me. Otherwise we’ll talk in the morning.
Love,
Seanmhair.
I heaved a sigh, left the money bag and note on the desk, and locked the back door before heading upstairs.
* * *
It was a wasted effort to try and get some rest. My body refused to relax so my mind would clear long enough for sleep to take over. Instead, I slumped on the sofa, pulled an afghan over me, and dialed Vinnie Esposito’s phone number. It was possible Vinnie could tell me what I needed to know.
“Vinnie Esposito,” she said loud and clear.
“Hey, Vinnie, it’s Melina Cameron.”
“I saw you on the news and wondered if I’d hear from you,” she remarked. “Been there, done that, and disliked it with all my heart, so I know what you’re feeling. How can I help?”
This woman had a presence most bad guys tried to avoid. Self-confident, tall, and unwilling to put up with nonsense, in my book Vinnie Esposito was a woman to be reckoned with. After I explained what I was interested in knowing, she said she’d do her best and would contact me later.
Before she hung up, Vinnie asked, “You know what kind of trouble you’re asking for, right?”
“I do, but if I don’t make an effort to find out what happened to that woman, I won’t be able to get past finding her dead body. You understand, don’t you?”
A snicker crossed the line and Vinnie said, “Sure do, we’ll talk later.”
The line went dead. I stared at the phone before putting it aside. Vinnie had contacts in the law enforcement and security world. She’d been in more scrapes than I’d ever want to be involved in, and had managed to survive. If she could do it, I could, too.
Two hours later, I still slouched on the sofa when I heard pounding on the rear entry downstairs. I flung the afghan aside, slipped my shoes on, and ran my fingers through my hair as I trundled down the steps.
BettyJo and Vinnie Esposito stood on the deck. Hurriedly, I invited them in. BettyJo carried a bottle of wine and a bag from Mack & Mutts Deli. Vinnie was empty handed, but the electricity she exuded could only mean one thing. She had news.
I motioned them upstairs and followed hot on their heels. While they settled in, I took wine glasses and plates from my kitchenette. While BettyJo poured, I pulled the contents from the bag and found she’d ordered calzones. I cut them in sections and loaded plates.
“We can eat while we talk. Who wants to go first?” I said and bit into the warm, spinach and black olive-filled calzone. I groaned with appreciation and heard their laughter.
“I reached out like you asked,” Vinnie said around a mouthful of food. “The affair had been ongoing for a year or more. Hardin’s wife had no idea, or if she had, then she kept it to herself. Politician’s wives do that, you know. Look at the former governor of California’s situation. His wife waited until he left office before she pulled the plug on that relationship.”
“Did you find out the woman’s name?” I asked between bites.
With a nod, Vinnie swallowed a sip of wine. “It was hush, hush, but I kept asking until I got what I wanted.” She flipped her iPhone out and scrolled through it. Then she held it up for us to see. “Her name is Vanderkemp. Eliza Vanderkemp. Natural-blond, beautiful woman, and a former Olympic Gold Medal Winner.”
I gagged on my wine, coughed until I thought my lungs would come out through my mouth, and proceeded to drag oxygen back into my lungs. This was the same woman from the party, the one who was murdered. I had a name, now I needed to know even more.
Glancing at each woman, I asked in a ragged voice, “Any other details? Either of you?”
With a slight nod, BettyJo withdrew a note from her jeans pocket and picked up where Vinnie had left off. “She moved to Rhode Island, worked on Hardin’s campaign, and did some modeling in Massachusetts. Women’s sportswear, mostly. The two were seen together at all the fund raising parties, though she
Love,
Seanmhair.
I heaved a sigh, left the money bag and note on the desk, and locked the back door before heading upstairs.
* * *
It was a wasted effort to try and get some rest. My body refused to relax so my mind would clear long enough for sleep to take over. Instead, I slumped on the sofa, pulled an afghan over me, and dialed Vinnie Esposito’s phone number. It was possible Vinnie could tell me what I needed to know.
“Vinnie Esposito,” she said loud and clear.
“Hey, Vinnie, it’s Melina Cameron.”
“I saw you on the news and wondered if I’d hear from you,” she remarked. “Been there, done that, and disliked it with all my heart, so I know what you’re feeling. How can I help?”
This woman had a presence most bad guys tried to avoid. Self-confident, tall, and unwilling to put up with nonsense, in my book Vinnie Esposito was a woman to be reckoned with. After I explained what I was interested in knowing, she said she’d do her best and would contact me later.
Before she hung up, Vinnie asked, “You know what kind of trouble you’re asking for, right?”
“I do, but if I don’t make an effort to find out what happened to that woman, I won’t be able to get past finding her dead body. You understand, don’t you?”
A snicker crossed the line and Vinnie said, “Sure do, we’ll talk later.”
The line went dead. I stared at the phone before putting it aside. Vinnie had contacts in the law enforcement and security world. She’d been in more scrapes than I’d ever want to be involved in, and had managed to survive. If she could do it, I could, too.
Two hours later, I still slouched on the sofa when I heard pounding on the rear entry downstairs. I flung the afghan aside, slipped my shoes on, and ran my fingers through my hair as I trundled down the steps.
BettyJo and Vinnie Esposito stood on the deck. Hurriedly, I invited them in. BettyJo carried a bottle of wine and a bag from Mack & Mutts Deli. Vinnie was empty handed, but the electricity she exuded could only mean one thing. She had news.
I motioned them upstairs and followed hot on their heels. While they settled in, I took wine glasses and plates from my kitchenette. While BettyJo poured, I pulled the contents from the bag and found she’d ordered calzones. I cut them in sections and loaded plates.
“We can eat while we talk. Who wants to go first?” I said and bit into the warm, spinach and black olive-filled calzone. I groaned with appreciation and heard their laughter.
“I reached out like you asked,” Vinnie said around a mouthful of food. “The affair had been ongoing for a year or more. Hardin’s wife had no idea, or if she had, then she kept it to herself. Politician’s wives do that, you know. Look at the former governor of California’s situation. His wife waited until he left office before she pulled the plug on that relationship.”
“Did you find out the woman’s name?” I asked between bites.
With a nod, Vinnie swallowed a sip of wine. “It was hush, hush, but I kept asking until I got what I wanted.” She flipped her iPhone out and scrolled through it. Then she held it up for us to see. “Her name is Vanderkemp. Eliza Vanderkemp. Natural-blond, beautiful woman, and a former Olympic Gold Medal Winner.”
I gagged on my wine, coughed until I thought my lungs would come out through my mouth, and proceeded to drag oxygen back into my lungs. This was the same woman from the party, the one who was murdered. I had a name, now I needed to know even more.
Glancing at each woman, I asked in a ragged voice, “Any other details? Either of you?”
With a slight nod, BettyJo withdrew a note from her jeans pocket and picked up where Vinnie had left off. “She moved to Rhode Island, worked on Hardin’s campaign, and did some modeling in Massachusetts. Women’s sportswear, mostly. The two were seen together at all the fund raising parties, though she
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