“What’s the rate again?”
“Thirty-five grand.”
Max whistles. “Can you reschedule the date?”
“It has to be on Sunday because of his schedule. Something about flying to Fiji for another shoot.”
“Do you know who Crystal is?”
I nod. “Kind of. She won’t talk to me. Something happened before my accident.”
“Hmm.”
I remember my text convo with Kobra the other day. She might talk to him. The dude had a boat ride to Catalina planned for her. She must like him better than me, even with all of his biblical tattoos. He looks like the devil but he’s probably just a typical macho asshole who talks shit and plays Xbox all day. He definitely doesn’t look like one of my millionaire clients, although he could be some fucked-up trust-funder, the broadest catchall category of rich guy. I send out a Hail Mary text:
Did you ever get ahold of Crystal?
A few seconds later, he writes: No. Bitch playing hard to get. Thinks she cute.
Then:
Nvmd. She IS cute. Like Halle Berry wit bigger tits. What’s her address? I wanna surprise her.
Gross! Kobra is starting to sound like a total creep. I don’t know Crystal but I cringe on her behalf. Fuck Kobra.
I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.
Not. I dramatically shove my phone in my purse as if that will get Kobra out of my life.
“Max, for your first task as my employee, see if I have any profiles for guys named Kobra in my GoldRush app, will you? It’s Kobra with a K, FYI.”
“One sec…Kobra, Kobra, Kobra. Okay, found him. He’s in international trade.” He looks up from his phone. “Like what does that even mean? Does he work for the UN, or is he some shady importer-exporter who sends things back and forth to China?”
The thought of Kobra at the UN makes me laugh. I describe his full-body python tat.
“What else is there?”
“He’s originally from Florida. For some reason he looks familiar…I think I know him from somewhere.”
“Maybe you went to school together or something?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Whoever he is, I would think Crystal would be excited about my matchmaking prowess. It seems like I’m giving her a shot with two millionaires. Even if Kobra is a tool, he’s a rich tool. Plus, she has a five-thousand-dollar payday for the date with Kobra and is set for another paycheck for Sunday with Jules. That’s ten grand for two nights! A Kardashian might even show up for that, which makes Crystal…I don’t know, an heiress?
Max looks up from his phone. “What do you think? Will Kobra help us find Crystal?”
I shake my head. “I’m done with Kobra. I have a feeling something’s off with that dude. I just wanted to figure out if he was a legitimate client or just stalking her. We can find Crystal without his help.”
Max says, “You know, I’m starting to think Crystal might know a few things about you.”
I laugh, but not in a good way. If Crystal is the only one who truly knows me, then that’s not saying much. “Crystal hates my guts.”
We’re scrambling up a sand hill to get to the car, and Max holds out a hand to help me up. “I know you, Mia. I don’t know how anyone could ever hate you.”
I revise my earlier opinion. Max wasn’t motivated to create a lie detector because he has a higher standard for the truth than others. Without the lie detector he doesn’t have a clue. He can’t see truth if it slaps him in the face. I could practically kiss him.
Before we leave Laguna, I want to make one more stop. I don’t want to explain why, but I take a deep breath and spit it out. “Max, when I was at the art museum, a guy told me that I fought with some chick at an opening because I was sleeping with her husband. It’s probably not true, but I thought it might be worth checking out.”
Max looks at me carefully. “Okay…”
“He lives in Laguna. We can just swing by real quick and, I don’t know—”
“See if anyone at his house wants to kill you?”
“Exactly. It’ll just be a quick stop to rule it out.” I hope.
CHAPTER
NINE
Frederick Montcalm’s house teeters on the tippy top of a mountain overlooking the PCH, a glass shoebox propped up on chopsticks. I can see it for three turns of the road before we arrive.
Max whistles. “Damn, Mia. This one is richer than the last.”
“What can I say? I might be a slut.” I’m making boyfriend jokes too easily at this point, but the potential affair with Frederick Montcalm disturbs me.
Max waves a hand dismissively. “You probably set this guy up with his wife. You’re successful. People are going to talk about you.”
I think he’s trying to say “haters gonna hate.”25
A beat later, I say, “I hope you’re right. I’ll be disappointed if I find out I’m a giant slut.”
At the front gate, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and hit the button on the intercom box. “Is Frederick home? It’s Mia.” I could introduce Max, but I want to see if whoever answers says, “Mia, you bitch!” or “Come on in, sweetie.”
Someone buzzes the gate open without commentary and I pull the Ferrari up to the turnaround. The housekeeper (of course there’s a housekeeper) ushers us into the house and leads me to Frederick, who has a blanket covering his lap, a half-finished crossword puzzle clutched in his hand, and no hair. It’s not male-pattern baldness, it’s just that all of his systems have started failing due to age, including his hair. He’s probably ninety.
There’s no way I was having an affair with this man. Then I look around and realize maybe I was having an affair with his house. Did I pay for this view with an occasional blow job? I hug my chest as if to protect myself from the old pervert or maybe to restrain the demon inside me who would blow an old guy for a beautiful view. I look at Max with the fear of God in me and silently mouth, Am I Anna Nicole?
He gives me a genuine smile. No.
I certainly hope not. “Mr. Montcalm,” I say. He’s dozing and my voice brings him to.
He takes a minute to look around. “Hi, dear. You’re home early.”
Fuck. He recognizes me.
Max extends his hand. “Hi, sir, I’m Max Charles. Nice to meet you.
“Are you an artist too?”
Frederick thinks I’m an artist. Snapchat hearts practically spring from my brain spontaneously and encircle my head like a fairy princess wreath. This is my favorite misconception since waking up.