Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

Finn

T here must be over one hundred boats of varying sizes moored at the Marina Del Rey Yacht Club. But one dwarfs them all. It's a monstrous yacht as long as a city block—close to three hundred feet—with five levels. Kayla, her arm tucked in the crook of mine, leads me toward the dock. Holding one of her oversized handbags, she's dressed in her usual all-white—tight, high-waisted capris, a creamy leather jacket, and strappy stilettos. Her cropped platinum hair blows in the cool ocean breeze.

"That's Sheldon's yacht," she says, pointing at the massive boat.

My eyes widen. I've never seen anything like it. The monstrosity looks more like a cruise ship. As we get closer, I can make out a name— Marilyn —scrawled in a bold red font across the bow.

"He calls it Marilyn . It's named after his late mother."

"Wow."

"It cost two hundred million dollars. Sheldon got it in a fire sale—some Silicon Valley venture capitalist went bust and had to sell it in a hurry. He invested another fifty million dollars into retrofitting it, transforming it into the ultimate party boat. It can accommodate fifty overnight guests plus the one hundred-man crew, but the disco is big enough for five hundred people. There's also a gym, spa, heated pool, full-service salon, 3-D theater, and even a helicopter landing on one of the outdoor decks. The one thing it's still missing is artwork—I'm sure Sheldon would love to put some of your choice pieces on the walls."

"Maybe, he'll give me a tour," I deadpan, still in awe of the jaw-dropping vehicle.

"I doubt it," replies Kayla. "Sheldon's so not a show off."

Yeah, right, I muse, climbing up a ramp to the million-dollar boy toy and thinking about how he can easily afford my paintings. Fifty thousand dollars is a mere drop in the hat. At least for him.

A few minutes later we're on board. A white-uniformed steward wearing an admiral's cap with an "M" emblazed in gold greets us.

"Ah, Ms. Phillips, so good to see you again." He smiles mechanically, his stance stiff and formal. His eyes drift to me. "And you must be Mr. Jackson."

"Yes." Though I've never gotten used to my new name, we share a firm handshake as Kayla introduces us. His name is Hans.

"Phineas is my fiancé," adds Kayla, pecking my cheek. "Where is Sheldon?"

"I believe he's just finishing up a game of Baccarat."

"Oh, I forgot to mention," chimes in my companion. "Sheldon installed a full Vegas-style casino, with slot machines and game tables. His game night parties are to die for. Complete with fireworks!"

What doesn't this mega yacht have? Sheldon is definitely a man who says: I see it, I want it, it's mine. His wealth and power are formidable, though unrivaled by his ruthless don't-waste-my-time reputation. I still remember how intimidated I felt when I met him for the first time with Kayla... that fateful day.

The steward stops me from venturing to that dark place. "Would you like to join Mr. Greenberg in the casino?"

"I don't gamble," I reply, wondering whom he's playing against. Having once been a dirt-poor struggling artist, it's always been hard for me to foolishly risk my hard-earned money. Plus, I'm only carrying a hundred dollars in my billfold, definitely not enough to plunk down in a high stakes game.

"Very well," says Hans. "I'll let Mr. Greenberg know you're both here and have him meet you in the executive dining room." He plucks out a phone from his pristine, perfectly pressed white pants and relays the information.

A few minutes later, we descend a swirling grand staircase that looks like it's straight out of an old movie star mansion with its gilded ebony banister. Along the way we pass several opulently decorated rooms, including the cinema with its burgundy velvet seats and matching gold-fringed curtains. The dining room is on the third deck, two levels down.

Just like the other quarters I've glimpsed, it's lavishly decorated in 1920's art deco, a style I studied while at art school. A stately dining room suite dominates the paneled room—a veneered table that can sit twelve plus a mirrored bar stocked with fine crystal and every expensive bottle of liquor possible. Sheldon is at the bar, his back to me, pouring himself a drink. When Hans announces us, he flips around, holding an amber-filled tumbler. Dismissing the steward, he lumbers toward us.

"Kayla, baby. Great to see you!"

Kayla meets him halfway and gives him one of those pretentious double cheek kisses. "Sheldon, thank you for having us. You look wonderful! Have you lost weight?"

I soak him in. He doesn't look any slimmer since the last time I saw him. Nautically clad in shorts that bag over his thick, hairy calves and a striped T-shirt that hugs his fat rolls, he gulps his drink and chortles.

"Yeah, thanks. My personal trainer put me on a low carb macrobiotic diet. I've lost three pounds. I hate this shit. I want a goddamn steak."

Kayla throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, darling, it'll be so worth it. You already look so amazing."

Give me a break. He looks exactly the same. She's such an in-your-face kiss up. Knowing exactly what to say at the right time. It's all part of her skill set. The ultimate promoter.

"Don't tell anyone I'm having a couple of bourbons. And I may cheat today."

Kayla winks. "Don't worry, darling. It'll be our little secret. Girl Scout's honor." She gives him the three-finger salute.

Sheldon's expression grows salacious. His beady eyes travel down her endowed body. "Sweetheart, you wore one of those cute little green dresses?"

Unfazed by his roving eyes, she laughs. "Yes, darling. And I was also a Brownie leader with fifty badges. It all helped me get into Yale."

Maybe that's how she got her brown-noser skills. I can't imagine sexy, long-legged Kayla in one of those goody two-shoes uniforms.

Cutting into my thoughts, Sheldon asks if we want anything to drink. Kayla goes for her usual—a Bellini, which he expertly prepares—and I settle on a beer. A Heineken, which he retrieves from a built-in icebox. Our host then refills his tumbler with an expensive bourbon.

He proposes a toast. "To your marriage. May it last longer than any of mine."

Kayla laughs on cue. "Oh, Sheldon, you're way too cute. There's no doubt in my mind I've found my Prince Charming." She turns to me, a cloying smile plastered on her face. "Let's toast again. To us! The power couple of the art world."

Reluctantly, I clink my bottle against their glasses. The crystal-clear pings sing in my ears.

Taking a sip of her drink, Kayla sets her eyes on me. "Darling, Sheldon has offered us both his house and yacht for our wedding. What do you think?"

Before I can respond, footsteps sound in the room. I spin around to find a tall, handsome, silver-haired man striding toward us. He's dressed casually but elegantly in a gray cashmere turtleneck that complements his shimmering hair and tailored charcoal slacks. I recognize him instantly.

"Jim, get your big dick over here and let me introduce you to my guests," our host calls out.

I don't need an introduction from Sheldon. I know who he is.

Jim Hartley. My late wife's former boss.

"So nice to finally meet you," coos Kayla, running her manicured fingers through her sun-kissed hair. "Sheldon didn't tell me how handsome you are."

Jim's steel-gray eyes stay on her. Making their way down her body, he seems smitten by her icy beauty. "Nor did he tell me how beautiful you are. Why haven't we met before?"

Sheldon intervenes. "Sorry, Jimbo. She's taken. Phineas here is her fiancé."

Helping himself to a shot of Jack Daniels, Jim's attention diverts to me. Recognition flickers in his eyes. "Hey, don't I know you?"

"My late wife worked for you. We met briefly at a Conquest Broadcasting Christmas party."

Taking a sip of his whisky, the Southerner digests my words, furrowing his brows as if he's trying to remember our encounter. Truthfully, it wasn't memorable—a quick, perfunctory "nice to meet you" and he moved on to more important people in the crowd. The movers and shakers. The beautiful women, many of them models and starlets.

He takes another swig of his drink. Time to jog his memory.

"Perhaps this will help you. You gave a speech at her memorial service."

He swallows hard. "Are you talking about Skye Collins?"

"Yeah."

"What?" mutters Sheldon, choking on his drink. He regurgitates the liquid, spraying it all over the floor as he staggers back against the bar.

"Sheldon darling, are you okay?" asks Kayla.

A snarl curls his lips as he nods his head and gestures with his hand: Stay away!

Jim, on the other hand, maintains his composure.

"I'm sorry about your loss. Your late wife was one of our finest investigative reporters. It's a real shame her life was cut short. Such an unfortunate accident."

"Yes, such an unfortunate accident," parrots Kayla, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Anger surges inside me. While I've never discussed the circumstances of Skye's untimely death with anyone, the need to get it off my chest consumes me. Maybe Hartley knows something. I take a fortifying breath.

"Actually, it may have been more than an accident. The police believe she was murdered."

Sheldon blanches while Jim flinches. Artists, like writers, are observers. Their skittish reactions disturb me. Something's off. A tense silence fills the air until I break it. Curiosity pulses through me.

"I hear you were interrogated."

Hartley sips his drink before answering. "Yeah, the police came snooping around her office. Some shlumpy cop who was a dead ringer for Columbo."

Detective Billings.

"He went through her desk and asked a lot of annoying questions."

"Like what?" I spit out the words, hoping that Skye's former boss can shed some light on her murder, which is now considered a cold case.

"Like if she was working on anything unusual."

"What did you tell the dickhead?" asks Sheldon, the anxious tone of his voice mirroring his vexed expression.

"Nothing. There was nothing to tell." As Sheldon drains his drink, Hartley turns to me. "Your wife was more consumed with getting home early to spend time with your baby."

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. He's bullshitting me. Skye always put her career first. Nothing was more important to her than chasing down a story; a nine-to-five job didn't exist for her. While I brood, unable to probe further, Kayla interjects.

"Puh-lease, let's get off this morose subject. Bygones are bygones. Let's celebrate the future." Setting her flute on the bar, she dips her hand into her enormous bag. "I've brought along a special treat." She holds up a small Ziploc plastic bag filled with white powder and smiles seductively. "Anyone?"

Cocaine? No fricking way. My blow days are long over. I haven't touched the stuff since I was in art school. My one-time near overdose put the kibosh on ever snorting up the shit again. And now as a single-father, I can't risk it. Maddie means too much to me.

Sheldon's face lights up like a kid in a candy store. "Way to go, babe. Let's do some lines on the dining room table." He grabs a few cocktail straws off the bar.

"Works for me," pipes up Hartley, heading over to the table with Kayla and Sheldon.

Holding my beer, I watch as Kayla pours the white powder onto the table, and then with a credit card, arranges it into three lines, spaced a few inches apart. Sheldon passes out the straws.

"Ladies first," insists Hartley with a wink, standing next to her.

"Aww! Such the gentleman." She bends over the table, her tight, perfectly shaped ass high in the air, her perfectly coiffed hair dusting the surface. Her nose hovering over the white substance, she puts the six-inch straw to one nostril and pinches the other. As I drain my brew, she expertly snorts in the coke with a swift, single inhale. Jeez. She must be a regular user. Suddenly, I understand her mercurial behavior. My gut knots. She's both my manager and fiancée. The future mother to my daughter. What in God's name have I gotten myself into?

Hartley plants his manicured hand on the small of Kayla's back as she rises. "Nice job, sugar."

Licking her upper lip, she shoots him a slow, alluring smile. "Try some, Jim."

His eyes glaring with lust, he repeats her actions, though it takes him two snorts to inhale his line.

"Dang good stuff," he drawls.

Then, it's Sheldon's turn. He bends over, his paunch folded over the table. He snorts it in loudly and quickly.

"Wow, sweetheart. This is really good shit!"

"Sheldon, only the best for you. You have such great taste. But you should really thank my new dealer."

"Why don't we thank him by doing another round?" He swings around to face me. "C'mon, man. Don't be such a stick in the mud. Have some fun with us."

Thirty minutes later, when they decide to cruise to Catalina, I excuse myself, eager to get the hell off this boat and go back home to my daughter and her sweet teacher, Scarlet.

High as kites, they don't even know I've parted.