One night stand with my daddy's best friend
140

I saw David standing with a vodka and tonic in his hand, the auburn glow of the art deco chandelier casting a halo around his head. At his side was his vintage leather briefcase, a gift from his mother when he'd passed the bar. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in court today?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at work? It's not like you to be drinking alone in the middle of the day."

He took the seat beside me and looked up at the stage. The clarinetist had been joined by a singer who purred and shimmied around the stage in slow motion. She was singing a song about young love driving a kid crazy. It could have been written about me. Except I was no kid.

"Taking a time out," I told David. "Needed some time to think."

"Got a lot on your plate at the o ce?"

I took a sip of my drink and said, "Actually, it's woman trouble."

"Woman trouble? For the love of fuck, tell me it's not Olivia." "Oh fuck no. That crazy bitch is long gone." "So who is it?" "Ah, nobody you know."

He sipped his vodka and winced, then moved his eyes back to the singer as she swayed her hips. She was caressing the mic stand as though it was her lover, her lips making love to the microphone. She was an attractive woman with great, swinging curves, a sculpted face, and raven black hair draped around her cheekbones.

She was the type of woman the rational side of my brain was telling me to be attracted to. Someone mature and worldly. But of course the rational side of my brain had withered and died at the sight of Becca.

"She's a real looker, isn't she?" David asked, nodding toward the singer.

"Meh." I shrugged.

"Meh? Man, you really do have your head up your ass.

Whoever this woman is must be really special." "She is."

"So who is she?"

"Like I said, no one you know."

He sipped his drink and gave me a wary sideways glance. "If she's so special, how come you haven't told us about her?" he asked, tinkling the ice around the bottom of his glass.

I shrugged. "It's complicated."

"Shit. It's not your assistant, Sandra, is it? Wait, please tell me that baby isn't yours."

"Whoa, calm down. It's not Sandra. Unlike my ex, I don't fuck married people."

"So who is it?"

I chuckled mirthlessly. "Jesus, you're really not letting this go, are you?"

"Nope. I'm a prosecutor, remember? Gotta have all the details. All the incriminating evidence."

"What, am I on trial here or something?"

He laughed and swallowed the last of his drink before signaling the waitress to bring another. "I'm just confused," he said. "How long have we known each other? Like twenty years?" "Twenty-two."

"Wow, you have a good memory. So yeah, twenty-two years. And you've told me about all the other women."

"You make it sound like there was a long line of them." "I'm just saying it's weird. And it's not like you to keep

stuff from your buddies. Afraid we'll steal her?"

I cringed at the thought. "No, nothing like that." "So, tell me who she is."

"No."

"Aw, come on!"

"No way. A gentleman is allowed to keep his secrets." But the way I acted toward her was anything but gentlemanly.

"So, you're really not gonna tell me, huh? Fine." He was pretending to joke, but I could see he was mildly annoyed. "Anyway," he continued as the waitress appeared with his second drink. "You seen Bob recently?" "Not in the last few days. Why?"

"Ah, no reason. It's just that he's really happy about Becca working for you. Won't stop yappin' on about it. Thinks it's the best thing on Earth since sliced bread."

I was instantly gripped with a nauseating guilt, and as he continued, the urge to vomit pressed against the back of my throat.

"He worries about Becca, you know? She's not a little girl anymore, but she'll always be his princess. Swear to God she's still five years old in his head."

My gut plummeted. I didn't even know it was possible to feel so ashamed.

"He says he trusts you," David added, and I wondered if he knew what was going on and was thrusting the knife in on purpose.

"Trusts me?"

"Yeah, like he's happy she's got you for a boss instead of some sleazebag. He knows how pretty he is. Knows that guys are always getting an eyeful of her. But not you, you know. He feels safe with her around you." My cheeks burned as I looked down into my scotch. Suddenly, it didn't seem so appetizing anymore, and I had no interest in hanging around. Like the shady, guilty bastard that I was, I wanted to slither out of the room and hide. "You okay, Matthew? You're looking a little off." "I'm fine."

"Really? Because you look like you're gonna throw up." "Yeah, I, uh, just gotta get back to the o ce. Catch you

later."

I slammed my drink down and walked away knowing full well I was only making myself look even guiltier. And as I left the lounge, I was sure he could see inside my head and was positive he knew exactly what I was thinking. That's it, you've o cially gone nuts. David's a lawyer, not a freakin' psychic. He has no idea why you're acting so shifty.

Then why did he even bring up Becca? Did he suspect something? Was he fishing for info?

I speed-walked back to the o ce as though I was trying to run away from my own thoughts.

Paranoia doesn't suit you, Matthew. Get your shit together!

"What's up with you?" Sandra questioned the minute I walked into her sight.

"Nothing. Why?"

"You walked in here like your ass was on fire. Just thought I'd ask."

"Just have a lot of work to do." I strode passed her into my o ce, slamming the door closed behind me.

I had to get my head back in the game. I had to stop thinking about Becca and the photos and anything else that interfered with me running my multi-million-dollar corporation.

Looking at the clock, I saw I could at least get a few hours of correspondence done before my next meeting. All I had to do was put my head down and focus.

Pulling up my emails, I scanned the lines. The usual. Junk. Email from one of my equipment suppliers. Blah blah. Wait, what the fuck? For the second time that day, I was confronted with an email address made up of mysterious numbers and letters. No. Not again.

I hoped it wasn't more photos and, with my blood pressure rising, I clicked on it. To my relief, there were no photos. But, to my sheer horror, I saw something so much worse. My eyes skimmed the words, then I read them again. Then again. Then one more time as my head began to spin.

This can't be saying what I think it is!

Suddenly, photographs of me and Becca kissing were the least of my worries.

You're a sick fuck. Think it's okay to sleep with a girl half your age? Well think again. I know everything about you. You've been grooming Becca since she was a child, haven't you? Just waiting for her to grow up so she could be your little fucktoy.

For a second, I was sure I was going to vomit. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears and my hands begin to sweat.

This can't be happening.

My first thought was to replace whoever it was who sent the email and kick the living shit out of them. The second thought that crossed my mind was to call the cops.

But I hadn't called the cops in my life, not that I could remember anyway. What exactly was I supposed to do? Dial nine-one-one and ask them to investigate a nasty email? They'd probably just laugh in my face.

I know, I thought. I'll head right on down to the nearest police station and explain it all calmly to an o cer. I'll print ofl everything to show them and they'll understand how serious it is. And they can see who I am. Not some wacko on the end of the phone, but Matthew Banks from the commercials.

I clicked the print button so hard I almost broke the mouse, and a second later, the photos and emails came spewing out. Clutching them tightly, the paper still hot and the ink still smelling fresh, I strode out passed Sandra again. "Remember you have a meeting at four with Yamanoto," she said.

"Yep! I'll be back."

"Sir, I understand how frustrating this is for you, but there's not a whole lot we can do right now."

The o cer behind the desk, a little squirt of a thing that barely looked old enough to graduate high school was flicking through my print outs.

I had handed them to him, hoping he would file them away as evidence, but he only thumbed through them disinterested.

"Someone's following me," I told him. "You've got to replace out who it is."

He slid the pages back across the desk to me and leaned his elbows across the counter. "There's nothing we can really do," he said. "I mean, do you have any idea who it could be? If you did, I suppose we could talk to them." "I have no idea who it is. That's why I'm here." "Ah, yes. Obviously."

"So, what are you going to do?" He blinked at me in response. "I can hand over my computer to you if that makes things easier. Can't you get your techy wizard computer forensic folk to poke around and see where the email came from?" "Hmm...that's not really how the forensics department works."

"What? Can't you replace an IP address from the email or something? Anything at all?"

Still disinterested, he glanced at the clock as though I was holding him back from his break. Then, as though he couldn't get any more annoying, he yawned.

I wanted to reach across the counter and strangle the little shit. But I stopped myself. Millionaire fitness tycoon strangles policeman would not be a good headline for business.

"You can come back if things escalate," he said. "Escalate? Escalates into what? The guy shoots me with a

gun instead of a camera? Whoever this creep is, they're sending what could be perceived as threats to me. And they're accusing me of something I didn't do!"

"I know. I know. It's a bummer."

"A bummer? Are you serious? Look, I need this sorted today. I want you to replace out who this person is. Got it? I'm a rich man. I don't know if I've made some sort of business enemy or someone thinks they can get some cash out of me or what. But I need you to act on this right now."

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That seemed to get the message across to him and he twirled in his seat toward the computer.

"Name." "Excuse me?" "Your name."

"Matthew Banks."

I expected this would have roused some interest in him. That he would have seen my commercials and recognized me, but I would have no such luck.

"Contact details."

I rattled off my phone number and address and slid the print outs back over the desk.

"We'll see what we can do," he said, taking the photos and emails back. "But I can't promise anything. This is a big city, Mr. Banks. There's a lot of serious cases that need solved. We can't just send our lead detectives out to chase down a couple mean emails."

"They're not just mean emails," I explained, balling my hands into fists at my side. "They're evidence that I'm being stalked."

He acted as though he didn't hear me and reached over to a flimsy plastic shelf on the wall. Pulling out a leaflet, he handed it to me then slid lazily off his chair.

"Read this," he told me, dismissively adding, "And have a nice day."

Before I could say a word, he disappeared through the door into the back room. Looking down at the flier in my hand, I read the first line.

Are you a victim of internet bullying? Below the question was a stock image of a teenage girl sitting in bed crying.

"Asshole," I seethed, balling up the flier in my hand. Throwing it onto the desk, I stormed out, barging through the revolving doors.

If the police aren't gonna do shit, I'll replace the bastard myself.

"Mr. Banks!" the man named Sean said in a thick Irish accent. "Seen your commercials on the TV."

He was sitting at his desk with a lit cigarette dangling from his thin, rubbery lips. A brown fedora was perched precariously on his head, a few straw-like strands of red hair poking out the edges. I got the impression it was more of a prop than a fashion statement.

There wasn't a single computer in the o ce. There was, however, an overflowing ashtray, a stack of brown envelopes, and something that looked as though it might be a pastrami sandwich that had been sitting for several hours.

"So, how can I help you?" he asked, knotting his sausage-like fingers together on the desk. "It's some private investigating you're wanting done, is it?"

He blew out smoke that stung my eyes and nose. I guess he didn't get the memo that smoking wasn't permitted in business establishments anymore, but it looked as though he missed a lot of memos.

"That's right," I said. "I was searching for a reputable private investigator and your name consistently came up."

But as I sat in his o ce, the smell of tobacco clinging to my clothes and my shoes sticking to the filthy carpet, I was starting to think all the online review were fake. This guy didn't look as though he knew how to replace his way out of the nineteen- fifties let alone replace my stalker.

"That's right," he said. "I use traditional methods of investigation. Have for decades now, and I replace they get the best results."

"I like traditional methods," I murmured, feeling as though we may have more in common than I previously thought. "So, you can help me track down this piece of shit?"

"I can do more than replace him," Sean assured me. "I'll replace out his blood type, his mother's maiden name, and what size his feet are if you want."

I couldn't help but laugh. The old guy, as crusty as he was, was a breath of fresh, smoke-filled air. "I'll hold you to that," I said, reaching over to shake his hand. "Name your price. I'll pay you half now, half when the guy is caught."

He nodded solemnly as he reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a notepad. On it, he began scrawling a number.

"This is my flat fee for every one of my clients," he explained. He pushed his notepad over to me and I read the number, which, to me, looked strangely modest.

"I'll double it if you can do it in half the time," I countered.

"I'll try my best."

"Pleasure doing business with you," I replied, shaking his hand for the second time.

"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Banks. I can guarantee that."