Finn was working his shift, watching Grace
from a side street near her house in Hollywood Hills. I went home to shower and
eat something. Four hours later, he called.
“Grace’s going somewhere… she’s been
dolling up for the last hour,” he said. “You can see that close?”
I was wondering what else he’d seen.
“If only you knew,” he chuckled. “The
glass butterfly roof makes it easy viewing with the drone.”
“Do you want to follow her? If not, I can
do it. I have no plans tonight,” I said.
“I need the money, boss. How about we do
it together? I need to install the tracker app on her phone, and maybe you can
distract her.”
I agreed.
I’d wanted to meet this girl since taking the case. She hadn’t gone
anywhere outside her usual radius ever since she returned home.
I was getting into the car when Finn sent
me a text.
Finn: Grace is on the move, I need to
follow her.
Me: Where is she?
Finn: She started up that little fireplug
of hers and got on I-10 toward Santa Monica. I’m on her tail.
Me: I’m switching to the hands-free mode.
I’m driving.
Finn: Oh, forgot about that. I am switching modes too.
Ten minutes later, I was right behind her.
Me: I’m on the highway. I think I see the
Bug.
The VW Bug was like a toy, changing lanes
seamlessly as if it were in a video game. If I got too close, Grace might see
my car. It’s a little flashy for a
private investigator, but it was perfect for driving in Southern California. I
didn’t want to be spotted, but I wasn’t about to let her lose me. It wouldn’t
be unusual for me to drive toward the beach at the same time as she, would it?
Grace pulled up in front of a nondescript
little piano bar near the beach. The
electric blue neon sign flashed its name, Place Pour Steaks. I got there just in
time to see her hand keys to the valet and saunter in; her hips swaying from
side to side.
Me? I was playing catch-up all the way. I
screeched to a stop in front of the other parking attendant and tossed him the
keys.
My 1962 Skylark convertible, though a
little beat up, was my pride and joy.
“See this fifty-dollar bill? It’s yours
when I leave if you park it over there.”
I pointed at a slot that said Reserved.
Once inside, I took two minutes to find
Grace. She’d scrambled up to the bar as if the house was on fire. I looked
around for the usual suspects—girls down for whatever and putting in the effort
to get noticed. I wanted to meander over to Grace right away, but I couldn’t
look as if I was stalking her.
She sat on the stool at the far end of the
bar, her right leg elongated, the ball of the foot anchoring her in place,
while she rested her left on the stool’s spindle, watching, scoping, and
evaluating. It looked as though she had gone to the same school of surveillance
as me.
Grace’s platinum blonde hair was in loose
waves around her shoulders. She was
wearing a style rich girls do well, casual, edgy, and expensive. An
off-the-shoulder soft leather jacket, accented with zippers and buckles, was
one breath away from slipping down her arms, even though it wrapped her upper
body like a glove. A black lace strap appeared to be an afterthought. I wanted
to lick her skin all along the edges of the lace and up into her collarbone.
Grace wore the RL signature crisp, white,
linen shorts. She encased those long legs in a pair of black over-the-knee
boots by MB, an Italian leather shoe designer. As an investigator, I notice
these details. If I didn’t have a professional agenda regarding Grace Fleming,
I’d know every inch of leg inside the boots. I leaned in close to her and tried
to get the bartender’s attention, but instead, I hoped to get hers. First
impressions were everything, but I didn’t know what kind of image I’d present,
because my interest in the Fleming girl was strong. I shuttered my face into an
expression I’d perfected, dispassionate eyes that veil what I’m thinking or
feeling.
“Sir?” prompted the bartender.
“I’d like Scotch neat with a glass of water.”
“Would you like ice in your water, sir?”
“No,” I said, turning my palm down with a slight
back-and-forth motion.
I stood close enough to Grace to inhale
her scent, vanilla, and oranges, with a hint of clove mixed. It was a heady
concoction. I wondered if her whole body tasted like sugary breakfast cereal.
She turned toward me, and our eyes locked.
. 
