CHAPTER FOUR

 

Wednesday, ten days later

 

"I want you to follow my husband."

He'd just returned from the doctor's office for the results of the nucleic acid test. Negative, thank God, but he wouldn't be totally out of the woods until the end of February when he had the last HIV result back. But this was good news.

No sooner had he returned, he heard footfall on the steel steps leading to the apartment. At the door, the woman inspected him up and down with a judgmental glance before pushing past him and moving through the room to perch herself on the chair in front of his desk.

"Sure, come on in," he mumbled, closing the door. He went to his desk, slunk back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him, not bothering to disguise how much he wanted to be alone.

The woman looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. And he knew she had.

Ginnifer Whitney-Cummings, the model formerly known as Jennifer Morgan, was the city's darling. Her fair complexion, jet-black hair, and blue eyes so light they seemed to glow—along with her heavy bosom, tiny waist, and legs that went on forever—had made her popular with fashion designers and photographers. Seemingly overnight, her image had appeared on billboards all over the city and filled the top fashion magazines.

During Jennifer Morgan's short but illustrious career, she had attracted one of the city's most affluent socialites, Franklin Whitney-Cummings III.

If the stories were true, Franklin the Third had first seen Morgan at a fashion show he'd been attending with his then-girlfriend. It had been love at first sight, and after a handful of dates, their wedding had made all the tabloids. As had the rock he noticed she still sported on her delicate finger.

When she'd taken the Whitney-Cummings name, Morgan took the opportunity to recreate herself. She changed the spelling of her name to Ginnifer, retired from modeling, and dedicated herself to her new life as Mrs. Franklin Whitney-Cummings and all it entailed. Her fans loved her even more, as the tabloids couldn't get enough of her and her exploits with her rich and handsome husband.

From the moment they first appeared in public as man and wife—from yacht races on the Bay to political fundraisers—Franklin the Third and the now-Ginnie portrayed a couple very much in love and enjoyed the jet-setting lifestyle.

Everything about them seemed perfect.

Seemed being the operative word. Jack knew all too well how that assumption played out. Seeing her in his office now only solidified his belief that nothing was ever perfect. Even for the rich and famous.

What had Leah said about the famous? It's unicorns and rainbows on the outside, baby. Inside, they're squirrels fighting in a sack.

Jack nearly chuckled as he gazed across the desk. With her classic beige pantsuit with matching pumps and wide-brimmed sun hat, and the oversized Louis Vuitton handbag, Ginnifer Whitney-Cummings emulated the epitome of classic fashion. Nothing screamed squirrels fighting in a sack, but he wondered why she wanted her husband followed.

And why him? If she suspected her husband was cheating on her, she certainly could afford an investigator who moved in her own circle.

As if reading his mind, she continued, "I know I must seem out of place . . . here." She quickly cast a heavily-mascaraed derisive gaze around the small room and settled on the sofa, which looked like someone had recently been sleeping there. He hadn't been expecting anyone so hadn't bothered to put the blanket and pillow in the backroom.

"You could say that."

She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'll get to the point. You're a man who can get the job done. That's what I need."

"There are many good investigators in the city who can get the job done. Why me?" He leaned back in the chair and wove his fingers over his abdomen.

"If rumors are correct, you did what the San Francisco Police Department couldn't. They sat on a serial killer and got nowhere. You solved the case within days."

"I got lucky."

"Luck or not, you accomplished in those few days what a whole department couldn't do in years, and who didn't even see fit to warn the public, I might add. Really, I have no idea why we continue to donate to police charities. Anyway, I need someone like you."

"Mrs. Whitney-Cu—"

"Ginnie. You'll be working for me, so there's no need to be so formal," she told him.

Jack cocked an eyebrow. "I haven't agreed to anything."

"You are. I'm paying double your normal fee."

That made Jack sit up straight, if only on the inside. Outside, he remained calm—unicorns and rainbows, baby. She didn't need to know she'd piqued his curiosity.

"Money aside, Mrs. Whit—Ginnie," he corrected when she scowled. It was a look, he was sure, that got her whatever she wanted. "Money aside, why don't you speak with investigators who . . . cater to celebrity?"

Leaning forward, her breasts pressed against the oversized handbag in her lap. A muffled whimper came from within. She reached inside and pulled out a small dog that looked like a Yorkie dressed in a similar fashion to herself and deposited it on the floor. It shook then scampered across the floor, sniffing as it moved.

Without missing a beat, Ginnie said, "Because this must be kept confidential. I'm sure you can appreciate one in my position,"—Jack knew she really meant, Because I'm rich and famous—"wanting to keep certain things private. I don't trust other investigators. They're too quick to name-drop when they have big cases. I mean, really, they're no better than the paparazzi."

"I'm sure that's not true." Jack watched the little dog scratch at the outfit’s collar and nip at the fabric, earning it a sharp stop it from its mistress. It returned to sniffing the floor and promptly squatted, creating a sizeable puddle for a dog its size before scampering away.

Ignoring what her dog had just done, the woman continued. "If you're going to work for me, I would appreciate you not calling me a liar."

"I'm sorry if I offended you. I'm just not sure what I can bring to the table that another investigator can't." Jack kept his gaze on the dog who looked like it was trying to find a place for its other business. Before it did, he rose and went to the dog. He grasped it by the back of its outfit and deposited it in Ginnie's lap. He used an old newspaper to soak up the piss. He'd sanitize the spot after she left.

After disposing of the soiled broadsheet in his waste basket, he leaned his hip on the edge of the desk, recrossed his arms and gazed down at her. "Why don't you fill in the blanks and let me decide if I'm even interested in this case? What's so secretive that you're afraid it'll get out? You want your husband followed. I'm assuming you think he's cheating on you. Yes?"

She looked away for a moment. Jack lost sight of her face beneath her hat's wide brim. When he heard her sniffle, he thought she was crying and went to the other side of the desk to pull some tissues from a box in his desk drawer. He handed them to her then returned to his chair.

When she gazed up at him, he saw she hadn't been crying at all. Everything about her shouted fury.

"It's more than that," she said through clenched teeth.

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

"I just want you to follow him. Tell me where he's going. Take your usual photos so I have proof of what he's getting up to."

"I'm not taking cheating spouse cases at the moment. Any investigator can do what you're asking."

The hat's wide brim managed to force a gust of air in his direction when she shook her head. "As I said, I need discretion. The Whitney-Cummings have a reputation to uphold. If it was just a matter of him fucking other women, I'd call him on it and cut him off at the balls . . . so to speak."

Jack was shocked at the woman's language, but given the fire in her eyes, he assumed she was so furious with whatever her husband was getting up to that language didn't matter.

"Of course. A woman in your position could hire someone to cut them off for you . . . so to speak." He only half-joked. The rich always assumed a certain level of power. Money talks and all that crap.

"When you solved the serial killer case, you effectively cut off the city's balls and handed them to the Chief of Police and the Mayor on a silver platter. That's why I'm hiring you."

"Explain it to me, then."

"It's really quite embarrassing. Humiliating, really. Not just for Franklin, or me, but for the city. The Whitney-Cummings' are as much a part of the city as . . ." She waved her hand in the air as if dismissing the subject. "Well, as any other city icon. As such, his behavior will be an embarrassment to the city, possibly on a national scale."

Jack's curiosity was scrambling around like a couple squirrels looking for trouble, but he wasn't sure how one man could bring down the city's reputation. If Travers hadn't done it, Jack didn't see how Franklin the Third could.

"Infidelity isn't a city problem," he told her.

Ginnie sat up straight in her chair, forcing the little dog to sit still in her lap. "You do know who we are, don't you? I mean, you aren't . . . rich. Certainly you must know of my husband's family."

His ancestors dated back to the Gold Rush, having owned Whitney General Stores that, among other things, sold overpriced equipment to miners and paid below average prices on gold.

Over the decades, those rustic stores had developed into Whitney Department Stores and rivaled the likes of Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, and I. Magnin. Upon seeing the decline and ultimate sale of I. Magnin, the Whitney-Cummings' also decided it was time to get out. Their department store chain was sold and folded into another big-name company, then the family turned their attentions, and wealth, to hobbies of the elite.

It had been in the late '90s when tech start-ups in Santa Clara, now commonly referred to as Silicon Valley, became popular places for those with more money than sense to invest that the Whitney-Cummings' saw an opportunity to boost their waning bank balances. Investing in the likes of Dell, Apple, and Hewlett-Packard rocketed the family back into the social stratosphere.

Nodding, he said, "Of course, I know the family history, and your own. But I don't see how your husband cheating on you will bring down the city."

"In our circle," she assured him, "whatever he's up to can undoubtedly send shockwaves through the city, and beyond. Probably as far as Wall Street. He could be the complete ruination of the Whitney-Cummings name."

"Do tell." Just fucking tell me, he wanted to scream.

She leaned toward him and dropped her voice to a near whisper, as if the room was filled with prying eyes and big ears and she only wanted him to hear her.

"My husband has been wearing women's clothes."