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Chapter Eighteen


When I got home, because I didn't feel like calling about Nick's damn dumplings yet, I typed in the number labeled Z on Cora's phone into a reverse number look-up search. The power of Google. The number belonged to a music producer named Justin Platt who worked for one of Hugh Walters' labels. It took a couple more minutes before I found his address, which wasn't all that far away. I chewed on my fingernail as I stared at the screen, contemplating.

Well. Nick was paying me to be a private investigator.

I went just as I was - sweatpants and dirty concert tee and all - and drove the six miles to Justin Platt's house. I parked my car on the side of the road two houses down and stared at the moderate home that the phone number was connected to. I squinted at it. I couldn't picture Cora ever coming here, but that didn't particularly mean anything, did it? As casually as I could, I got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk toward the house, glancing around as I went. Nobody seemed to be home in any of the houses surrounding this one, so when I got to the driveway, I turned up it.

My mouth was dry from nerves by the time I reached the garage. I slowed down and hesitated in the driveway a moment, looking at the windows of the house, trying to spot a light on or movement of any kind and nothing happened. After a brief pause, I inched closer to the garage and peered into one of the windows. There were no cars inside. There were boxes and boxes all stacked around the place though until there was only a little space left for a car to fit, so I knew there was only one car that belonged in there. Which, I decided, probably meant Justin Platt lived here alone.

I moved closer to the house, feeling more bold now that I'd deduced that he wasn't home and stood on tip toe to see in one of the downstairs windows. I couldn't see a lot. It looked like a typical suburban home from what I could see.

I wasn't even entirely sure what it was that I was looking for. It wasn't like there was going to be a sign up that said Cora Walters fucks me here hanging up somewhere.

I moved around the side of the house to the backyard and looked around. There was a swimming pool and a couple lawn chairs back there, and leaning against one of the chairs was a golf club. But nothing else of interest. I sighed and started walking around to the front again. I was halfway around when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I ducked behind a bush and pressed my back to the house, my heart thumping wildly.

A car door slammed and I heard a couple voices, some laughter, and footsteps on the walkway. I held my breath. The front door opened, and a moment later it closed and I counted to ten, then ran like a bat out of hell across the lawn, passing the white Escalade in the driveway as I went, and rushed to my car a couple houses down. I flung myself into the drivers' seat, and drove off as quick as I could, barely able to breathe. "Oh for the love of God," I muttered.

I sat there trying to catch my breath for a few minutes. I'd never been so terrified in my entire life. And Nick had hired me as a private investigator? Please. I was an imposter. I wasn't Monkish, or feisty, or any of the other things that he thought I was. A waste of his money.

Then my eyes snapped open because something in my head clicked.

I got back out of the car and headed back toward the house, my heart pumping against my chest. I walked slowly toward the driveway. I was in deep shit if I got spotted. I crouched beside the neighbor's hedges, peered around at the Escalade.

It was Nick's.

I sat down in the dirt and pulled out my cell phone. Of course, this was so obvious. I dialed Nick's number. It took a couple rings before he answered it. "Heyyyyy-lo?" he drawled into the phone.

"Hey Nick," I said, "Just calling to see if you wanted the dumplings in chicken or pork for the party?"

"Hmmm... ummmm... pork, I guess."

"Awesome. Hey, you still at the studio? Do you or your buddies Z and Lawrence need anything?"

"Nawh man, I'm at Z's place," Nick answered, "We're good... Damn you really are the best personal assistant ever, man." He laughed, "Thanks, though."

"No problem."

"You need anything else besides the chicken or pork thing?" he asked.

"Nope," I answered, "You just gave me everything I need. Thanks." I hung up the phone.

So Nick's producer, Justin Platt - AKA, Z, was calling Miss. Cora at odd hours of the night. Why in hell would Justin "Z" Platt be calling Cora at all? I wondered. I scrambled out of the dirt behind the hedges and ran doubled-down toward my car, where I flung myself in and drove away.

Now the night I met Nick, he'd told me that him and Cora were discussing a BSB/Cora duet, but I'd thought that was complete bullshit then, as I thought it was now. However, what if Cora was the one who'd come up with the excuse, not Nick? What if Cora needed an excuse to tell Hugh Walters that made sense for her to be spending inordinate amounts of time with both Nick and with Z? What if Cora was using that same excuse to cover for both her affairs at once?

Mind blown.

Maybe I wasn't so bad at this P.I. stuff after all.

I called Addison, my anger at her for the whole condom-excitement thing disapparated as I just desperately needed somebody to bounce these ideas off of at this point. When she picked up the phone, I bypassed banal things like greetings and how-you-doin's and just launched into my tale of narrowly escaping being seen and discovering Cora's double-use-excuse.

"So... what do you think?" I finished.

"Holy shit," Addison muttered, "How many guys do you think she's doin'?"

"Well I know of at least three now -- Hugh, Z, and Nick."

"Are you going to tell Nick about all this?"

"Not yet," I said, "I need... proof. If I tell him this he's just gonna think I'm nuts without proof, and even if he believes me enough to confront her she'll just deny it."

"Good point. So how are you gonna get proof?"

"At the party," I said.

"Good thinking," Addison said.

"Speaking of the party," I switched gears, "I was talking to Nick earlier and he saw your flyer in the binder for the entertainer and he's really excited about you working the party."

"Really?" Addison squeaked with excitement.

"Yeah... Get this, though. He's interested in hearing you sing more than your dancing abilities."

"What?" Addison sounded surprised. "But... nobody's more interested in that. Why's he interested in that? What'd you tell him?"

"I told him you were an aspiring singer and he jumped on it," I rehashed the conversation. "He said that Cora's looking for an opening act."

Addison was dead silent for a second. "No. Fucking. Way."

"That's what he said."

"Oh my God. WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME IMMEDIATELY?" she shrieked. "I HAVE TO WORK ON MY VOICE! OHMYGOD!"

"Your voice is perfectly fine; loud, but fine," I said, holding the phone back from my ear, "And I didn't tell you 'cos I was mad at you for getting me excited for Nick sex and telling me I was falling for him."

Addison laughed, "You were mad at me? When?"

"This morning. I ignored your call."

Addison laughed, "Sweetie, if you're gonna get mad at someone, get really mad at them, or else they'll never even know you were mad in the first place."

She was always telling me that... because I never was very good at communicating when I was mad.