James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Startled, Anne looked up to find Rick standing in her doorway. “Excuse me?”

“I know you went to see Ryan Magee this morning.” Rick was flushed, panicked. “Were you telling him about the mortgage papers? Trying to cut a deal with the cops to save your own ass?”

Anne stood up, a cold fury seething through every cell of her body. “How do you know I saw Ryan this morning?”

“Doesn’t matter. Were you selling me out?”

“First of all,” she said, ice coating every word. “It’s none of your fucking business what I was doing with Ryan. Second, no, I was not selling out your sorry ass. Your father has agreed not to go to the cops if we resign and I’ll be writing my letter of resignation as soon as you get out of my office. And third, tell me how you knew I saw Ryan this morning or I will tell the California Bar about the forgery.”

The air seemed to go out of Rick. He was ashamed, embarrassed. “I had you followed.”

“What?”

“I hired Cal Fisher to follow you.” Cal Fisher was one of the private detectives Rogers,

Middleton and Roberts employed when necessary. “You freaked me out last night, Anne. I mean, my world’s coming apart, losing the house, my job… I thought I’d at least have you. That we were a team, that somehow we’d weather all this together. So when you said you were leaving, I just, I don’t know, got paranoid. I figured you must be up to something so I called Cal and asked him to keep an eye on you. I’m sorry.” Then a light bulb went off in Rick’s head. “Wait a minute. Didn’t I see something on TV about a homicide cop winning the lottery? It was Ryan, wasn’t it?”

Anne stiffened, feeling caught somehow. “Yes.”

Rick gave her a cruel smile. “You always knew how to follow the money, baby.” He laughed bitterly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Get out of my office.”

He did the opposite. He stepped closer. “Was it all a lie? The years we had together. Did you ever love me or was it just my money?”

She’d asked herself that question a lot lately and answered honestly. “I loved you. But the rich successful you was a different guy than the one standing in front of me now. You used to be funny, now you’re morose. You were cocky, now you’re scared. I used to cuddle in your arms and feel so safe, now I dread being alone in a room with you. It’s like you’ve morphed into a bad impression of yourself.” Anne could see her words hit home. “You can’t not know this, Rick.”

“You know, I was hoping you were going to say you never loved me and then I could get on with my life, hating you.” He looked at her, as vulnerable as she’d even seen him. “Now, I guess, I have to hate myself. I’m sorry, Anne. I loved you so much. I loved us . It just all got away from me somehow. And yes, I miss me, too.”

“You’ll bounce back, Rick. I know it.”

Neither one of them believed it. “Thanks. And good luck; I mean it.”

“Thank you.”

With the saddest smile she’d ever seen, he left.

Anne watched him go, a little ashamed at the emotional flailing she’d given him. But he’d pissed her off. The nerve, having her followed.

And then she had a brainstorm. She needed her own PI. Anne sat down, opened her phone book, found the number she wanted and dialed.

“Travis Taylor.”

“Travis, its Anne Rogers, how are you?”

“Fine, Anne, nice to hear from you.” Travis was a retired FBI agent, expensive but thorough.

“Travis I need you to run a background check on someone. And I want to know everything .”

“Absolutely, what’s the name?”

“Curtis. Detective Syd Curtis. She’s an LAPD homicide detective.”

“No problem. I should be able to get back to you later today.”

“Excellent.” Anne hung up. If she was going to have to fight the pretty redhead for

Ryan’s affections, Anne wanted to be prepared.

“I’ve paddled by these houses every day for three weeks and never been inside one,” Alice said. She was sitting at Blake’s kitchen counter, sipping a cup of coffee Blake had made her. She had a thick terry cloth towel draped over her shoulders but the ocean chill had passed.

After getting her a towel and making coffee, Blake had gone back outside and retrieved the kayak and paddle. Now, back in the house, Blake stared at Alice. He’d had countless women in his home but never one washed in from the sea. And though he didn’t know her, there was something vaguely familiar about her. She intrigued him.

He said, “I grew up in Orange County, south of here, and surfed every day as a kid. And as I sat out in the water, waiting for a wave, I’d stare at the houses nestled into Shaw’s Cove and dream about one day owning my own beach house.”

“And now you do.”

“And now I do.”

“I saw the surfboards on the patio, do you still surf every day?”

“That’s the funny part. I hardly surf anymore. No time. But from time to time I force myself to take an afternoon off and paddle out.”

“I’d love to learn. I grew up in Denver. Not too many gnarly waves back there.” She laughed. “But it sure looks like fun.”

Blake hated teaching people how to surf. It was a lot harder than it looked so it took forever, and most people totally spazzed out, never getting to their feet. But the prospect of teaching this blonde in the red bikini to surf excited him. “Maybe I could teach you sometime,” he said.

“That would be great,” Alice said, getting off the stool and roaming through the large living room. It was comfortable with wood floors, a plush leather couch, and two overstuffed leather side chairs. They faced the huge picture window featuring a delicious view of the ocean. “And is it everything you dreamed about? Living here, I mean?”

“Yes and no. The good is obvious: great view, I love the smell of the ocean, it’s cooler in summer and warmer in winter, and staring at that big beautiful sea soothes my soul. But there’s the bad, too. You end up with sand everywhere, the salt corrodes everything, traffic on the PCH totally sucks; during a storm, the crashing waves sound like artillery shells so sleeping is impossible. Oh and there are fires, floods and in June, the fog is so heavy you can go weeks without seeing the sun.”

“You poor baby.”

Blake laughed. “Yeah, pity me.” He thought the blonde looked so cute with his big towel wrapped around her. Blake’s eyes went from her bare feet, up her legs to her bikini clad ass. Nice. “So you’re from Colorado, how long have you been in L.A?”

“Just under a month. I’m an actress; big shock, huh? I starred in all the plays in college, I went to the University of Colorado at Boulder, and then spent a couple years doing regional theatre in Denver.” The fake biography was easy for Alice. It was based on the life of her friend, Dawn, from the Institute. Dawn came to Hollywood full of hope and confidence but after six months and countless failed auditions — and running a gauntlet of men promising her anything to get into her pants but delivering nothing — Dawn swallowed a full bottle of Xanax. Her parents sent her to the Institute to get better. And it worked. Dawn realized that being a big fish in a small pond was better than being bait in L.A. and she returned to Denver.

“I did a three week revival of Sweet Charity and got these great reviews. The director said I should go to Hollywood; he knew an agent there, so I figured, hey, you only go around once in life so why not take a chance? But it’s a lot harder than I imagined. His agent friend turned out to be a sixty-year-old letch that only represented cameramen and crew people. And getting an audition with a real agent is tough. To be honest, I’m thinking about going home.”