Lust and Lies 04 - Pretty Maids in a Row

characteristics that made David such a good investigative reporter. He admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing—he had never put in any time on the crime desk—but it felt right, and he never fought those feelings when they came to him.
    Since it would be a waste of time to go to the Peacock Lounge before dark, he decided to use the daylight hours on Wednesday to do some research before getting any further involved.
    About a year back he had met a Miami reporter at a press conference. He had given the guy some guidance on protocol, shared a few war stories over drinks and later fixed him up with a friend of a friend. The friend was known to be very kind to lonely visitors. David doubted that the reporter would have forgotten either his companion or him. He was right.
    By the time he and the reporter parted company, David had copies of the newspaper accounts of Nikki's murder, the police homicide report, Mick D'Angelo's criminal record, and a confirmation that Jerry Frampton had once posted bail for him. Of course David had to promise to keep his friend apprised of his investigation.
    A few hours later, David elbowed his way up to the bar in the Peacock Lounge. As Cinnamon had predicted, a question about D'Angelo soon brought a man to David's side.
    "Hey, sport. Hear you've been asking about a friend of mine. Mick doesn't come in here, but I might be seeing him later. I could give him a message."
    David paused to give the man the once-over. He looked more like an accountant than a scout for a pornographer—very slight, at least sixty years old, with a gray crewcut and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Only his tight-lipped mumbling and furtive glances hinted at his true line of work. David knew better than to appear too anxious. "I represent someone from Washington, D.C., someone who's familiar with Mr. D'Angelo's... products."
    "I handle most of his business transactions around here. If you can be a little more specific about the category of the product your client is seeking, I'll see what I can do."
    David shook his head no. "Sorry. I heard this particular product was available only through D'Angelo himself. I understand it's quite unique—the type of thing that might make an excellent gift to a foreign dignitary whose tastes are a bit... different. I'm willing to pay the fare to get a look at it."
    The scout studied him for several seconds before coming to a positive conclusion. "I'll pass on your request. It may take a day or so. Where can he reach you if he's interested?"
    David extracted his business card from his wallet, circled his cell phone number, wrote the name of the hotel and his room number on the back, and handed it to the man.
    With nothing more to accomplish and looking forward to a full night's sleep for a change, David returned to his hotel. Sleep eluded him, however. He told himself it was the thrill of the chase that was keeping him awake. That, and trying to figure out where he would come up with an unknown quantity of cash to get a look at a movie that could turn out to be worthless.
    He glared at the tent his erection was making in his sheet. Since when did working on a story do that to him? If anything, the excitement of a great lead usually had quite an opposite effect.
    Usually. As in, before Holly. How many times had those words come to mind in the last month when he found himself behaving peculiarly? He wasn't literally keeping count, but off the top of his head he would say a thousand was probably close.
    For three days, he'd been fighting to keep her out of his thoughts. Obviously, his body wasn't paying the least bit of attention to his brain.
    By the end of last weekend, he should have been ready to move on to fresh game. She had finally dropped all pretenses of indifference and had even initiated their lovemaking several times. He had also extracted her admission that she enjoyed everything they did together. Still, the little voice in his head nagged, there was something he was missing, something she withheld that kept taking him back to his first impression that she wanted more from him than stud service. And when she'd had the chance to confide in him and tell him why O'Day's name affected her, she'd lied.
    She had asked if he would call while he was away. No begging or whining, as another woman might have. She only asked once, in a conversational tone that implied that it didn't really matter. But he knew she wanted that phone call, and he knew she sensed that