Chapter Thirteen

Margo Angelhart

Ididn't want to meet with Brittney tonight, but the woman gave me no choice, claiming she couldn't talk on the phone. So at nine Sunday night, I drove to Beverly's in Scottsdale. From the outside, the bar looked like any other popular hangout in old town Scottsdale. Patio seating—which would have been fine tonight because temperatures dropped after the sun went down and it was a comfortable seventy-five degrees. A yellow vault door led inside where upbeat jazzy rock played under the hum of multiple conversations.

It would be a great place to hang out with friends, if I were in a social mood—worn brick walls filled with books and heavy decorative knickknacks. A dark speakeasy vibe. Classy table lighting and deep red, curving leather seats arranged along the dark walls for private conversations, but plenty of high-top tables were scattered around to stand at or sit on stools. Lots of nooks and crannies to people watch or have a semi-quiet conversation. They even had a basement, though you needed reservations most of the time to get a table down there. Yeah, I would have loved it except for two things: the price of the drinks (nowhere in my world would I pay eighteen bucks for a drink; call me cheap,) and it was known as a place to be seen.

Why Brittney wanted to be seen in public with her hired PI made no sense to me. But I'd taken her retainer, and liking my client wasn't a requirement for presenting a report. If Brittney wanted the report verbally and in public, that was her call.

Brittney had a table reserved downstairs, but "Mrs. Monroe hasn't arrived yet." The hostess, in a black blouse and matching pencil skirt that skimmed her knees, offered to escort me, but I preferred to wait at the bar—a large raised platform in the center of the joint. The wood was sleek and polished; spotless wine, martini, and cocktail glasses in an assortment of sizes hung upside down from racks. Two bartenders—one male, one female, each wearing black slacks and black T-shirts with the gold Beverly's logo—moved smoothly as they prepared drinks. One barkeep immediately came over and asked what I wanted.

I'd never acquired the taste for whiskey or vodka or even wine. But beer? Loved it. Especially microbrews. Beverly's had one of my favorite local breweries featured, so I ordered the Church Music IPA. I'd expense the drink, plus a very nice tip. I'd been a bartender for nearly two years after I left the Army while building my PI business. It could be a great job, but you also dealt with a lot of shitheads, so tipping well was a must in my book. It would take a majorly rude server and multiple mistakes to get zip from me.

I paid for my beer and kept an eye out for Brittney, while also being an observant detective and checking out my surroundings. If there weren't so many people trying hard to be noticed, I might have enjoyed the atmosphere. Maybe I'd come back on a slower night. Early in the evening, middle of the week.

I did a double-take when I saw my brother Nico and his boyfriend, FBI Agent Quincy Truman, walk into the bar. They looked around and Nico waved to a small group in one corner. Quincy saw me before my brother did.

I'd love to have a beer with Nico; unfortunately, I detested Quincy. There were many reasons for my distaste, but primarily he was an arrogant, mightier-than-thou, authoritarian federal prick.

To be fair, Quincy wasn't a jerk to Nico. Otherwise, I would have been far more vocal in my dislike of the man.

Quincy whispered something to Nico, who turned and saw me at the bar. He lit up and I smiled. Nico was like that—he always made me smile. The family mediator, the glue that kept us from taking swipes at each other when we were forced together over the last three years.

Quincy went over to the group they clearly knew, but Nico came to me, arms outstretched for a hug. "I wouldn't expect to see you here," he said. "I love this place, but it doesn't seem to be your vibe. Too crowded, too expensive."

Nico knew me well. "Meeting a client. And I've been here a couple of times."

"Voluntarily?"

I laughed. "Hardly. It's not a bad place. Just too many pretty people who spend more time documenting their drinks and eats with their phones than enjoying the company."

Nico slowly surveyed the room, nodded his agreement. "You want to join us?" He motioned to the table of his friends. "It's not going to be a late night. Work tomorrow. But Quincy has had a rough week and needed to get out for some fun. And you'd like these people, I promise."

"Probably."

I didn't want to know about Quincy's rough week, so I didn't ask.

"You canceled dinner with us twice."

"Don't start."

"I know you guys got off on the wrong foot, but—"

I cut him off. "He expects me to apologize for doing my job. Never. And I know he's not going to apologize for doing his—even when he tried to have me arrested for no valid reason. Just look at him over there—glaring at me."

"He's not," Nico said, but I caught him glancing to make sure. Quincy was watching us. Maybe not glaring, but I could read between the eyes.

"Thanks, by the way," I changed the subject.

"For?"

"Bringing on Theo as an intern this summer."

"No need to thank me. It's part of the program."

"Yeah, but I know most interns don't get to choose which department they work in. I'm glad he's learning from you."

"You've done a great job with him. He's kept his nose clean for two years, taking the right classes, putting in time and effort. He's a smart kid."

"A smart ass," I muttered.

Nico laughed. "So are you, sis. Now, about dinner—"

"Quincy is about to come over and rescue you, and I'm not in the mood to be nice, so go."

"Margo—"

"I'll be at Pop and Abuela's party next weekend, on my best behavior, okay? And as long as you're happy with the arrogant fed, I'll bite my tongue until it bleeds."

Nico shook his head, then kissed me. "Love you, sis."

"Love you more, brat."

Nico walked back to his table.

I'd known Quincy Truman for years, had butted up against him several times when the FBI overstepped and I'd been hired by a defense lawyer to review discovery evidence as well as corroborate witness statements. Twice I'd found witnesses that helped the defense—witnesses that the FBI hadn't even bothered talking to.

I didn't like working for defense lawyers—most of the people who hired them deserved to do time. But some people were innocent. Some needed a fighting chance. I really didn't like when the government went after people who couldn't afford to fight back. Sometimes, innocent people got railroaded because they had no one to help them navigate the process. A fair playing field was necessary: if the defendant was guilty, throw him in jail. I had no tears for them. If the defendant was innocent, he shouldn't have to pay tens of thousands of dollars to prove it. And when the feds stacked the deck against someone? I would knock that house of cards to the ground every chance I got.

Nico and Quincy had met through mutual friends and hit it off—Nico didn't know that Quincy was the asshole fed that I often complained about. Probably because I used the nickname Not-So-Special Agent Dickhead. I'd hoped that once Nico knew about all the times Quincy Truman screwed with me, he'd break it off...but he didn't. And he made it clear that if I couldn't say anything nice, zip it.

No way would I lose my brother over anyone, especially his boyfriend.

Five minutes later, Brittney walked in—I'd been ten minutes early; Brittney was fifteen minutes late. She stopped in the middle of the bar, standing out in a bright white sundress with black piping. She smiled, chatted with people, but either didn't see me or ignored me.

I ordered a second beer and took my drink downstairs to where Brittney's table was reserved.

It took her ten minutes to make her way down the stairs.

"Whew! I thought I would never make it through the crowd," she said with a half smile and fake laugh. Everything about this woman was fake. I really, really didn't like her.

But her retainer check cleared, so that was a plus.

Almost immediately, a cocktail waitress came over and took Brittney's order. After the woman returned with a mojito, Brittney said, "Can I see the pictures?"

"I told you on the phone that your husband was not in a compromising position."

"So you didn't take any pictures? How do I know you're telling me the truth? Logan could have paid you off."

That angered me. "You hired me. We have a contract." I took a folder from my bag and slid it across the small table. "This is my report. Every place your husband went for the last ten days. I have not caught him in a compromising position."

"But he did meet with another woman today!" Brittney flipped to the last page, read the paragraph under today's date. "Jennifer White? That's the woman he's sleeping with?"

As calm as possible, I said, "They were fully clothed and appeared to be having a business meeting."

"At the house he lived in before we married. Right."

"Have you spoken to your husband at all today?"

"Yes. We had a bite to eat at home, then he said he had calls to make and I left him in his home office."

It was interesting that Logan Monroe hadn't told his wife he had been rendered unconscious by a yet-unknown substance. But it wasn't relevant to why Brittney had hired me, so I didn't put those details into the report.

"Who has a business meeting at an empty house?" Brittney demanded. She read the paragraph again. "They were inside for thirty minutes? Then they left? Together or separate?"

"Separate," I said truthfully. "When I ID'd the woman, I learned that she had been an intern for Mr. Monroe at one of his companies a few years ago."

"Why were they meeting?"

"They were looking at content on a laptop that Ms. White brought to the meeting, but I couldn't see specifically what they were looking at."

Brittney didn't say anything for a long minute. She sipped her drink and frowned at the report.

"I want pictures."

"There are no pictures of your husband in a compromising position with anyone, man or woman."

"Keep following him."

"I've been tailing him for ten days. When he's not at home, I know where he is, who he's with, what he's doing. I've caught dozens of cheating spouses, and it's never taken me longer than a couple days to prove it. If he is having an affair, he hasn't been physically involved with her since you hired me."

"You can't quit."

I can do whatever the fuck I please.

But I didn't say it.

Brittney read the report again, this time in greater detail.

"This doesn't make any sense," Brittney said after a few minutes. She slid the report back toward me.

"What specifically?"

"Logan has changed. Longer hours, not at his office when he says, being aloof. I hired you because the only reason I could come up with is that he's having an affair. Period."

"When was the first time you had the thought that your husband had changed."

I knew about the not-where-he-says-he-is part, but maybe I needed to go back further.

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Think. There must be a specific moment, something he said or did that had you suspicious."

Because it's neither normal nor healthy for people in a serious relationship to track each other.

I thought of Annie Carillo. The obsessive need of her husband to know where she was every minute of the day.

"Well," Brittney said after sipping her mojito, "I think it would have to be in February. We were out with friends, and they asked what our summer plans were. I mean, who stays here when it's a thousand degrees?"

Only millions of people...

"And Logan said we don't have plans. Not we're thinking about it, not we haven't decided, but he actually said we're staying in Scottsdale all summer."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Of course! He was vague. Said he didn't want to leave, he had a new business venture, and he wanted to be on-site during the renovations for the resort. That's why you hire a general manager, so you don't have to do the day-to-day nonsense."

Or maybe he wanted to be on-site because he took pride in a multimillion-dollar renovation project.

"Maybe it was the truth," I suggested.

"He can do business anywhere. I told him I didn't want to stay, and he said I could do something if I wanted—alone! That's when I started thinking he was having an affair. Getting me out of town would be a big plus. So I watched him closely. Found out he wasn't in his office when that's where he was supposed to be. I tried to spice up our sex life, and I thought he liked it, but then he said I wore him out. I'm sure he has a slut on the side. I need to know who, and I want to put an end to it."

I didn't believe her. Yes, she wanted to know who, but I was 99 percent positive that Brittney wanted proof to get out of the prenup. She didn't want to be married to Logan Monroe. It seemed so clear to me now. Infidelity would give her a reason to walk with five million for every year they were married. They had just had their third anniversary, so she'd get fifteen million if Monroe cheated on her.

Finally, I said, "I don't think your husband is having an affair. Maybe your instincts are right and he's up to something—I don't know what." Though she wondered if it had to do with Jennifer White and Desert West Financial. "But if you want to keep me on, I'll give it another couple days."

"Thank you," she said, sounding relieved. "Tomorrow, Logan is supposed to be at his office meeting with investors on some golf thing he's working on. Ten a.m., then they're going to lunch—I'll find out where and text you. Then he said he had a cocktail meeting here at six thirty, which is why I wanted to come here, check out the place. He told me he was meeting someone. That's suspicious."

"Maybe if you just ask your husband specific questions, he'll tell you."

"You're clearly not married," Brittney said. "I don't want him to know that I'm suspicious, and if I start asking questions, he'll think I am, and then he'll be sneakier."

My parents talked about everything. If Mom wanted to know who Dad was meeting without her, he'd tell her. They had busy careers separate from each other, but when they weren't working, they were together. They socialized together, they went to family events together, they talked. I had never once doubted that my parents loved each other.

Had Brittney ever loved Logan Monroe?

Reluctantly I said, "I'll see what I can learn tomorrow."

My instincts—and the evidence—said Monroe wasn't cheating. Maybe I was wrong. But what I really wanted to know is why Monroe didn't tell his wife about what happened today.

Something didn't add up.