Illusion of Luck 9

When he yanked her blouse open, the buttons flew into the air and landed on the floor and the bed, and behind the dresser. But she was too busy unzipping his pants to notice. Then he kicked each foot to shed his business Florsheims and removed her bra faster than a backstage assistant at a fashion show.

He pulled down her skirt and then her panties. She kicked them off her feet and jumped backward onto the bed. He leaped between her legs with his boxers around his socks.

The couple was pumping like wild animals, oblivious to the woman standing in the back yard with a video camera. The sheers across the window offered no privacy whatsoever.

Rebecca was disgusted, but happy. He’s dead meat now, she thought. “Men are such dogs,” she whispered to herself.

Then she remembered she had company. She looked down at the mutt sitting beside her. “Sorry. You’re nothing like that slime ball.”

The dog looked at the window and barked.

Rebecca panicked. The couple was still going at it. But she didn’t want to push her luck. She hit the stop button and began to walk around to the side of the house. The dog was at her heels. She prayed it wouldn’t bark again or bite her on the ankle.

Then she heard the back door open.

“Who’s out there?” he yelled.

She hurried to the sidewalk and headed toward her car, which she had parked down the block.

That was close, she thought. He heard the bark, but didn’t want to investigate until he was done. Mr. Big Shot really knew how to satisfy a woman. The sweaty gymnastics had lasted a mere two minutes.

She opened her cell phone as she drove away.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Rebecca Ranghorn. Sorry to call you so late.”

“That’s okay.”

“We’ve got him. Got him cold on video.”

“What’s her name?” she demanded. “Where does she live?”

“Now, settle down. I’m not going to give you her name right now. Don’t want you going over there and blowing her head off.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t even have a gun.”

“Yeah. One time a client told me that, but then after I gave her the woman’s name, she went out and bought a gun.”

“And she killed the woman?”

“No. She accidentally shot herself in the leg. But she would have tried to kill her if she hadn’t shot herself first. So, I don’t take chances anymore. But, believe me—your cheating hus¬band is going to agree to a very nice divorce settlement after we threaten to give this video to his self-righteous boss.”

“Yeah. He’d get fired for sure if Mr. Morris ever saw it. So, what are they doing on the video—kissing and making out?”

“A lot more than that. And he didn’t even use a condom.”

“So, they actually had sex?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh! That makes me so mad. He said he was getting the vasectomy so I wouldn’t have to go through the ordeal of hav¬ing my tubes tied. But his real reason was so he could go out and—” She began to sob.

“I’m sorry. I know this is tough. But the good news is that we’re gonna be able to squeeze every penny out of the pig.”

She asked the woman to come to her office on Monday and said goodbye.

Rebecca never hired a private investigator for any of her cases, preferring to do the work herself. The experience she had gained during her college years while working with her dad had made her a better investigator than most of the local hacks would ever be.

Randy Ranghorn was an easy-going, but tough guy, who looked like the John Wayne character in the movie El Dorado. He had never been a young version of The Duke. To Rebecca, her dad had always been middle-aged. And that’s the way she would remember him and love him.

She should have been with him that night. But he had insisted that she stay home and study for her final exam.

And the house was supposed to be vacant. He picked the back lock and slipped into the dark house. All he needed was copies of a few documents. There was no way he could have known that a drug dealer had taken up residence in that house. Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to save him anyway. And she might have gotten herself killed too.

But Melanie was a different story. She could have saved her. The petite 28-year-old had become Rebecca’s partner and best friend after a rocky start.

Rebecca had pulled into a motel parking lot to stake out a certain husband, when another woman parked in front of her car. She watched the woman sip coffee and fiddle with her cam-era. Finally, she had seen enough.

She got out, walked to the woman’s car, and knocked on the window. “What are you do¬ing?”

The woman choked on her coffee and rolled down the win¬dow. “What?”

“I said: what are you doing? I saw you sitting here watch¬ing Room 103.”

“Yeah well, it’s none of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is my business. I think you’re stealing my work.”

“What are you talking about? I’m just waiting for someone and drinking my coffee.”

“No. You’re working for my client, which means she might try to weasel out of paying me.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know anything about you. I’m just doing my job.”

“Okay, then. Let me ask you this: did you get shots of him feeling up the secretary?”

“No. Did you?”

“Yep—through his office window. I was on top of the building across the street.”

“Nice. But do you have audio of him telling her what he wants to do to her?”

“You bugged his office?”

The other woman smiled.

“I like your style, Lady. Let me introduce myself. I’m Re¬becca Ranghorn.” She held out her hand.

“Melanie Maylin. Glad to meet you.”

Melanie invited Rebecca into her car and they talked for two hours. It turned out they had a lot in common. Rebecca had worked as a private investigator for two years after her father died. Then she went to law school. After graduation, she joined a firm that specialized in Contract Law. She did her best to fit into the corporate world.

But then a friend confided in her about her marital prob¬lems and asked for help. The friend suspected her husband was hav¬ing an affair. And if so, she didn’t want to waste any more of her life with someone she couldn’t trust.

Rebecca agreed to look into it, and immediately launched into private eye mode. And it felt so good—like slipping into a pair of her favorite shoes. It was so comfortable and natural. She caught the cheater on camera and handled the divorce. It all came so easily to her—until one of the partners found out about it.

Unfortunately, the partner was a friend of the cheating hus¬band. Soon after that, she was fired for some bogus reason. She could have fought it, but decided she didn’t care. So, she became a divorce lawyer. And did investigations whenever necessary.

Melanie told her how her husband had cheated while she was in law school. He was a trucker who drove 18-wheel¬ers across the country. The money was pretty good, but he wasn’t home much.

One time she found an odd business card in his pants pocket.

Fifty bucks will get you anything you want for a full hour. Call 501-555-5242. Ask for Cherry.

Melanie looked up the area code, and then one weekend, while her husband was in the Midwest, she drove to Little Rock and called the number on the card. Cherry agreed to meet her at a motel. Melanie figured Cherry was a prostitute, but wanted to be sure before she accused her husband.

“You got the fifty bucks?”

“Yeah.” Melanie handed Cherry the bills.

Cherry slipped off her blouse nonchalantly, as though she was removing a jacket. There was nothing underneath but huge, bare breasts. “Okay, Honey, let’s do it.”

“But I…”

“That’s okay. I can see you’re a little shy. Probably your first time with a pro, huh, Sweetie.”

Melanie was dumbstruck.

Cherry took her in her arms and planted a big, wet kiss on her lips. Her erect nipples were poking Melanie in the chest.

Melanie jumped back. “No. You don’t understand. I just wanted to see what this was all about.”

“Who are you? A reporter—doing an expose? Well, you can forget it. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” She snatched her blouse from the bed.

“No, I’m not a reporter. Really. I think my husband has used your service.”

“Oh, great. Now, take it easy. You don’t have a gun in your purse, do you? I don’t do any married men—at least not knowingly.”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’d just like to ask you some questions. For my own curiosity.”

So, Cherry told Melanie all about the business. And Melanie went back home and confronted her husband. He admitted to using hookers—and not just Cherry’s service. He was a regular customer in five states.

Melanie divorced him, finished law school, and became a divorce lawyer. And she made it her mission in life to save women from their cheating husbands. Her attitude was that husbands were guilty until proven innocent.

By the time the couple emerged from Room 103, Rebecca and Melanie had decided to become law partners. And the wife who had hired them was going to pay both of them or get none of their evidence.

Rebecca was deeply saddened by the death of her dear friend and partner. But she would have her revenge.

The killer must have thought he was so smart—wiping his fingerprints off everything and taking the card with his license number on it.

But when he had turned the card over to read the other side, he had unwittingly exposed his license number to Mela¬nie’s purse camera. And Rebecca’s friend at the DMV had easily matched the number to the owner of the car: Lawrence Igby Luzor, of Plano, Texas.