The Offer, page 6
“I think I need new implants, Jack,” she’d said, turning and shaking her boobs at him. “I jiggled too much today.”
“You jiggle just fine, babe. You’re still the most requested lap dance at the club, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but there are younger girls coming in all the time,” she said. “You know, I’m no spring chicken anymore.”
“All of twenty-two,” he said.
“Twenty-three next month.”
“Hell,” he’d said, “I better start looking for a replacement.”
“What do you think?” Robin asked, jerking him back from his reverie.
He took the time to open each card and read the inside before answering.
“Mrs. Lobianco,” he said, “at this point there’s not much I can do. I can’t arrest people for sending you greeting cards.”
“I know that,” she said. “I knew that when I called you.”
“What did you expect to have done then?”
“I just… wanted some advice,” she said, with a shrug. “I don’t know how to handle this.”
“Have you discussed it with your husband?”
“Detective Jones,” she said, “you heard my story, and I’ve told you the whole truth. You were nice enough not to react when I told you about… about being with them.”
That was because he was married to a stripper, a woman who made her living in the sex industry. Threesomes did not shock him.
“So you realize that I could hardly tell my husband about any of this. Besides, we’re separated.”
“Perhaps, if you had a man around, it would dissuade these two from pursuing you.”
“Are you suggesting I hire a bodyguard?” she asked. “I don’t have the money for that.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that at all,” he said.
“Well, please,” she said, “suggest something.”
He sighed and looked down at the cards again. Keep her happy, his boss, Captain Phillips, had said. He sat back down.
“Have they followed you?”
“No.”
“Have they called you on the phone?”
“Not since the cards have come,” she said. “Not in the past few days, no.”
“There are new laws being drafted all the time. What about e-mail? Have they sent you any sexually explicit or threatening email?”
“E-mail,” she said. “I haven’t checked my e-mail in two days.”
He looked at the computer on her desk.
“Do you get it here and at home?”
“Yes.”
“Can you check both from here?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Why don’t we do that now?” he asked. “It might give us more ammunition to work with.”
“All right,” she said, turning her computer on. “It’ll take a few minutes.”
“That’s fine.”
While she logged into her computer and got online he leaned forward to look at the cards again. The one with the nude bodies was a novelty card. The bodies were not actually doing anything explicit, but he wondered if the card could qualify as something sexually explicit that had been sent—but no, it hadn’t been sent through the mail. He sat back. That angle was out.
He heard the computer tell her, “Hello,” first and then “You’ve got mail.”
“I’ll check my office account first,” she said. The keyboard keys clicked quickly beneath her fingers and while she concentrated on the monitor he concentrated on her. He could see why a man would be attracted to her. While she was not as beautiful as she said this couple was, and not as overtly sexy as his own wife, but she certainly had an attractive quality to her face, and a body that would interest any man—and some women, obviously.
“Okay,” she said, “there’s nothing from them on my office account. Let me bring up my home account.”
He waited as she clicked, and then she sighed and sat back. “Nothing?” he asked.
“No.”
“All right,” he said, “keep checking it every day.”
“I usually do,” she said, “I’ve just been… so distracted lately.”
“Mrs. Lobianco,” he said, “I’d suggest that you keep a log.”
“A log? Of what?”
“Of the times you see them outside here or your home,” he said. “Also, log in and save every card you get. Write down how you got it, where and when. Specifically, let me know if you get something in the mail or through email.”
“What will this accomplish?”
“It will establish a pattern,” he said, “which, in the future, may be of use if and when these people are arrested.”
“You can arrest them?”
“Not without probable cause, ma’am.”“
“And what would that be?”
“Well, I’m not completely up on stalking laws because they’re so new, and they vary from state to state, but I believe that it would largely be up to you,”
“Me?” she said, putting her hand to her throat in an age-old, feminine gesture. “You would arrest them on my say-so?”
“I’ll do some research on the law so that I don’t advise you wrong, ma’am, but—”
“Could you stop calling me ‘ma’am?’ ” she asked, abruptly. “I just—it makes me nervous, for some reason. Like you were Jack Webb, or somebody.”
“All right.”
“Call me Robin, or Mrs. Lobianco, whichever you like, but not… ma’am.”
“You got it, Robin,” Jones said, opting for the more familiar. “As I was saying, I’ll research it so I don’t advise you wrongly but I believe that you have to be in fear for your safety.”
“Oh.”
“I know you said you’ve been distracted because of this, but are you in fear?”
She thought a moment and then replied honestly.
“No,” she said, “not in fear for my life…”
“And if we arrested them you’d have to testify against them.”
“I see.”
“There’s another thing,” he said, “and I’m only telling you this because you seem concerned about your husband finding out about all of this.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s my understanding that stalking is broken into three categories. There’s Stranger Stalking, Acquaintance Stalking, and Intimate Stalking.”
It took her a few seconds to assimilate what he was saying. When she did she said, “Oh.”
“You understand.”
She nodded.
“According to what I’ve told you,” she replied, “this would be an intimate stalking.”
“Yes,” he said, “or, to be more precise, a former intimate stalking, meaning that you are being stalked by a person or persons you have formerly been intimate with.”
“And that would come out in court?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said. “I’ll have to think about that.”
“And the final thing is… I’m not all that sure we have a stalking case here. I mean, it’s only been a few days.”
“I see.”
“Start that log,” he said, getting to his feet, “and let me know about the mail and e-mail situation.”
“All right,” she said, “Let me walk you out of the building.”
“Thank you.”
They walked together to the front entrance of the museum.
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “but I keep meaning to come.”
“Never came as a child?”
“I didn’t grow up here in St. Louis,” he said. “I’ve only lived here half my life.”
“I grew up here,” she said. “I love this place, and I always wanted to work here. Now I do and I’m not doing my job the way I should be.”
“Because of this situation?”
She nodded.
When they reached the front door, Ray look concerned and asked Robin, “Is everything all right?”
“Fine, Ray,” she said, “nothing to worry about.”
They stepped outside into the sunlight and stopped.
“You should probably let security know what’s going on,” Jones said.
“I can’t do that,” she said, “even though they were somehow able to get into my office and leave a card in my desk.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “They could have paid someone to do it. Do you have an assistant?”
“No,” she said.
“But there are other employees who could have done it.”
“Yes… but still, I can’t… I don’t want my boss…”
“Robin, can I be blunt?”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to have to make a decision sooner or later,” he said. “If this escalates into something we can arrest them for you’ll have to decide to either protect your reputation—and your marriage—or prosecute them.”
“I know.”
“Think about it,” he said. He took out a business card, then two, as an afterthought.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I only need one,” she said.
“Take the other one,” he said, “and write down the address of Vince and Amy Wheaton.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. He gave her a pen and she wrote the address down. “You said you couldn’t—I mean, I don’t want you to arrest them—”
He smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll just go and meet them and have a little talk. Maybe I can convince them to leave you alone and you won’t have to deal with the possibility of prosecution.”
“You… you don’t have to do that.”
“I won’t if you tell me not to,” he said. “I just want to see if I can do a little more for you than I’m required to.”
“That’s very… uh, okay, yes, I think would like you to do that. If we can put a stop to this now… thank you, Detective Jones.”
He smiled again and they shook hands.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and went down the stairs. Robin watched him until he was out of sight, then turned and went back into the museum.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jack Jones wondered what it had been about Robin Lobianco that had made him decide to go and question Vince Wheaton and his wife, Amy. Perhaps it was simply the fact that he thought she was a nice lady, and nice people shouldn’t have to put up with stalkers.
On the other hand, would a nice lady have had sex with the Wheatons in the first place? That question was probably best asked of and answered by a police detective who was married to a stripper half his age. It didn’t matter what Robin—or any woman—had done prior to calling the “relationship” quits. Once a woman said no, that should have been the end of it. Jones knew that dozens of men a night looked at his wife as she danced naked, or sat in their laps, and didn’t think of her as a “nice girl.” Katy was, indeed, a nice girl, albeit one who stripped for a living and had some questionable garments and toys in her closet at home.
On the other hand, maybe he was just doing it because his boss had told him to keep the lady happy.
The address Robin Lobianco had given him was a house in the affluent Ladue section of St. Louis. Some of the homes along Ladue Rd. were mansions, but the one the Wheatons were living in was somewhat smaller than most. It was as if they had wanted to live in the area, but could not afford one of the larger homes.
This gave them a manageable monthly bill and enabled them to say they lived in Ladue.
On the way to meet them Jones had used his radio to run a check on the Wheatons. He did not yet have the results back. Hopefully, it would be waiting for him when he got back to his office.
He drove down their driveway and parked in front of the large brick home that was entirely too modern looking for that area. Many of the homes had a charming look to them, a personality that this austere building lacked. There was a garage off to his right, which no doubt housed whatever car the Wheatons chose to drive. The door was closed, at the moment.
He walked to the front door and rang the bell. He got out his badge and I.D. so he’d be prepared to show it. The door was opened by absolutely the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen. She was small, lucky if she was over five feet, but perfectly shaped. It was easy to see this as she was wearing tight jeans and a skin-tight T-shirt with some sort of design on the front. He couldn’t make it out and decided it must be abstract. He also decided he’d better stop looking at the woman’s small, perky breasts. If she worked at the club with Katy she’d give his wife a run for her money as the most popular lap dance, but Katy’s breasts were larger—much larger—and that would probably give her the edge in a strip club. It took another moment for him to realize she looked a lot like—
“I get that a lot,” she said, gazing up at him and violet eyes.
“Get what?”
“Shania Twain,” the woman said, as if she’d read his mind. “That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”
“Uh, well, yeah… except for the hair.”
“Darker, I know,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”
“Detective Jones, ma’am,” he said, displaying his badge and ID.
“Is something wrong, Detective?” she asked, putting a perfectly manicured hand to her chest. “Are we making too much noise?”
“I don’t know,” Jones said, “what have you been doing?”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” she said, coolly. “After all, you are the police.”
“Are you Mrs. Wheaton? Amy Wheaton?”
“That’s right.”
“Is your husband home, Mrs. Wheaton?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, “I should have known. Vince has been naughty, hasn’t he?”
“I’d really like to speak to you both, if I can come in?”
“Well, of course,” she said. “What sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t invite the police in?”
She backed away to allow him to enter, but not far enough that he didn’t have to run up against her to get by. She had an amused expression on her face as her breasts brushed him, and then she closed the door and turned to face him.
“We’re in the den, Detective. Will you follow me?”
She led the way and from the way she moved her hips and butt, she knew he was watching. What man wouldn’t?
“Darling,” she said, as they entered the den, “this is Detective Jones, if you can believe that.”
“Really?” the man asked. “Jones? Is that for real?”
“He showed me his identification.”
The man turned to face Jones and extended his hand. Jones found himself looking at a man he knew most women would fall into bed with at a moment’s notice. He was tall, extremely handsome, and athletically built without being muscle-bound. In short, he was the perfect match for his wife. Why wouldn’t Robin Lobianco fall into bed with them?
“Mr. Wheaton?” Jones asked as they shook hands.
“Vince, please,” Vince Wheaton said. “Can we get you a drink, Detective? Coffee, perhaps?”
“I’ll have to get it myself,” Amy told him. “The maid’s day off.”
“That’s okay,” Jones said. “I’ll pass, thanks. I just need to take up a little bit of your time.”
“Very well,” Vince said. “I hope you won’t mind if we have a drink?”
“No, go ahead.”
There was a small but fully stocked bar against one wall. Vince went and got behind it while Amy perched on a barstool in front of it. She crossed her legs and Jones noticed for the first time that her tiny feet were bare. His eyes hadn’t gone that far down before.
Vince poured what appeared to be white wine for both he and his wife. He was also wearing jeans, like his wife, but instead of a T-shirt he wore a casual sports shirt, short-sleeved and open-necked. Neither of them wore any jewelry. Jones’s detective’s mind noticed these things and just filed them away.
“What can we do for you, Detective?” Vince asked.
“I believe the two of you are acquainted with Robin Lobianco?”
The two exchanged a glance, then Amy laughed and said, “Of course we are. Robin’s one of our dearest friends.”
Jones couldn’t help but wonder if they went to bed with many of their “dearest friends.”
“Well, it seems she’s been receiving some disturbing, uh, cards at her home and at work from the two of you. Can you explain that to me?”
They exchanged another glance, as if they communicated with each other telepathically before one of them answered a question. This time it was Vince.
“Disturbing?” Vince asked. “We sent some cards, but I don’t see where they’d be disturbing to anyone… do you, dear?”
“Vince, I told you that last one was over the top,” Amy said, scolding her husband. “It had some nudity in it, but I never thought Robin was a prude.”
They had firsthand proof that she wasn’t, but Jones didn’t comment on that.
“Well, we had no idea our cards would upset her,” Vince said.
“They were harmless enough,” Amy said. “Why would she complain about them?”
“Well, according to Mrs. Lobianco,” Jones said, “she called your friendship off. In fact, she rejected a rather odd offer from you.”
“An offer?” Vince asked, after exchanging a glance with his wife. Jones was trying to read their looks, but couldn’t. “What offer does she say we made?”
“I think you both know what I’m talking about,” Jones said.
“I’m afraid we don’t, Detective,” Vince said, “and if you don’t mind me saying so, this doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing someone of your stature would be assigned to look into.” Jones instinctively knew that Wheaton was trying to snow him.
“No? Oh, I see what you mean,” Jones said. “No, it’s my boss. See, the Art Museum is very important to the city of St. Louis. My superiors just want to keep everyone happy.” Not wanting the couple to think there was anything personal going on—which, surprisingly, there was. He didn’t like them, at all.
“I’m at a loss to explain this,” Amy said.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Wheaton,” Jones said, “I didn’t expect you to actually admit to stalking her.”
