an odd business card in
his pants pocket.
Fifty bucks will get you anything you want
for a full hour. Call 501-555-5242. Ask for Cherry.
Melanie looked up the area code, and then
one weekend, while her husband was in the Midwest, she drove to
Little Rock and called the number on the card. Cherry agreed to
meet her at a motel. Melanie figured Cherry was a prostitute, but
wanted to be sure before she accused her husband.
“ You got the fifty
bucks?”
“ Yeah.” Melanie handed
Cherry the bills.
Cherry slipped off her blouse nonchalantly,
as though she was removing a jacket. There was nothing underneath
but huge, bare breasts. “Okay, Honey, let’s do it.”
“ But I…”
“ That’s okay. I can see
you’re a little shy. Probably your first time with a pro, huh,
Sweetie.”
Melanie was dumbstruck.
Cherry took her in her arms and planted a
big, wet kiss on her lips. Her erect nipples were poking Melanie in
the chest.
Melanie jumped back. “No. You don’t
understand. I just wanted to see what this was all about.”
“ Who are you? A
reporter—doing an expose? Well, you can forget it. I’ve got nothing
to say to you.” She snatched her blouse from the bed.
“ No, I’m not a reporter.
Really. I think my husband has used your service.”
“ Oh, great. Now, take it
easy. You don’t have a gun in your purse, do you? I don’t do any
married men—at least not knowingly.”
“ I’m not here to hurt you.
I’d just like to ask you some questions. For my own
curiosity.”
So, Cherry told Melanie all about the
business. And Melanie went back home and confronted her husband. He
admitted to using hookers—and not just Cherry’s service. He was a
regular customer in five states.
Melanie divorced him, finished law school,
and became a divorce lawyer. And she made it her mission in life to
save women from their cheating husbands. Her attitude was that
husbands were guilty until proven innocent.
By the time the couple
emerged from Room 103, Rebecca and Melanie had decided to become
law partners. And the wife who had hired them was going to
pay both of
them or get none of their evidence.
Rebecca was deeply saddened by the death of
her dear friend and partner. But she would have her revenge.
The killer must have thought he was so
smart—wiping his fingerprints off everything and taking the card
with his license number on it.
But when he had turned the card over to read
the other side, he had unwittingly exposed his license number to
Melanie’s purse camera. And Rebecca’s friend at the DMV had easily
matched the number to the owner of the car: Lawrence Igby Luzor, of
Plano, Texas.
Chapter 10
At 9:15 on Saturday morning Larry Luzor,
soon to be a best-selling author, walked into his Plano, Texas
home. The message machine was flashing the number ’12.’ Probably
just calls from Erin’s sleazy friends, he thought. Or, maybe an
agent?”
The phone rang.
“ Hello?”
“ Is this Lawrence Igby
Luzor?”
“ Yes.”
“ Mr. Luzor, this is Lt.
Gotcha of the Sherman Police Department.”
Gotcha? Larry felt a chill begin to run up
his spine. Surely that’s not his name, he thought. “I’m sorry—what
did you say your name was?”
“ Gretcha. Lt. Bill Gretcha.
Sir, the reason I’m calling is that we have a silver BMW
convertible that was reported abandoned in a parking lot. And the
car is registered in your name.”
The detective told Larry the license number
and where the car had been found. He had been trying to reach Larry
since the store owner had called it in late Friday afternoon.
“ Yes, that’s my wife’s
car.”
“ Well, when was the last
time you saw or talked to your wife?”
“ Uh…I guess that would have
been Thursday night—at a cabin on Lake Texoma.”
“ I see. Well, Mr. Luzor,
would mind coming in to the station so we can talk about
this?”
“ Can’t we just do it over
the phone?”
The detective waited four seconds before he
responded. “Sir, you don’t
his pants pocket.
Fifty bucks will get you anything you want
for a full hour. Call 501-555-5242. Ask for Cherry.
Melanie looked up the area code, and then
one weekend, while her husband was in the Midwest, she drove to
Little Rock and called the number on the card. Cherry agreed to
meet her at a motel. Melanie figured Cherry was a prostitute, but
wanted to be sure before she accused her husband.
“ You got the fifty
bucks?”
“ Yeah.” Melanie handed
Cherry the bills.
Cherry slipped off her blouse nonchalantly,
as though she was removing a jacket. There was nothing underneath
but huge, bare breasts. “Okay, Honey, let’s do it.”
“ But I…”
“ That’s okay. I can see
you’re a little shy. Probably your first time with a pro, huh,
Sweetie.”
Melanie was dumbstruck.
Cherry took her in her arms and planted a
big, wet kiss on her lips. Her erect nipples were poking Melanie in
the chest.
Melanie jumped back. “No. You don’t
understand. I just wanted to see what this was all about.”
“ Who are you? A
reporter—doing an expose? Well, you can forget it. I’ve got nothing
to say to you.” She snatched her blouse from the bed.
“ No, I’m not a reporter.
Really. I think my husband has used your service.”
“ Oh, great. Now, take it
easy. You don’t have a gun in your purse, do you? I don’t do any
married men—at least not knowingly.”
“ I’m not here to hurt you.
I’d just like to ask you some questions. For my own
curiosity.”
So, Cherry told Melanie all about the
business. And Melanie went back home and confronted her husband. He
admitted to using hookers—and not just Cherry’s service. He was a
regular customer in five states.
Melanie divorced him, finished law school,
and became a divorce lawyer. And she made it her mission in life to
save women from their cheating husbands. Her attitude was that
husbands were guilty until proven innocent.
By the time the couple
emerged from Room 103, Rebecca and Melanie had decided to become
law partners. And the wife who had hired them was going to
pay both of
them or get none of their evidence.
Rebecca was deeply saddened by the death of
her dear friend and partner. But she would have her revenge.
The killer must have thought he was so
smart—wiping his fingerprints off everything and taking the card
with his license number on it.
But when he had turned the card over to read
the other side, he had unwittingly exposed his license number to
Melanie’s purse camera. And Rebecca’s friend at the DMV had easily
matched the number to the owner of the car: Lawrence Igby Luzor, of
Plano, Texas.
Chapter 10
At 9:15 on Saturday morning Larry Luzor,
soon to be a best-selling author, walked into his Plano, Texas
home. The message machine was flashing the number ’12.’ Probably
just calls from Erin’s sleazy friends, he thought. Or, maybe an
agent?”
The phone rang.
“ Hello?”
“ Is this Lawrence Igby
Luzor?”
“ Yes.”
“ Mr. Luzor, this is Lt.
Gotcha of the Sherman Police Department.”
Gotcha? Larry felt a chill begin to run up
his spine. Surely that’s not his name, he thought. “I’m sorry—what
did you say your name was?”
“ Gretcha. Lt. Bill Gretcha.
Sir, the reason I’m calling is that we have a silver BMW
convertible that was reported abandoned in a parking lot. And the
car is registered in your name.”
The detective told Larry the license number
and where the car had been found. He had been trying to reach Larry
since the store owner had called it in late Friday afternoon.
“ Yes, that’s my wife’s
car.”
“ Well, when was the last
time you saw or talked to your wife?”
“ Uh…I guess that would have
been Thursday night—at a cabin on Lake Texoma.”
“ I see. Well, Mr. Luzor,
would mind coming in to the station so we can talk about
this?”
“ Can’t we just do it over
the phone?”
The detective waited four seconds before he
responded. “Sir, you don’t
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