“What arrangement?” he grunted distractedly as he thought about the consequences of Chickie’s unexpected and frankly shocking demise.
“Well… you said that if I kept you informed of Miss Hay’s whereabouts and movements at all times I would be handsomely rewarded, Mr. Weskit, sir.”
“You were supposed to be her bodyguard, Tyson,” he said, suddenly experiencing a burst of irritation. “So why didn’t you do your job and protect the woman?”
“I-I was downstairs in the kitchen, Mr. Weskit. Having breakfast.”
“Some bodyguard you are. Having breakfast while your client is being strangled.”
“She was rehearsing,” said the man. “Said she didn’t want to be disturbed. And there were plenty of people guarding the perimeter, so I’m pretty sure no one came in or out.”
“So what are you saying? That it was an inside job?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have any use for a bodyguard who allows his clients to die on his watch, Tyson. You understand what that’s going to look like on your resume, don’t you?”
“But, Mr. Weskit!”
“None of my clients will want to work with you. You know what pop stars are like, Tyson. Highly superstitious bunch. You’re damaged goods now. Impossible to place.”
“But, sir!”
“Maybe try the financial sector. Bankers are a lot less superstitious, or so I’ve heard.”
And with these words he promptly disconnected. Best to sever all ties with the guy. Lest he wanted to look bad himself by being associated with a failed security man.
“Who was that, darling?” asked his wife Shannon as she strode into the room. Blond and impossibly skinny with an outrageously inflated bust, she’d managed to squeeze her perfect form into a sexy little red dress. Laron Weskit was not exactly a picture of male beauty, but what he lacked in physical attraction he made up for in business success, and since nothing turned Shannon on more than having a husband with several million in the bank, he’d been lucky enough to entice her to be his bride three years ago. Theirs was a happy partnership, based on one guiding principle: he made the money, and Shannon spent it. It made them both happy, and that’s what a good marriage is all about.
“Chickie Hay is dead,” said Laron, never one to beat about the bush.
Shannon’s hand, which had been busy bringing a piece of avocado toast to her mouth, halted in midair, and she looked up, looking as shocked as he had been when Tyson had told him the terrible news. But she quickly recovered. “What happened?”
“Murdered. Police are on the scene. They don’t know who did it yet.” He directed an inquisitive look at his wife. “You didn’t happen to go out this morning, did you, darling?”
She laughed. “No, I didn’t. You don’t think I would kill the wretched girl, do you?”
“You never know. Chickie had a lot of enemies.”
“And none more prominent than you,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, I’m sure it won’t be long before the police come knocking on our door.”
“Why don’t you call your friend the Mayor? I’m sure he’ll be able to arrange something. Keep the baying hounds off our backs.”
He smiled. That was Shannon for you. Always the practical one. “You’re right. Why subject ourselves to scrutiny when we can avoid it? I’ll make the call straight away.”
“Too bad, though,” said Shannon as she took a tentative nibble of her toast.
“Yeah, what a waste of talent.”
“Not that. What a pity we don’t have the rights to her new album. I’m sure it’ll go triple platinum now.”
“The value of her entire catalog will go through the roof. As it always does when an artist dies—especially a tragic death like this. Chickie’s oeuvre will be a hot property.”
Shannon held up her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Here’s to Chickie Hay. May she rest in peace—and make us a fortune.”
“To a fortune,” he said, loving how cynical Shannon was. And of course she was right. This murder business would make them even richer than they already were. That, unfortunately, was the nature of the business they were in. Or, as in their case, fortunately.
He got up, moved over to the connecting door and held up his hand, poised to knock.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Shannon without turning.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Young love, Laron. You remember what young love is like.”
He retracted his hand. Shannon was right. “Still, they need to be told,” he said.
“Later. Just let them rest. They’ll find out soon enough.”
“They should find out from me.”
“And why is that? The news is what it is.”
“Yeah, but I need to advise them on a media strategy before they touch their Insta.”
“Call the Mayor. That’s a better use of your time than bothering Charlie and Jamie.”
Chapter 5
Parked on one of Main Street’s side streets, a good view of the Hampton Cove Star through the windshield of their rental, Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew sat watching the fourth-floor balcony of Hampton Cove’s most prestigious and posh boutique hotel.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Jer?” asked Johnny for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, I’m sure, so stop whining, will you? My ears hurt from all your yapping.”
“We just got out of jail, Jer,” Johnny reminded his partner in crime. “And I don’t want to go back there so soon.”
“You won’t go back, Johnny,” Jerry growled. “This is a foolproof plan we’re working on here. You know what foolproof is? It means even a fool like you can’t mess it up.”
Johnny thought about this for a moment. “Are you saying I messed up the last plan?”
“You know you did. Who fired off that gun when he’d been told to be inconspicuous?”
“But you were under attack, Jer! I had to do something!”
“I was under attack from mice, Johnny. Mice! I was dealing with it, but the moment you fired that big cannon of yours, you ruined everything.”
They’d spent time in prison, until a nice judge had decided to let them out on bail, and now there they were, once again having decided to grant other, more prosperous members of society, the pleasure of carrying the burden of their livelihoods. This time Jerry had selected Laron Weskit and his client Charlie Dieber and Charlie’s girlfriend.
“Do you realize Laron Weskit is the youngest, most successful record executive in the country? And that Charlie Dieber is one of the hottest pop singers in the world? These people are loaded! And we’re simply going to take some of that load off their backs.”
“I know, but Jer,” said Johnny in the same whiny voice he’d employed ever since Jerry had told him about his plan to hit Laron and The Dieber. “They probably got security up the wazoo. So what if we get caught again? I don’t want to get caught again, Jer.”
“Listen carefully, cause I’m only going to repeat this once. Tonight the Mayor is organizing a party for Laron and The Dieber—Dieb is getting the keys to the city. So they’ll all be downstairs, partying and having a ball, while we’re upstairs, helping ourselves to their cash, jewelry, gold watches, and other precious little trinkets.”
Johnny rubbed his chin at the prospect. It was a sizable chin, too, in proportion with the rest of his anatomy. Jerry, who looked more like something a cat dragged out of a dumpster, was, after all, the brains of their little outfit, while Johnny was the brawn.
“And what about Weskit and The Dieber’s security people?”
“They’ll all be in the ballroom protecting their charges, which means they won’t bother us.”
“I don’t know, Jer,” said Johnny, shaking his head and showcasing an appalling lack of trust in his longtime companion.
“You don’t have to know, Johnny,” said Jerry. “I know, and that’s enough.”
Johnny nodded sheepishly. He knew he wasn’t blessed with a big brain, and usually relied on his partner to supply that much-needed brainpower to carve out their criminal career. But Johnny didn’t enjoy spending time in prison, and he was obviously loath to go back inside so soon after their last sojourn in the slammer.