Page 22 of The Perfect Illusion

“Sounds like a real charmer,” Jessie muttered. “What club is it?”

“The Santa Monica Country Club," she answered. "It looks like it's about a seven-minute drive from the station."

“Do you know the place?” Jessie asked Brady.

“I’m familiar,” he said.

“Is that where you like to get pumped?” Jessie couldn’t help but tease him. “Or do you prefer to go there to get in a quick nine holes?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Brady asked with a crooked grin.

“Great,” Jessie replied. “Then you can show me around after we say hi to Moran. Shall we head out so we catch him before he leaves?”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Just give me five seconds to change into something more presentable.”

“Actually, maybe you don’t change,” Jessie suggested.

“Why not?”

“I like the look,” she told him. “If you go into this fancy club in your coffee-stained sweatshirt, playing up the slobby detective vibe—no offense.”

“None taken,” he assured her.

“If you play up that vibe, I think it’s more likely to crack a few eggs,” she said, “and with an egotistical lawyer like Moran, I think the more cracked he is, the better.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jessie was impressed.

Brady was leaning into the slob energy with reckless abandon. And it was having the desired effect. He’d started even before they found Moran, when pulling up to the valet station at the front of the Santa Monica Country Club, which was on its own compound on a cliffside overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“I’m gonna leave the car here,” he said to the valet who jogged over, about to tell him he couldn’t park his dented 2010 Nissan Sentra in the “loading only” zone. The young man was just opening his mouth to object when Brady flashed his badge. “Where’s the gym?”

The valet pointed them in the right direction. As they entered the lobby, the sound of their rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the Carrara marble-tiled floor got the attention of a man in a full suit speaking to a member near the entrance to the club café. The man scurried over to them quickly.

“Lay it on thick,” Jessie muttered to Brady. “We want to make a scene. That way, Moran will hopefully talk just to get rid of us.”

“Hello,” the suited man whispered breathlessly as he sidled up next to them. “My name is Cal. I’m the club manager. How may I help you?”

“Yeah,” Brady said loudly, seeming to jut his already abundant belly out even further than normal, “we’re looking for the gym. Your valet pointed down the hall to the left. That right?”

“It is,” Cal assured him, “However our gym facilities are intended exclusively for club members and their guests.”

“How do you know I’m not a member?” Brady demanded belligerently as he started down the hallway. “That’s pretty rude, don’t you think?”

Jessie had to jog to keep up with him, as did Cal.

“Sir, I apologize if that’s the case,” he said. “But I do pride myself on knowing most members on sight. Perhaps we’ve just missed each other. If I could just see your membership card, that should clear everything up.”

“That’s okay, Cal,” Brady said, pointing out the door to the gym to Jessie. “I forgive you for your classist assumption. Me and my lady friend are just going to check out the facilities. No need for an escort.”

He started to open the gym door, but Cal pushed it closed.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but I must insist that you either show me your membership card or leave the club facilities. Of course, I'm happy to take you back to the office where we can discuss membership pricing options."

Brady stared at the man, dead-eyed.

“Cal,” he growled, using a tone Jessie had rarely heard from the happy-go-lucky-detective, “you’re going to want to take you hand off the door.”

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