Deadly Decisions: A Natalie North Novel

CHAPTER ONE

She sensed someone following her. Natalie glanced over her shoulder; nobody there, picked up her pace through the full Beverly Center Mall parking structure, a Macy’s bag in her left hand, her purse strap slung over her shoulder, a loaded gun inside. Something’s off kilter. She slipped her right hand in her handbag, gripped a .38-caliber revolver. Up ahead she spotted a parked security cart.

Hey, miss, a man’s voice said.

Natalie wheeled around. A white male ran up, shaved head, trench coat. No pants, no shoes, black socks with the coat buttoned. Oh boy, here it comes.

How’d you like some of this?

The idiot ripped open the coat, buttons popped off, his manhood ready to salute the flag. Natalie looked straight in his eyes, held a stare. This flasher messed with the wrong girl.

What would your mother say?

She thought to make light of the sleazy incident, tell him she’d seen bigger, must be a cold day, kick him where it hurts. Better not push this whack job over the edge. She wasn’t going to give him the look of shock he craved. From the cheesy grin on his face, he liked to show off his junk.

Natalie pulled out her gun, aimed the weapon at the pervert’s chest. She believed the power of the revolver caused his dingis to droop, didn’t need to check it out. If this creep got his rocks off by scaring her, she’d beat him at his own game, leave him shaking. If he’d planned on having his way with her, she’d shoot the attention-seeker in the heart.

Hands in the air!

The pervert did what she said. Good boy. Good old gun.

You have two choices. You wait here while I call the cops, or I blow off your manhood.

You look hot holding a gun. Too chicken shit to use it.

She curled her finger tighter on the trigger.

Pow, pow, bang, bang. Catch my drift?

The flasher’s eyes grew bigger, ready to burst out in tears.

You should see your face. Far more entertaining than the little guy you showed me.

She hoped the man didn’t charge her, try to grab the gun. What a difference a few minutes make. When she entered the parking structure, she mentally pieced together the new outfit she bought: flared dress jeans, baby blue angora sweater, four-inch black stilettos. Moments later, she had to pull a gun on a full-fledged flasher. She heard a car engine, relieved when the security cart pulled up, parked, uniformed driver behind the wheel. Saved her a call to the cops. If she were a policewoman, she could make the arrest. A PI? Didn’t have the power to take someone into custody. Not yet. Had to conduct a citizen’s arrest, hold the guy until a sworn officer showed up.

I’ve got a weenie wagger for you.

On the ground, the guard said. Hands behind your back.

I wasn’t doing anything wrong. My coat blew open."

It takes a lot more to shock me than getting a free peep show starring your sacred jewels, Natalie said.

The flasher got down on his stomach. Natalie watched the guard handcuff the guy. She slid the revolver in her purse, took a deep breath. She looked at the guard.

Thanks.

Where did a sweet young gal like you learn to use a gun like that? guard said.

The gun’s my bodyguard.

A fine looking lady like yourself, I’d expect to see a muscled up man keeping watch over you.

I catch cheating husbands for a living.

So this exhibitionist stunt is old news?

Let’s say I’ve seen enough guys with their pants off that I could identify them by their privates in a police lineup.

You should wear a uniform, the flasher said, still flat on the ground.

I thought your coat blew open."

Natalie knew the drill. They’d haul the man to jail, booked for indecent exposure. First offense, could get off easy, charged with a misdemeanor. Priors on his record? Most likely booked with a felony. Either way, with this stupid stunt, the pervert wrote his name forever on the sex offender list. Was showing off his junk for a few seconds of his own amusement worth the consequences? She felt a tad sorry for the guy, a definite screw loose, but she needed to uphold the law, get this creep off the streets. Maybe get him some help.

Natalie North.

She gave the guard her business card, contact information in case police had questions, the District Attorney filed charges, needed her for a witness.

She found her car, got in, locked the doors. She blew out a deep breath. What a girl goes through to buy a stylish outfit. She’d grab a bite to eat, drive to the office, see what new cheater case her dad assigned to her. Norton’s leftovers. This adultery crap had gotten old. Where’s the gritty felony case she’d trained for? Grand theft, bank robbery, murder. Getting her fingernails dirty for that kind of danger would make her day.

CHAPTER TWO

Isabela! No, no, no. How could she do this to him? Not again. He coasted to a standstill. Stuck.

Females, Alfonso said out loud. They always let you down.

He smacked the dashboard, threw Isabela into park, got out. Lifted the hood to take a look. He jumped like a jackrabbit when a bus rolled up close and personal behind the taxi. The bus driver jerked the steering wheel to the left, missed hitting Alfonso and the fucking taxi.

The bus dude got out.

Pull your piece of crap to the curb, dude hollered. Hollywood Boulevard ain’t no parking lot.

Alfonso couldn’t flip the guy the finger, hands too busy in engine parts. Dude pumped a fist in the air.

You’re gonna kill someone, the asshole yelled.

Yeah, him, how he wished. Alfonso gave the guy his apology wave, spared the dude a black eye.

I’m late for work, a bus passenger shouted.

The driver got in his seat, yelled Moron! and drove off.

Alfonso gave the back of the bus the finger from each hand.

Found the trouble, old girl.

He spotted a loose cable to ground off the battery, attached it, dropped the hood. His stomach growled. Oh, for a breakfast burrito. No time to eat, couldn’t be late for his fare. He turned the key, engine choked, floored the gas. Ah, now you’re talking, Isabela; the hum of the engine, sweet. He threw the car in drive, joined the traffic.

Alfonso Di Paolo turned right in the Legends luxury apartment complex. Must be nice living at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, the building near the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland. Sure beat the converted garage he rented in Glendale’s crappiest neighborhood.

He checked out the high-rise unit, glass to the sky, plants so green they looked fake, parked near a light post the lady told him about. This Natalie North had phoned his taxi service for a pick-up and drop-off, some Santa Monica address. He figured the twenty-mile trip, near three bucks a mile, would bring him a sixty-dollar fare. From the looks of the upscale apartment complex, she could afford a nice tip.

Alfonso liked how her voice sounded. Ladylike, sexy, not put on. Two years driving cab through crowded streets, he’d learned women could be blabbermouths. For most men, when women hopped in the back seat, the guys got lucky, girls agreeable to get their freak on. For Alfonso, when a woman climbed in his back seat, he knew he was in for an earache, held prisoner by four locked doors. He put up with gossip, personal shit. He needed the money.

Alfonso glanced at his drug store wristwatch. Eight o’clock in the morning. A few people around, no one matched up to the pleasant voice he heard on the phone. He hit the horn, wanted to see this Natalie in person. A female came out of the lobby entrance. She got close. Mama mia! Had to be her. He checked himself in the rearview mirror. Glad he trimmed his hair, used a color formula, no gray struggled through the black. He admired his stubble, too tired to shave. Cool. He turned on the heater, shot warm air inside, got out. Alfonso skipped a breath when the fare walked up, her fresh scent something really nice.

Alfonso Di Paolo?

Natalie North?

He opened the back door, smiled when she slid her long, lean body in the back seat. Something different about this one. She got in his taxi with style. Alfonso shut the door, got back in the driver’s seat. He adjusted his rearview mirror to check out this girl. He’d gauge traffic with his side mirrors. Alfonso pumped the accelerator. The engine popped, car jerked. He sped out of the complex.

25210 Santa Monica Boulevard? he said.

No answer. The one time Alfonso wanted to talk to a female passenger, she gave him nothing to work with. Damn.

Did you hear me?

Daydreaming, I guess.

You’re quiet. Most ladies who ride back there need an off button.

Busy day ahead of me.

Going to work?

To I Pry, Inc.

I’ve passed that place a few times, Alfonso said. Wondered what it was.

Private investigators.

You need to hire one?

My dad’s business. I help out.

He checked Natalie in his mirror, noticed her blond hair, nice and long, good skin. When the sun beat through the window, she lit up his back seat, like a spotlight on her. He didn’t see many women who looked like this when he lived in San Francisco. Los Angeles had a lot of tall blondes, fake hair, fake boobs. Something real about Natalie.

You’re a cop? he asked. Carry a badge?

Not a cop.

If I speed through traffic, you won’t write me a ticket?

No. But you can’t drive fast. Too many cars.

He liked this girl, a real beauty, witty. Alfonso heard cars, horns, sirens. The only sound he wanted to hear now? This Natalie North’s voice.

He drove into the parking lot at 25210 Santa Monica Boulevard, glanced in his mirror. Heart skipped. Where’d she go? Her head popped up. Must’ve dropped something.

How much do I owe you?

He thought of giving her a discount. Hell, he should pay her, made his morning. Money tight though.

Sixty dollars.

Alfonso held out his hand, three crisp twenty-dollar bills warmed his palm. She better not stiff him on the tip. He looked away, no pressure. Maddone! She slapped on another twenty, plus a-fiver.

Do you need me to pick you up?

My father will get me home.

Lucky man. Alonso would drive this woman to hell and back. This gal a looker, but if she did detective work Alfonso needed to keep his distance.

He got out, opened the back door, long legs came out first, then the rest of her. Classy eye candy. She had to be five-foot nine barefoot, the top of her head even with the top of his six-feet, half-an-inch height.

He handed Natalie a card, glanced at her left hand. No ring.

That’s me, if you need a ride.

I’ll call you, thanks.

Alfonso watched Miss Natalie North walk into the building. He saved her contact information in his phone. He read body language, figured out what people didn’t say. This one a tough read, a challenge. He sure hoped he’d see that girl again.

CHAPTER THREE

Natalie stood in the I Pry, Inc., lobby, waited for Amy to swallow. Amy raised a donut.

I’m wired enough, Natalie said.

Natalie glanced at a lot of makeup things, eye shadow, lipsticks, at least four, mascara, eyeliners, lip liners, brushes, a magnifier mirror crowded on Amy’s desk. She’d brushed one eyelid with blue shadow, started on the other.

Daddy would dock your pay, Natalie said.

I need a private office.

I need a day of no interruptions.

I thought you weren’t coming in today?

Daddy phoned me, wants me here. He’s in the field.

Maybe he’ll catch Mr. Monty playing you show me, I’ll show you with someone other than Mrs. Monty, Amy said.

That’s his cover for stalking my mom.

And he thinks we believe him. Amy swiped gloss over her bottom lip. You got your car fixed?

Came by taxi.

You crazy?

I didn’t get a loaner.

You might get a lunatic driver who takes you to a remote wilderness, has his way with you.

Natalie reached in her purse, wrapped her hand around a gold chain. She didn’t examine the jewelry when she found it on the floor of the taxi. An anklet or a bracelet? She’d figure it out on closer inspection. No word to that driver when she saw a burgundy smudge on the back door panel, suspected the spot to be blood. Hey, but the stain could be watercolors, a crayon mark, a child playing in the back seat. She’d inspect further, see if something suspicious developed. Give her something to investigate other than cheaters who dropped their pants or panties at any opportunity.

Look. I made it here alive, Natalie said.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a date. Maybe I’ll start taking a cab.

Amy picked up a can of hair spray.

Cover your eyes. This stuff sprays a lot more than my luscious locks.

Natalie turned away, waited for the hiss to stop.

Get ready for work before you come to the office.

I need all the beauty sleep I can get.

Have you scheduled Penelope Escobar’s follow-up appointment?

Thursday at eleven o’clock. I told Norton.

Daddy passed the case to me.

Norton slams you, Amy said. He knows you’ll keep up.

I get to tell Penelope I’ve got proof that her husband twisted up with his yoga instructor, alive on video.

Do real men do yoga?

Lance Escobar does women other than his wife real well.

I need entertainment, Amy said. Leave your intercom on.

Wait till Penelope sees where her husband’s head is.

I’ll bring the popcorn.

I’ll be in my office.

Let’s have coffee.

I have twenty things to get done before lunch.

Natalie went to her office, closed the door, unable to shake Alfonso Di Paolo from her mind. Nice enough guy, but something not right, the way his neck tightened when he mentioned cops, asked if she had a badge. Innocent people didn’t care, didn’t ask questions like he did. Subtle clues she’d learned to notice, three years buried in private detective work. She had priority case work to concentrate on, her interest in Alfonso, a slight hunch. She’d put the gold jewelry in her desk drawer for safe keeping, deal with her uncertainties later.

When she removed the chain from her purse, she felt like her heart stopped. She caught her breath. The chain was about a quarter inch wide, maybe seven inches long. A woman’s bracelet, the gold stamped 18 karat. The real deal. No costume jewelry here. She noticed a burgundy splotch on the chain, like that smudge on the taxi door panel. Dried blood? She rubbed the blotch, a small amount flaked off. She didn’t want to handle the bracelet further, erase any more potential evidence.

Did a physical struggle take place in Alfonso’s back seat? Did she stumble on a botched robbery? A murder? Did Alfonso Di Paolo drop a felony investigation in her lap? There, there, Natalie. The bracelet found in the back where passengers ride, could be something innocent; a fare didn’t notice she dropped the jewelry on the floor.

Natalie ached to work felony criminal cases, the grittier, the better. Was she making Alfonso a crook for her own satisfaction? Benefit her distrustful mind, give her something to investigate other than panting cheaters unable to keep their pants on? She trusted her gut; the bracelet looked tainted with criminal evidence. She’d have a forensic specialist verify that the stuff on the bracelet was human blood.

She didn’t jot down the taxi’s license plate number. Not to worry, if she uncovered Alfonso hid a shady background, she’d track down his plate. Run his vehicles registered to, take another taxi ride. She noted the car was a Buick Regal. She’d find out the year, easy to do. You couldn’t miss the flamboyant cherry red paint job. Flashy. Clever for a cab, different from the standard yellow, might bring him more business.

She loved cop work, best part of her job. Who was sleeping with whom? Adultery was criminal to the injured partner, immoral, but not illegal. A paying, scorned client deserved her undivided attention and she delivered. Catch a killer or thief, protect an innocent victim? Adrenalin rush. The gratification overrode danger. She’d find a clue if indeed Alfonso Di Paolo operated on the wrong side of the law. She’d use the PI skills her father taught her, make him proud.

She wrapped the bracelet in a tissue, tucked the jewelry in her top desk drawer. She pulled up Google, her computer slow. No patience.

Don’t let me down.

Google fired up. She typed Alfonso Di Paolo in the search engine. Maybe she’d discover something scandalous, an element of peril. She’d cross paths with this guy again.

CHAPTER FOUR

Oh, Guinevere. Brighter days, bring them on, Victoria said to her poodle. I’m about to become a wealthy widow.

Comfy on her plush sofa, she relieved the ache in her feet, served a feast on her Royal Doulton china, an embroidered linen napkin on her lap. Victoria worked with an artist who designed the custom china pattern for her, the crystal flown in from London. Mmmm, she savored pesto farfalle pasta, Maine lobster, stir-fried eggplant, prepared to her taste, delivered from that swanky Beverly Hills restaurant Spago, washed down with chilled Dom Perignon, her fave champagne. Yum, yum. All the goodies on the finest china.

Oh Gwenie, love, we’re rich! Have some pasta.

She shared the delicacies with her purse puppy on her own little doggy saucer.

Victoria missed eating dinner with Blake, damn lonesome dining alone. Figured he was out somewhere feasting too, but not with her. Blake hadn’t slept with her in weeks, had to be getting it somewhere. When they first married, Blake acted like a beast between the sheets; how she cherished his hunger, his passion for her. Now, after fourteen years of marriage, if she got it at all, he performed like a pitiful weasel. While she ate fine food on the sofa, she suspected he munched on a naked twenty-something tart.

I’ll be working late tonight, he’d said, one foot out the door. Damn playboy.

Blake worked sixteen-hour days now, never looked tired. She’d watch him strut through the house, wearing nothing but tight briefs and a smug smile. Victoria wanted to smack the arrogant grin off his fine chiseled face.

She finished her pasta, chugged more Dom Perignon. So good. Once upon a time, one glass of alcohol numbed the hurt of Blake’s crappy infidelity. These days, she needed an entire bottle. She massaged her fingertips through Guinevere’s silken coat, her adorable toy poodle nestled at her feet. She rubbed paws, admired the dog’s lavender painted nails. Victoria liked that Guinevere resembled a gift-wrapped package, a lace bow clipped on the dog’s head. Victoria cooed, Guinevere woofed.

I love you too, Gwenie, my angel princess puppy.

Victoria craved background noise, anything to erase sordid thoughts of Blake with some bimbo. She took a bite of chocolate pudding, comfort food, her favorite dessert since she was a girl. She switched on the TV, raised the volume. The six o’clock news anchor delivered a story, a lovelorn woman whose husband tried three times to bump her off. Failed each time.

Loser, Victoria said. I’d get it right the first time.

A bearded man, stained teeth, dirty clothes, appeared on camera.

A rich businessman offered me a huge chunk of money to kill his wife, dump her body in the Pacific.

The intended hit man confessed he couldn’t be bought. The liar didn’t say the police caught him before he could carry out the hit, ten thousand dollars cash on his person. His sorry ass thrown in jail on conspiracy charges.

The businessman’s delusional wife flashed on the TV screen, a fat tear snailing down her cheek.

My husband loves me. I wasn’t even pregnant when we got married.

Victoria reduced the volume, looked at Guinevere, fed the pup a bit of garlicky eggplant.

I know how Blake’s going out. I’ll never get caught.

Victoria thought back to her life before Blake. The dingy Culver City apartment she shared with her mom. Mom so worn out from slinging hash in a diner. Her dad never around. The way Victoria heard the story, Desmond Moore loved horses, rode off in the sunset one day on an Appaloosa named Clyde, never returned. Victoria’s mom didn’t try to track down Desmond. Linda Moore didn’t miss the man. Victoria wondered about her father every day.

Money tight, Mom earned extra cash, cleaned rich people’s toilets, cooked four-course meals. Mom got wise to the way the wealthy lived, groomed Victoria to appreciate the elite way of life. One day, mom surprised her with special news.

Victoria, we’re spending this summer in a Beverly Hills mansion.

Mama, you have a new boyfriend?

I’m going to be Sadie Belmont’s housekeeper.

Full-time?

Their nanny flew back to Dublin for a family emergency.

Who’s Sadie Belmont?

She’s involved with the Belmont Beer family. You’ve probably seen their TV commercials. Rumor is they’re worth a fortune.

Do I get my own bedroom?

I’m sure the house has lots of rooms. Sadie told me she has a son close to your age, Blake, she said. He’ll be rich one day, able to give you the life you deserve, unlike your deadbeat father.

Little Victoria heard the term deadbeat father so often, she thought that was her missing dad’s name.

Victoria hated discount store shoes. She rode the bus to school, felt too embarrassed to get off. She’d watch other fifteen-year-old girls step out of fancy cars, their blossoming bodies clothed in super-looking designer duds.

Blake will fall in love with your wavy chestnut hair, Mom said.

My hair’s flat.

I’m sure Sadie has hair gloss in her luxury bathroom that you can spray on.

Victoria smiled. She used shampoo twice a week, cream rinse once a week. The only hair products her mom could afford, had to make them last. Hair shine? Victoria never saw the stuff.

Ah, the first encounter with Blake. An electric zap shot from the top of her head all the way to her toes. Thunderbolt, that feeling she’d never forget. She’d stared at his handsome face, unable to look away.

Something magical about your eyes, Blake said to her.

With her first crush, Victoria now understood what steamy romance novels described in detail. Blake gorgeous, his family’s money an aphrodisiac. She went after him in a fierce way, used her feminine wiles, girlish charms, dressed in clothes that hugged her in all the right places. His mouth fell open when she wore ruffled bobby socks with five-inch heels,