Private

If he was elected governor, did he want her to go with him to Sacramento? If so, as Diane Keaton had famously asked Warren Beatty in Reds, “As what?” Justine remembered that Bobby had taken a lot of heat from the police commissioner when he’d hired Private to work the Schoolgirl case. She hadn’t questioned his motive for a second. If anything, she thought Bobby had brought in Private because the case was so important to her.

But now it seemed like maybe he was intensely involved in this case because it was important to him.

Bobby braked at a light and said, “You’re quiet, Justine.”

“I’m thinking about you as Governor Petino. You’d be good. That’s all it is.”

Bobby reached for her and kissed her. “You’re wonderful, you know that? You’re a wonderful woman, and I’m a lucky guy.”

“I can’t argue with any of that,” said Justine.

Chapter 29

WE WERE WORKING late, Colleen and I, sorting though Andy Cushman’s files and financial statements, many of them red-flagged for further investigation.

Colleen was wearing a blue silk cardigan over a lacy camisole and man-tailored pants. Her black hair swung around her face when she bent to put another stack of papers on the coffee table.

“Why don’t you go home?” I said. “It’s almost nine. I can do this.”

“Let’s get it done, Jack. It’ll just be worse tomorrow.”

“Sit down,” I said, patting the cushion next to me on the couch.

She dropped onto the couch, threw herself against the back of it, and yawned. “Another hour should do it,” she said.

I put my arm around her and drew her close to me.

“Don’t be messing about, Jack. There’ll be caps on the green and no one to fetch them.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Trouble.”

She was telling me “hands off,” but without much conviction. Finally, she rested her head on my chest. She smelled like rosewater, her favorite. I put my hand in her hair, and she lifted her face.

I kissed her and she kissed me back. “Okay, Jack. Have your way with me. Please.”

“Hang on,” I said. I got up and locked my office door, turned off the overhead lights, went back to the sofa. I said, “Stand up, Molloy. Please.”

“I can do that.”

I unbuttoned her sweater, unzipped her pants, and when she was in her underwear, I returned her to the sofa and undressed myself.

She watched me take off my clothes, then covered her face with her arm as I touched her and made her moan. Colleen cried out as I made love to her… but then she cried tears when we were done.

I wrapped her in my arms, held her between my body and the back of the couch so that she wouldn’t get chilled. “What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“I’m twenty-five,” she said in a whisper.

“You don’t mean-today?”

She nodded, sang, “Happy birthday to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“I did,” she said.

“No. I forgot.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, really. I’m not a birthday person.”

“It does,” I said. I tilted up her chin. “It does. I’ll make it up to you.”

She shrugged, then pushed me aside, swung her bare legs over the side of the couch, and picked her clothes up off the floor.

“I shouldn’t say this, Jack, so I won’t.”

I already knew. No birthday present, no flowers, no dinner. Sex on the couch. I said, “Go ahead and say it. You deserve better than this.”

“Anyone would,” said Colleen.

Chapter 30

NOT ONE, but two celebrity couples were waiting for me in reception as I came through on the way to my office that morning. Their money manager had called ahead for them.

The most visually arresting of the four was Jane Hawke, the rock idol who was pierced, tattooed, and dressed in five shades of purple. Her husband, action movie star Ethan Tau, sat to her right. He was wearing cowboy garb down to his Lucchese boots.

Sitting across from them were tennis stars Jeanette Colton and Lars Lundstrom: fair-haired, tanned and toned, Euro-LA all the way.

When I got settled, Colleen showed the couples into my office, asked if they’d like coffee or tea. Then she gave me a tepid smile and said, “Is there anything else, Jack?”

“We’re good,” I said. But were we?

She closed the door behind her. It made an almost imperceptible click.

“How can I help you?” I said. Then I sat back to listen.

Jeanette Colton spoke first. “It’s a little difficult to talk about,” she said. Her stolid-looking husband, the Swedish tennis champ, folded his hands in his lap.

Jane Hawke sugared her coffee and said, “Go ahead, Jeanette. Of all of us, you’re the one who’ll get the story straight the first time out.”

A look of pain flashed across Jeanette Colton’s face. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what she was going to say. What were the four of them doing at Private?

“Ethan and I are in love,” she said of Jane Hawke’s husband.

I looked at the rock star, who was sipping her coffee with a steady hand. I tried to avoid divorce cases. There were plenty of private investigators who liked them and were much better at snooping than I was.