Stolen Power

status, and then deleted.
“I’m a movie producer. I’m traveling from LA, looking at finding new talent for my next movie.” I stepped closer to her. “My Instagram handle is @Movies.Producer.LA.”
Sometimes the simplest profile can be the most convincing. Ruby scanned the profile quickly, saw the pictures of me on movie sets, at award ceremonies with the great and the good, even on a yacht with a certain former president, and was convinced. I’m sure if she spent more than five seconds looking at any one of those pictures, she would see that they were fake, but I wasn’t going to give her that chance.
“You should join me for that coffee,” I stated confidently. It wasn’t a question, more an assertion. And she did as instructed.
She smiled, and for the first time since I’d been watching her, she put her phone away and followed my lead.
The walk to the coffee shop was filled with small talk, I was doing my best to name drop, casually of course, and Ruby was doing her best to look fabulous. She wanted in on that movie. She explained that she had 50,000 followers, she was famous, and she was ready to hit the big time. She talked of the acting classes she’d taken, the modelling she’d done, how she could sing and that she had even once worked as a dancer.  It was all too obvious what she was after. I pretended to be interested, as if impressed with such a boring list of credentials.
“What’s your account handle?” I asked.
“A.Star.Is.Born.Chicago.”
I took out my phone and looked at her profile.
“How come you took a day off yesterday, you’ve posted consistently until then, some good material, but it’s unwise to kick back and take a break,” I said pretending to be surprised at the absence of any postings for the day in question.
Her one-word answer was sudden – ‘sick.’ Too quick, and too rehearsed.
We entered Starbucks and ordered our coffees.
“Got anything to tie you to Chicago?” I asked after we sat down on the outdoor seats along Michigan Ave. “Boyfriend? Husband? Kids?”
“No kids.” She answered suddenly. “My family is here. My father, Frank Jones, would do anything for me. I could ask him to drive to New York City and buy a salmon bagel for me, and he’d do it without question.”
“Sounds like a great dad.”
“Not really. He was violent, and he used to beat my mother and I when he got drunk. But when he’s sober, he’d do anything for us. He’s a mechanic, but he’s got mob connections, and he loves us. He’s still the centerpiece of my family.”
“Boyfriend?”
“My dad? No. He’s still married to my mother.”
“I meant you,” I smiled. It was clear that Ruby was about as sharp as a bowling ball.
“I do have a great boyfriend, but he would be happy to move anywhere. He’s older and rich. We’ve got a good life.”
“Does he have kids?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?” I laughed. “What does that mean?”
“I mean,” she paused for a few moments and bit her lip. “He does, but she just gets in the way. She’ll be gone soon anyway.”
“Gone? Why?” I leaned forward.
The question caught Ruby off-guard and she sat up straight. “Her mother wants more time with the kid. That’ll be good for Chase and me anyway. We can travel more then. Maybe even move to LA. It’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to work.”
My list of suspects was growing, and that wasn’t helping me one bit.

Chapter 8


Sometimes the smallest action could annoy me.
Like the way those born into money and privilege hold their little finger out when they drink.
That annoyed me.
But at least those who were born rich didn’t know any better. What annoyed me even more was when people faked it to look like they were born with a silver spoon in their mouth, like they were from good stock or something, and were better than the rest of us mere grunts. And that was especially so when it was someone I already found annoying. Like Chase Martin doing it, while delicately sipping his tiny little espresso from one of those silly miniature cups. Yeah, that’ll do it, gets my blood boiling every time.
And yes, most things I had discovered about Chase Martin so far had annoyed me. I had no doubt that Ben was telling the truth when he said that Chase was running scams. Everything about him shouted con artist, at least to me; I guess to those he managed to con he came off as confident and sophisticated, a man who knew what he was talking about and who would look after them and especially look after their precious money, those who didn’t know any better.
His apartment wasn’t built for children—there were prized and delicate artifacts everywhere, almost waiting to be broken by an over enthusiastic child, which spoke volumes about his authoritarian and regimented parenting style, where he no doubt stamped out any exuberant free play in favor of organized and controlled order. I was sure some of the artifacts were bought off the black market and that their legality was questionable at best. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were smuggled into the US in breach of the laws of this great country, as well as the laws of wherever in the world they first originated.
I was surprised he even bothered with Millie at all. She didn’t seem to fit his lifestyle.
“Tell me about Ruby.” I sat down on the couch.
“Ruby? You think she’s involved?” Chase finished his espresso and ran his hand through his hair, flicking it back at the last minute with a flamboyant confidence that annoyed me even more.
He walked over to a grandiose armchair opposite, practically a throne, a chair worthy of Hugh Hefner, and sat down.