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Chapter 7
If you’re going to get jiggy with it, make sure the curtains are closed. ~ Phoebe’s rules for becoming a better person
The next day I’m trailing a cheating spouse. I mean alleged cheating spouse. I don’t have the proof Mr. Kindle is a cheater – yet.
Hailey usually doesn’t want me working on cheater cases as I’m too ‘conspicuous’. Conspicuous? How am I conspicuous? I’m sitting in an SUV with darkened windows outside of a craptastic motel. Oh wait, that does sound a bit conspicuous.
It’s not my fault Mr. Kindle likes to get his groove on with his secretary at lunch once a week at this motel. I don’t get it. Why be in a committed relationship if you’re going to cheat? And if you are going to cheat, why come to a place where the bedsheets most likely haven’t been washed since the last visitor? Bed bugs are real, you know.
I’m not kidding about this place being crappy. It doesn’t even have a name. There’s simply a sign with ‘Motel’ on it. Of the five letters in motel, two still light up. The ‘M’ and the ‘e’ spelling Me. How appropriate. After all, Mr. Kindle isn’t thinking about anyone but himself.
I watch as a gray Cadillac pulls into the lot. What a jerk. He can afford a Cadillac, but he’s not willing to splurge a little on a hotel room. Dirtbag.
I raise my camera and watch through the viewer as Mr. Kindle exits the car. He doesn’t bother going around the car to open the door for his passenger. When the passenger steps out, I can’t help my eye roll. Of course, his secretary is a blonde wearing a skintight dress nearly giving me a peek of her rear end. Typical. Isn’t she freezing her butt off?
I snap away as the two walk to a room. Mr. Kindle produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the door. Huh. Did he already have the key? Does he keep a permanent room in this place? My nose wrinkles of its own accord. I don’t want to know.
I watch as he walks in, leaving his secretary to follow. They close the door and I wait a minute before getting out of the SUV. I know I need to take pictures of them in an indelicate position, but I’m struggling with the idea of watching strangers have sex. I’ve never watched porn before and now I’m going to see the action live and in person.
Maybe Hailey and Suzie are right. Maybe I’m not meant to do the cheater cases. No. I refuse to believe it. This is my job. I’m not watching them have sex for fun. I’m not a voyeur. I’m a professional.
I straighten my back and march right on over to their room. The curtains are slightly open as if they couldn’t be bothered to take the time to close them properly before attacking each other.
I peek inside to see both parties are naked and on the bed. Guess someone doesn’t believe in foreplay. I feel for his secretary. I know what it’s like to be with a man who doesn’t bother to get you warmed up for the main act. It sucks. Not literally. There is no sucking involved, which is the entire problem.
I bring the camera up and snap a whole bunch of pictures. There. Done. I switch off the camera and walk back to my vehicle feeling pleased with myself. I didn’t gag once. Of course, I didn’t see any naked body parts besides a hairy, flabby ass. Someone needs to find a good esthetician. And maybe a personal trainer.
I walk around the front of the SUV to the driver’s seat and stop dead. Shit. Damn. What is he doing here?
“Can I help you?” I pretend I don’t know who he is.
“You can give me your camera,” Mr. Brown demands.
I wrinkle my brow, still acting like I don’t know who he is. “No.” I pull the camera close to my chest. “I don’t know who you are—”
He cuts me off. “Enough of the bullshit. You know exactly who I am.”
I drop the act and make a demand of my own. “How did you figure out who I am?” It’s not like I’m wearing a jacket advertising the firm We Cheat, You Eat.
He snickers. “Like it was hard.”
I motion with my hand for him to continue.
“Melanie clocked your car a week ago. Got a contact who ran the plates.”
Darn. It was easy to find me. Maybe we should invest in some fake license plates when we’re staking out a place. Or maybe I’m not as good at being inconspicuous as I thought. I shake those thoughts right out of my head. This is not the time to worry about my job performance.
“Now. If explanation hour is done, I’ll take the camera.”
He holds out his hand. As if I’m going to simply hand the camera to him.
“Why do you need the camera?” I act like I’m a dumb blonde. It’s not my first time pretending to be an idiot. It probably won’t be my last. I thought I’d left the dumb blonde act in my past, but if it helps me out here, you won’t hear me complaining.
“Don’t act stupid. I need the pictures you took. Dead men can’t be photographed.”
What do I do now? Do I admit the pictures have already been printed and a report sent to the insurance company? His wife’s claim for life insurance is going to be denied no matter whether he has my camera or not.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
