a little pretentious, but it wasn’t my job to judge anyone for that.
While working with Ken, I’d learned that pretentious people had no problem spending money.
That said, working-class folks—especially older ones—often had even more money and were more likely to pay the first bill that came their way.
Basically, it paid to treat everyone with respect. That was my philosophy.
Trista sighed. “I knew you were a private investigator and that you did process serving, but I chose to go with . . . someone else to serve papers on Blake. When it became clear he wasn’t going to be able to do it, I called you.”
“Let me guess: It wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped, so he decided he didn’t want to do it.”
“Something like that.”
“And he probably wouldn’t have taken you seriously about the haircut thing.”
“Oh, definitely not. It still could be nothing.”
“Hey, don’t second-guess yourself.”
“Thanks for that,” she said softly, showing she’d picked up what I was putting down: to trust her instincts on things both big and small.
I almost steam-burned myself removing the plastic film from a less-than-appetizing chicken marinara situation.
“I’m trusting your instincts. If you think of any other oddities like the haircut thing, you text me.
Any time of day or night. Let me know before you forget about whatever it is that came to mind.
The last guy I served papers on loved this one bar.
Ken—that’s my ex—made fun of me for waiting outside his house every night for weeks.
But I somehow knew this guy was going to cave and head for his favorite place eventually.
On day fifty-nine at ten p.m., probably thinking he was in the clear because who would serve papers on him in a bar that late at night, he sneaked out of his house. I got him.”
She made a sound that could’ve been a sob or a laugh or something in between. “I hate to sound like Princess Leia, but I think you’re my only hope.”
“Hardly. You’ll make it. But if there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s this: I’m stubborn as hell.”
Later that night I went to Finnegan’s to meet other clients. I’d managed to save up a little over $5,000. With six days and a few jobs to go, I just might make it. I’d have enough to make rent, cover my annual car registration, and get straight on my student loans.
As for then getting the title to the car, I would figure something out. Maybe Ken would inspire me to new heights of pettiness.
But I needed to think quickly because I had to have that title in my name in order to renew my car’s registration, which was due on my birthday. Dadgum birthday tax. Who the heck wanted to get an emissions test and pay a lump sum for their birthday?
About that time, Malone texted me. It was simply a pizza emoji along with the one for prayer hands.
“What are you thinking about with that grin on your face?” asked Havisham.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Now that my client meetings were over, I’d taken my usual seat at the bar, so I knew no one was behind me. No one sat beside me, either, so I was confident I could tell Havisham in a soft voice, “If you must know, I’m close to getting my jollies with my hot neighbor.”
“Good for you, Stark! I have a bead on a playmate myself,” Havisham said. “Corner booth in the cowboy hat.”
I looked over. “A cowboy hat? Really. Is he into philanthropy and also a billionaire?”
Havisham waggled her eyebrows. “More into misanthropy. I like ’em bad.”
Eh, whatever. He looked like a poor woman’s George Clooney, which was to say Havisham could do a lot worse.
She bustled to the other side of the bar, and Salcedo slumped into the seat beside me.
“Hey, kid. What have you been up to?” I asked.
“Went on a quick vacay with the fam. What did I miss?”
“Well, I helped a woman leave six cricket noisemakers behind in the apartment she was being forced to vacate. Hilarity ensued.”
“Oh, I hate I missed that. Anything else?”
“I had a compass sent to a dude who said he was dumping his girlfriend because he needed to find himself.”
She giggled.
“What about you?” I turned my wineglass sideways. This Malbec wasn’t as good as the one Malone had brought me.
Probably because it was Malone who’d brought it.
“The whole vacation thing was a bait and switch. They’re moving to New Jersey, so we spent some time at Cape May and the rest of the time looking at houses.”
“I gather from your scowl that you weren’t a fan of that idea.”
“No. But they want me to move up there with them.”
“Do you want to move to New Jersey?”
“No.”
“Then don’t,” I said with a shrug.
Her mouth fell open with shock. Such an idea had never occurred to her. After a few seconds of analysis, she sighed and said with resignation, “You’re obviously not my mother’s daughter.”
“True.” It was on the tip of my tongue to say something sarcastic about how it must’ve been nice to have a mother who wanted you around, but I didn’t.
Personal growth? Maybe.
Oblivious to the huge strides I’d just made, Salcedo said, “I know she was only sixteen when she had me, but I think it’s pretty unhealthy how close she wants to keep me.”
Havisham slid a cider in front of her. “What’s going on down here?”
“Salcedo’s mom wants her to move with the family to New Jersey.”
“You’re nineteen, aren’t you?” Havisham asked. “You can decide.”
Before Salcedo could respond, the bartender was off again. It was busy even for a Saturday.
“Easy for her to say.” Salcedo muttered before chewing on her bottom lip like it was an Olympic sport. Her eyes were glassy.
“Hey,” I said. “My mom was sixteen when she had me, too, but you won’t find her anywhere around.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Nana raised me. It’s a good thing your mom wants you around, but you do get to choose what you want to do.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “I’m still living at home. If they leave, then I’ll have to get a full-time job and shift to night classes. But if I transfer to someplace up north, then I’ll get behind because you know not all my credits are going to transfer.”
“If you decide to stay, you could live with me.”
Where had those words come from? I didn’t want to live with someone else.
It was one thing to canoodle with Malone, but he was going to leave eventually and had his own place in the meantime.
On the day I loaded up the car to move my things from Nana’s house to the apartment, I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t share my next home with just anyone.
Heck, Ken had basically kicked me out but then had come poking around asking me where something was.
Eh, that had been an excuse.
Maybe.
When we were together, I had spent a great deal of my time looking for things he couldn’t find, which I found pretty ironic considering he was a private investigator.
“Are you sure?” Salcedo asked. She’d picked up on the swirl of emotions that had come after my offer.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling the confidence even as I said it. “I have an extra bedroom. It’s not padded, though, so you’ll have to keep yourself out of trouble until your twentieth birthday.”
Salcedo grinned. “I’m going to think about it, but thank you for the offer. Look at you being vulnerable after reading the book!”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, Stark. You’re not as tough as you want the world to believe. First, you told me something about your past even though you clearly didn’t want to. Then you opened up your home to me even though you’ve been burned in the past. It’s very kind of you.”
“Well, look at that. I really am growing as a person,” I said. “By the way, I named the cat Brené Brown.”
“Of course you did.”