Ever.
We finally made it into Los Angeles and to the quiet West Hollywood neighborhood where Terry lived. “I should go up first. Alone.”
Jag frowned and rejected the idea outright, just as I knew he would. “You really are fucking crazy if you think I’ll let that happen.”
I rolled my eyes. “You can’t stop me, Jag. And you know he’s more likely to open up to a woman.” Men were simple creatures that way.
“Or he’s going to grab you and pull you into his house, maybe keep you in his basement before burying you under the tomatoes.”
I stared at him for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “That’s an active imagination you have, Jag. The guy’s a photographer, not a serial killer.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive Vivi. I’m coming with you,” he said and then stepped from the car, leaving me ensconced in the dark while he walked around and opened the door for me. “Come on. I’ll follow your lead.” Jag pulled me out of the car and pressed me between him and the cool metal of the door, his lips closed in on mine. The kiss was slow and simmering. Just enough to make me want more. “Just keep your knife against that fine ass. Please.”
“Fine.” The walk up to Terry’s little bungalow was nearly overgrown with a beautiful English garden that needed serious tending. “That’s unexpected,” I said as I rang the bell and waited. It was late afternoon so I took a chance he’d be home during the day. If not, I had a few leads.
The knob turned and someone disengaged several locks before the door opened. Slowly revealing a man with a longish red mullet and dark green eyes, freckles galore under his wife beater and acid wash jeans.
Acid. Wash. Jeans.
“Yeah, whadda ya want?” He was gruff and on the wrong side of grumpy, but this was too important.
“Hi Mr. Murphy, I’m Victoria Vivischenko and was hoping you could answer a few questions for me about some of your photos.”
His eyes went wide in recognition. “Hell no. All my pics are clean and legal so fuck off!”
I held up my hands and kept up a polite smile. Men always felt at ease when you approached them with sugary sweetness. “I’m not a lawyer and I don’t represent any celebrities. I was hoping you could tell
me everything you know about Roger Blaise. Everything.”
For a second I thought I had him, but Terry’s sneer returned and he took a step forward. Jag had taken a step to match him but I waved my sweet protector off. Right now, getting info was far more important. “What’s a sweet girl like you want to know about a scumbag like that for?” He leaned forward and flicked my hair from my shoulder.
I didn’t like to be touched without permission and instinct kicked in. “Don’t ever put your hands on me, asshole. Now, can you help me with this guy or not?”
Even with my blade pressed against the base of his throat, Terry didn’t flinch and he didn’t beg. What the crazy bastard did, was smile. “I like ’em crazy girl, come on in.”
I looked back at Jag who only shrugged and motioned for me to follow Terry. “What the fuck,” I mouthed.
“He likes ’em crazy,” he whispered in my ear and stayed close as we entered.
“So what’s got you interested in ol’ Blaise? Got a young sister in the family way and naming him as the father?”
It was a curious statement but right in line with what I’d been able to dig up on my own. “Not exactly, but you’re in the right area.”
He nodded and went to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a few beers. “Well, Blaise has had an underage girlfriend since his first term as state senator, at least. They were always around, too. Babysitters until his kids outgrew them and then they were all types of things, young entrepreneurs with a cleaning or car wash service, apprentice chefs and once even a cheerleading coach. He’s crafty about it, but not crafty enough.”
He popped the top off of a beer and handed it to me. Then he handed one to Jag. I took the beer and nodded thanks as we sat on the dingy sofa. “Not to be rude but, how does a pap know all of this?”
He grinned and for a moment I could see beyond the mullet and jeans. “I wasn’t always chasing celebs. I used to be an actual journalist at The Herald but my Blaise stories were squashed one too many times by the editor and we parted ways.” Terry took a long pull from his beer and sighed. “This job pays better and more people give a shit about it.”
It was a sad state of affairs, but it was absolutely fucking true. Politicians cheated on everyone from their kids and wives to their constituents, but no one cared as much when there were important stories out there, like which starlet stole which pop princess’s boyfriend.
No fucking thanks.
“Do you have anything else? I’m willing to pay you for your information, Terry.”
He shook his head. “You seem to already know what kind of guy he is.”
“Let’s just say I found out some things I shouldn’t have and he’s not too pleased about it.”