Promise You Won't Tell?
John Locke
Dani Ripper
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PROMISE YOU WON’T TELL?
Copyright © 2012 John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Version 2013.05
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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Monday.
“I saw you on TV this morning promoting your business,” Jana Bagger says, entering my office.
“Great! How did I come across?”
“Like stink on a turd.”
“Wow! Thank you!”
She gives me an odd look.
I extend my hand, she takes it. It feels odd, somehow, two women shaking hands.
Jana sits. “Should I call you Dani or Ms. Ripper?”
“Dani’s fine.”
“You’re young.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“As I said,” she sniffs.
“Being young has its advantages, Jana.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve got boundless energy!”
“That’s it?”
“I’m enthusiastic.”
“Same thing.”
“I’ve got perky breasts.”
She glances at my chest and sniffs again, unimpressed. Then says, “I wasn’t aware you had valet parking, Ms. Ripper.”
“Please, call me Dani. Regarding the valet parking, we’re very service-oriented when it comes to our clients.”
“Am I a client, then?”
“Yes. We’ve agreed to take your case.”
“I drive a terribly expensive car. I’m not sure I trust my M6 to that scruffy teenager out front.”
“His name’s Dillon. He’s a good driver.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Quite well. Why do you ask?”
She hesitates. “I don’t want to get him fired. He might follow me home and burst my skull like a ripe melon.”
“Dillon almost never does that to new clients. You can speak freely.”
“He was eating from a box of cereal when I pulled up.”
“Dillon likes his sugar.”
“His hands were sticky. I made him wash before touching my car keys.”
“Always a good idea,” I say.
We’re quiet a minute. Finally she says, “How much do you charge?”
“A thousand to take your case, five hundred a day to work it. If we haven’t solved your case in four weeks, we work for free till we do.”
“That sounds terribly expensive.”
“Not after the fourth week.”
“I doubt you’ll work very hard after the fourth week.”
“You’re right. We probably won’t work on your case at all after the fourth week.”
“What, you just give up?”
I shrug.
She frowns. “That doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
“We only take cases we can solve quickly. If we give up, we offer a complete refund, minus the initial thousand for taking the case.”
“Theoretically, you could take a thousand cases, solve none of them, and pocket a million dollars.”
“Yes, but our references would be non-existent.”
“So you have references?”
I shrug. “No. But it’s not because we’re failing to solve cases.”
“Your response begs explanation.”
“It does?”
“If you don’t mind.”
I pause a moment, thinking up an example. Then say, “If we prove your husband’s cheating, you’ll be upset, right?”
Jana says nothing, so I add, “Upset clients don’t give written recommendations.”
“Perhaps they’re upset for other reasons.”
I frown. “We can probably get some wives to tell you we caught their husbands having affairs.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Do you have other employees?”
“Partners.”
“Can I meet them?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They’re highly skilled, highly connected, highly placed. Diligent, but low profile. I’m contractually obligated to protect their identities.”
“You make it sound as though your partners are in the CIA.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Your partners are in the CIA?”
“No. But I agree it sounds that way.”
She frowns. “You fancy yourself witty.”
“Witty, with enormous breasts. But that’s my fancy. Truth is, they’re just perky.”
Jana’s expression says I’m failing to win her over, but we both know she needs me. She clears her throat and says, “As I mentioned last week in our phone conversation, I think my husband’s cheating on me.”
“And you wanted us to find out.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought he might be seeing his new secretary, Darcie Darden.”
“Not seeing her. Fucking her.”
“I understand the difference.”
“That’s encouraging. How long will it take you to find out?”
“In dollars, twenty-five hundred.”
“That’s…” I wait for her to do the math. “Three days? You think you can catch my husband cheating in the space of three days?”
“Yes.”
“That seems ambitious.”
I open my desk drawer, pull out a file, lay it on the
desk, and tap it with my fingertip.
“We already have,” I say.
“Have what?”
“Solved the case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Whenever possible, we like to solve our cases before accepting them.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Maybe so. But it helps our success rate.”
“You’ve got proof in that file?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
I open the file and remove the top sheet, the application.
“I’ll show you everything. After you fill out the paperwork and pay the fee.”
“Son of a bitch!” Jana screams.
“It’s just paperwork,” I say.
“Not that, you nitwit. My husband.”
“What about him?”
“You’ve obviously caught him cheating. You couldn’t prove in three days he’s not cheating.”
“That’s very astute,” I say, handing her a pen.
She starts crying.
I’d attempt to comfort her, but she appears to like me less than a baboon likes diaper rash. Plus, my cell phone picks this very moment to chirp a text message. It’s my secretary, Fanny, claiming to be sick.
As usual.
I text back, I don’t believe you.
The office phone rings.
“Dani Ripper, private detective.” I say, cheerfully.
“Ms. Ripper, it’s an honor. My name’s Eric Cobblestone. Are you still taking cases?”
“I am. Do you have one for me?”
“I think my wife is cheating on me.”
“I expect she is.”
“Excuse me?”
“In my experience, if you think your wife is cheating, you’re probably right.”
He pauses a moment. Then says what they all say.
“I…I need to know for certain.”
And I say what I always say.
“Of course you do.”
“How do we proceed?”
I look to see if Jana is filling out her paperwork.
She is.
“Ms. Ripper?” Eric says.
“Yes?”
“How do I become a client?”
“I’ll need a thousand dollars and a pair of your wife’s panties.”
Jana looks up at me. I motion her to continue filling out the form.
“Excuse me?” Cobblestone says. “Did you say you need my wife’s panties?”
“Yes. What’s her name?”
“Erica.”
“You’re joking.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“Your name’s Eric, hers is Erica?”
“That’s right.”
“That must get confusing.”
“Why?”
I let it go. “Is Erica still sleeping with you?”
“Not so much these days.”
“Can you talk her into it?”
“Probably…Possibly…Maybe…No, probably not. Why do you ask?”
“Get her to have sex with you. Then pay attention to the panties she puts on afterward. When she removes them, put them in a plastic bag and bring them to me.”
“Her soiled panties?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a degenerate.”
Jana looks up. I motion her to continue.
“I’m kidding,” I say to Mr. Cobblestone. “It’s part of the process.”
“The kidding?”
“The panties.”
“So you’re serious?”
“About the panties? Yes, absolutely. Let me know when you’ve bagged them.”
“Can I ask what you intend to do with them?”
“I’m going to test them in my lab.”
“Test them for what?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
He pauses. “Semen?”
“Ugh. Yes.”
“But...” he seems exasperated. “You’ll only be proving I slept with my wife.”
“That’s correct.”
“This conversation makes no sense!”
“See? That’s why I hate taking cases over the phone.”
“This conversation would be less confusing in person?”
“Just get the panties. Then call for an appointment. Trust me, I’ll find your wife’s lover.”
We hang up. Before I have a chance to deal with Jana, I get another text from Fanny.
I’ve never been this sick in my whole life. It’s possible I’m dying.
I text back, Prove it. In person.
Fanny texts, I’m serious. These might be my last words.
I text back, Your last words to me will be “You can’t fire me.” But I will.
Jana pushes the completed form across my desk. I give it a quick review.
“Did you bring your checkbook?” I ask.
She sighs, writes the check, pushes it across the desk. I pick it up, make sure it’s properly dated and signed, and place it in the slot on the wall behind my chair.
Then I open the folder, show her the evidence.
“The first page shows your husband’s driving history. The two entries that count are highlighted in yellow. This one’s the Colony Motel, on Brookwood. Ever been there?”
She shakes her head no.
“Tuesday at noon your husband entered the motel lobby, took the elevator to the third floor, knocked on the door of room three-fifteen. The door opened, he entered. Fifty-one minutes later, he exited the room. Thirty minutes after that, a woman exited the room, took the elevator down to the lobby, and checked out.”
“Was it Darcie Darden?”
I show her a photo.
Her face turns crimson, then bursts into flames. Well, not literally, but trust me when I tell you she’s pissed.
Cover-your-ears pissed.
“Home-wrecking cocksucker!”
I pause to make sure she’s referring to Ms. Darden, and not me. Then say, “Our operative followed Ms. Darden to fourteen twenty-six Riverside, which happens to be the second highlighted trip your husband made.”
“When?”
“Eight o’clock this morning.”
She looks at her watch. “You mean he’s there right now?”
“Possibly.”
I show her a photo of the house and ask, “Recognize it?”
“No. But that can’t be Darcie’s house.”
“Why not?”
“Look at it.”
I do, but I don’t understand.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.
“She’s my husband’s secretary.”
“So?”
“This house is nicer than mine!”
“I agree it’s nicer. But why can’t it be hers?”
“Is it?”
“No.”
She smiles as if she’s won a victory, but a hollow one. Like a tennis player who wins a match when her opponent double-faults the final serve. But the idea she’s smiling after hearing the house isn’t Darcie’s, confuses me greatly. Maybe it’s because I don’t play tennis.
She interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Whose house is it?”
I sigh. “This is what I hate about my job.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The house belongs to your husband.”
“What?”
I nod.
“Max has another house?”
“Yes. And this is it.”
“He’s renting it?”
“No.”
“He—you can’t mean he owns it?”
“Yes.”
She stares at the photo.
It really is a nice house.
She says, “My husband, Max Bagger, owns this house.”
“That’s correct.”
“And Darcie Darden lives there?”
“She appears to.”
Jana starts crying again. I put my hand on hers. She recoils in horror. “Are you hitting on me?”<
br />
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question,” she says, regaining her composure. “I asked if you were hitting on me.”
“No, of course not!” I say, defensively. Then ask, “Why would you think that?”
Why indeed? She’s not even Max’s first choice.
She says, “It’s a well-known fact you’re a lesbian.”
“It’s a…what?”
I sigh.
Do I really need to explain my sexual orientation to Jana Bagger?
And if so, what would I say? Would I tell her I kissed a girl? And liked it?
I could say that, because I did kiss a girl.
My best friend, Sophie Alexander. In a limousine last month.
And I did like it.
To be completely truthful, I kissed her a lot.
Yup, pressed the button on the arm rest and waited till the privacy panel was completely up. Then Sofe and I fooled around on the back seat for more than an hour.
What do I mean by “fooled around?”
We…you know. Did a few things.
To each other.
You know, with clothes on.
And without.
It was all very experimental.
I mean, I knew what I’d find under Sophie’s clothes, it’s just that I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I found it.
When I found them, I mean. You know…the different things I uncovered.
Under her clothes.
Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to do, so I took a cue from Sophie, who seemed to know exactly what to do with what she found under my clothes.
And then I sort of—you know—did the same things to her.
Which was pretty much…everything.
As far as I know.
…And I liked it.
But…we haven’t done those things since, even though we live together.
Nor have we talked about it.
Maybe it’s a limo thing.
Maybe it’s something else.
In other words, I’m still confused.
It’s…
It’s a long story. Even Jana doesn’t want to hear it. If she did, she wouldn’t be changing the subject.
She says, “My husband Max owns another house?”
“Yes. A very nice one.”
“For how long?”
“According to the deed, three-and-a-half years.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Darcie’s only worked for him a few months.”
“Four months next week,” I say.
“Do you have proof he fucked her on Tuesday?”
“No.”
“Maybe he had another reason to meet her at the Colony Motel.”
“Maybe they were planning a surprise party for you!”
