Page 76 of Triggered By Love
Jason took off his sunglasses and put them in his back pocket. “These are designer shades. I’d rather keep them.”
The man’s face remained impassive. He gave Jason a pointed stare and calmly picked the glasses from Jason’s pocket. “I’ll return them when you’re done.”
“Whatever.” Jason shrugged. These were cheap Locs anyway, a knockoff meant to make him look mean. Locs-style sunglasses were popularized by gangs in Los Angeles and featured heavily darkened lenses.
The other two men, muscled and armed, flanked Jason as he followed Graybeard. He was led to a set of double doors and ushered into the library.
The first thing that struck Jason was the mahogany wood-paneled room divider with a large aquarium full of tropical fish alongside a copper bar counter and leather swivel stools.
Richie Overton lounged in a zero-gravity recliner next to the bar with a fruity cocktail in his hand. The playboy had a round face honed by leisure and ease. The widow’s peak over his wide forehead and thick, crescent-shaped eyebrows were his strongest features, but his lower face was weakened by a nondescript nose and a thin-lipped small mouth.
He wore board shorts, a Madras plaid shirt, and flip-flops on his feet. With a disdainful wave, he dismissed the guards.
“Sit, please,” Richie said in a voice that sounded like he had rocks in his throat. “Excuse me for not offering you a drink.”
Jason refused to take the offered seat. “This will be quick. I’m currently a police officer, but ever since meeting our mutual friend, Avery Cockburn, I’m burning to become a model. She mentioned you as the guy who knows all the best agents and throws the best parties.”
“Cut the crap.” Richie’s gravelly voice rasped like that of an elderly Mafia boss despite being under forty. “You’re too old to get into modeling. What do you really want?”
“I’m an NYPD investigator. I could look the other way for the right contacts.”
“Why would I need you when I could go a lot higher than you?” Richie snuffled in laughter. “I know exactly who you are. You want to play hero to our mutual friend.”
He made air quotes around the word “hero.”
“Actually, I thought you’d be interested in knowing that Larry Leach is moving in on our mutual friend. You’re not the only guy with tickets toThe Schitts of Fifth Avenue.”
“He can’t offer what I can,” Richie said. “He should stick to investment banking.”
“Except his father isn’t running against Avery’s father. That makes what he offers more palatable.”
Richie swiveled his lounger toward the expansive bay window that overlooked the beach. “Larry Leach turned you down, didn’t he?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“I have a lead on the murders of several male models spanning the last two years. There’s a pattern I can account for, but I’m missing a few dots.”
“I haven’t heard of any murders.” Richie kept his gaze on the young men playing beach volleyball.
“You hire male models. You must have heard.”
“Nope.”
“You’re telling me Larry cut you out? Maybe I should make a deal with him.”
Richie shrugged, but his jaw stiffened and he appeared to be chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Larry’s over his head. You won’t be safe if you deal with him. I’ve been at this a lot longer. Larry’s an amateur. If he thinks getting Avery’s father elected is his ticket, he’s betting on the wrong horse.”
“You’re sure your dad’s going to win?”
“No, but I don’t take sides.” Richie gave him a self-satisfied smirk.
“Just like my girlfriend, Alida. Cunning.”
Richie’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes narrowed as if he were reassessing Jason. “Then you ought to know where Larry’s getting his models.”
Again, the air quotes—this time around the word “models.”
