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Drew Patrick
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Premier Escort Service occupied an office suite in a prominent five-story building on the corner of Newbury Street and Massachusetts Avenue. They had strategically situated themselves among eight blocks of high-end retailers, trendy boutiques, art galleries, chic eateries, and stunning Victorian brownstone homes. Location, location, location.
“Ms. Osbourne will be with you momentarily,” the front desk receptionist told me. She was tall, slender, and tanned. Her above the knee navy blue dress looked expensive. As did her jewelry. They were probably from the boutiques on Newbury Street. They either had a corporate expense account or Premier's front desk job paid more than minimum wage.
I was the only one waiting in the reception area. I was sure most executives booked their escorts online. I bet they even had a phone app.
The receptionist used a mouse to click around on her computer. I picked up a People magazine. When I got bored reading about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, I put the magazine back on the table.
I hummed along to Elton John's Benny and the Jets playing over the office radio. I wondered how soon it would switch over to twenty-four hours of Christmas music. Thanksgiving was still several weeks away, but it seemed to start earlier each year.
A door to the right of the receptionist opened. I looked over as a tall and slender woman stepped out. She wore a stylish cocktail dress. It's five o’clock somewhere. She smiled at me as she walked past and exited the office.
An equally tall and slender woman walked out of the interior office door. I was detecting a pattern to the women employed by Premier. She walked over to me.
I stood as she approached. There are a few gentlemen left.
The woman was in her late fifties or early sixties. She was nearly as tall as Jessica. While I didn't think any woman was as beautiful as Jessica, she was attractive. If not a former model, she could have been.
“Mr. Patrick,” the woman said in a lovely British accent, “I am Rita Osbourne.”
“Any relation to Ozzy?” I said as we shook hands.
“Pardon?” she said.
“Ozzy Osbourne. The rock singer.”
She considered my question a beat. Then she said, “Isn't he the one who bit the head off a bat on stage?”
“The bat bit him back,” I said. “Plus he needed to be treated for rabies. Ozzy, not the bat.”
“How gruesome,” Rita Osbourne said.
“Gross,” the receptionist said.
“A lesson learned in performing a stunt for shock value,” I said.
I assumed from Rita's reaction, she was not related to Ozzy. Or she didn't want to admit it. I considered asking if her first name was inspired by The Beatles Rita the meter maid but thought that might be pushing it. Although Sir Paul did sing about how lovely Rita was.
“This way, please,” Rita Osbourne said as she showed me through the open door to her office.
Her long legs took even and graceful strides, barely ruffling her black pencil knit skirt. I deduced her outfit also came from a fancy boutique on Newbury Street. While Rita could likely afford her own outfits, I was still betting on a corporate expense account.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to a plush black leather chair.
I sat. Rita Osbourne sat in the chair's twin located across a small glass table. The entire office was glass and leather. I had no doubt it was Italian leather of the highest quality. It sure felt classier than the leather seats in my car.
Rita Osbourne sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. Her white silk blouse was as undisturbed by her arms moving to rest on the side of the chair as her skirt had been when she crossed the office. Rita Osbourne was cool, collected, and in charge.
“What is it like being a private investigator?” she said.
I shrugged my shoulders. “A lot of wandering around and talking to people,” I said.
Rita Osbourne let out a sophisticated laugh. She said, “Surely your job is more exciting than that?”
“Has its moments,” I said. “But I mostly ask a bunch of questions until I find some answers.”
“Do you carry a gun?”
“When I need to,” I said. “Most of the time I can handle things another way.”
Rita Osbourne looked me up and down and nodded her head. “I imagine you can handle yourself,” she said.
“When called for,” I said.
“Did I hear correctly you were once a special agent with the FBI?”
“It's not a secret,” I said.
Rita Osbourne considered me a few moments. Then she said, "I hear you were an exceptional FBI agent. And I also know you are an excellent private investigator.”
“You can't always believe what people say,” I said.
Rita offered me a mildly surprised look. “Modest was not something I've heard to describe you,” she said.
“You seem to have heard a lot about me.”
“Enough to conclude there was no point in turning you away.”
“I am persistent,” I said. “That much is true about what you've heard.”
“My sources used more colorful language,” she said.
I shrugged.
“You're not bothered by that?” she said.
“Sticks and stones,” I said.
Rita Osbourne let out another sophisticated laugh. It seemed a learned trait from some sort of finishing school. Or I could just be a clod.
“While I'm a fan of the subject,” I said, “If we're done talking about me, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Rita Osbourne said. “It is, after all, what you say you do.”
I gave her my most sophisticated smile. It didn't come nearly as close to her laugh, but I never attended finishing school.