The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(13)

Because I secretly believed that every client I visited, every house I stepped into and stepped out of, every family I changed was like my own little extreme makeover project. Just with a much less orthodox approach.

"Hello?" I said into the phone.

When answering my business line, I always opted for a standard, informal greeting rather than a typical, "This is Ashlyn," or anything personalized. This approach kept the whole thing more discreet. The caller knows who they're calling. And if it's a call I want to take, I can proceed from there. Otherwise, I can simply tell the caller that they have the wrong number and hang up.

Every so often an angry now-ex-husband or ex-boyfriend will stumble upon this number and dial it, hoping to get more information about the test they've just failed miserably. And, of course, looking for a scapegoat upon which to release their pent-up anger. Anything to distract themselves from turning inward and facing the real issue.

"May I please speak to Ashlyn?" It was a male voice. Although I have had a few male clients in the past for various reasons, I'm still always wary when a man calls this number.

"What is this regarding?"

"My name is Roger Ireland. I received your number from a close friend, Audrey Robbins. She said you might be able to help me."

I considered, sizing up his voice in an effort to decide whether this would simply be a "wrong number" or a longer conversation. The man on the phone sounded genuine and almost endearingly uncomfortable. This type of phone call was clearly not part of his normal daily routine.

"What kind of help are you looking for?" I asked.

He cleared his throat. "Well, my daughter is getting married in a few months, and I'm not sure I really trust the guy." He paused and then quickly added, "I could be completely wrong, but I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing. I'm worried about her."

"I see."

"I'd rather know now if he's going to break her heart so we don't have to go through with the wedding."

"Well, that's understandable," I said. "Have you mentioned your concern to your daughter?"

"I tried. It didn't seem to work. She got really upset and didn't speak to me for a week."

"Right," I responded. It made sense. Young brides-to-be rarely want to hear anything except, "White is a good color on you."

"I love my daughter. I only want her to be happy. But if this guy is no good, I want to prove it to her. To save her from heartache further down the road." He struggled momentarily with his next line. And then finally, "Can you help me?"

I agreed to meet with him so that I could gather some more information. I rarely accept assignments over the phone. I insist on meeting face-to-face first so I can get a better feel for the person who's hiring me and what the assignment would entail.



THAT PHONE call was two days ago. So today, after leaving Anne Jacobs's house, I drove back to Los Angeles to meet with Roger Ireland at his office in Century City. I arrived at the twenty-story building on Avenue of the Stars and rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor where a sign read LAW OFFICES OF IRELAND, HAMMERL AND WELCH.

The receptionist smiled cordially upon hearing the name Ashlyn and led me right into his office.

Roger Ireland was a pleasant-looking man, with gray hair and tired eyes, probably in his late fifties or early sixties. His large corner office was filled with a combination of dark wood furniture and brown cardboard boxes. "I'm retiring in a few weeks," he said, after shaking my hand and motioning toward the boxes and random piles of clutter.

I smiled. "Congratulations."

He pointed at a chocolate-colored leather couch by the window, and we sat down. I pulled out my black Louis Vuitton portfolio and flipped it open to an empty page.

"So let me just start by asking you some questions, and then I'll determine whether or not I can take on your case."

Roger nodded, seemingly relieved that I had been the one to initiate the dialogue. I'm sure he was wondering how one would even begin a conversation like this. "So, you're gonna try to have sex with my future son-in-law?"

I started by asking him the usual opening questions. The easy stuff. The subject's name, occupation, hobbies, and interests if he knew of any.

The fiancé's name was Parker Colman, a risk management adviser for LDS Securities. He had asked Lauren Ireland to marry him approximately nine months earlier. The elaborate $100,000 wedding was in three weeks, and the bachelor party was scheduled for a week from tomorrow in the land of bachelor parties: Las Vegas, Nevada. I had personally been there at least twenty times since starting this job.

As far as Mr. Ireland knew, Parker liked basketball, poker, BBQs, boozing, and, from what he suspected, women.

"And how does your daughter feel about the bachelor party?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they can be tricky," I explained. "Some women believe that anything goes at the bachelor party. Last final fling type of stuff, just don't tell me about it. Is Lauren like that?"

Roger shook his head. "Oh, no," he replied without reservation. "I know she's been pretty on edge about it. According to my wife, she only agreed to the whole thing because he promised not to go to any strip clubs. And of course, not to...you know, be with any other girls."