The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(24)

"What the f*ck do you think you're doing, *?!" Her voice came screaming over the line.

Yep, it was Zo?, all right. She had a habit of driving while she was talking on the phone. Which didn't always make for the best conversations, as she also had a habit of engaging in serious road rage. I pulled the phone away from my ear until she had finished yelling at whatever idiot had been daring enough to cut her off.

"Sorry." Her voice returned to its normal, snappy tone. "I'm on Sunset. Apparently they don't teach you how to merge in West Hollywood."

"Is there a reason you're waking me up on a Saturday?"

"Oh, right. Brunch in one hour."

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. "What?"

"Hey, don't take it out on me. Sophie called it. Apparently it's an 'emergency.'" Zo? clearly was not excited about being dragged to brunch either. Especially since we all know what it means when Sophie uses the word "emergency." It normally consists of a group session in which Sophie panics and makes a big deal about nothing and we all attempt to console her. And as much as I liked being able to console my best friend in her times of need, this happened to be the first morning I was able to sleep late in over two weeks. So needless to say, I wasn't exactly thrilled about it being interrupted for an emergency brunch.

"Did she say what it was about?"

"No. She wouldn't tell me. She said it was IPO."

"Initial public offering?" The investment banker in me ventured a guess at Zo?'s latest use of instant-message speak.

"In-person only. But it's not like she has to tell us what this is about. You know it's going to be about— Loser! Are you blind? That's not a f*cking turn lane!"

I waited for the elongated honking sounds to subside before asking where this emergency brunch would take place.

"Café Montana."

I groaned and threw the covers off of my body. "Fine. I'll be there."

"You better. I don't want to be the one to tell Sophie you're not coming."

Zo? and I had both learned a long time ago that you can't argue with Sophie when she has her mind set on something. She can make you feel like the lowest, most unsupportive friend in the world if you dare say no to one of her urgent requests.

I yawned and pulled myself up to a sitting position. "I can't promise to be joyful."

"Good. I'm on my way to pick up John. See you in a bit."

And before I could even respond she had hung up the phone. I set it down next to me and lingered on the edge of my bed for a minute, attempting to rally enough energy to stand.

I felt utterly exhausted. My post-assignment meeting with Andrew Thompson's wife yesterday morning in San Francisco had been draining. Most meetings only take about an hour. The women usually want the news, and if it's bad, they usually want me out of their sight. And I don't blame them. I assume their appreciation for my services comes much later, and by that time I'm far removed from their lives. But I don't mind that. It's something I've come to terms with over the years. I've accepted the fact that this just isn't the type of job where you can expect flowers and a thank-you card as a token of gratitude.

But Emily Thompson clung to me like a cotton shirt that had been dried without fabric softener. I was there for over three hours, and as a result missed my flight home and had to go standby on the next flight back to L.A.

By the time I left she had taken me through three family photo albums, over an hour of home videos of Andrew and the kids acting out favorite scenes from Disney movies, and countless stories of their child-free college days, when everything had been about fun, partying, booze, and sex.

Times like these are, by far, the most challenging part of my job. Because when I walk into these people's homes I can feel the critical stares coming from the family portraits hanging on the walls. And when you're in my shoes, you don't just look at these pictures. The pictures look back at you. And they don't just watch you enter their house, they judge you for being there.

Without even bothering to take a shower or wash my face, I dragged myself toward the casual section of my walk-in closet and lethargically pulled on a pair of jeans and a hooded purple sweatshirt. I'm sure Sophie will criticize my informal ensemble in a place like Café Montana, but at this point I could care less. She was stealing my only sleepin day in weeks; she would have to suffer through my sweatshirt and ripped jeans. And so would Café Montana.

Plus, this is L.A. Dressing casually in a nice place doesn't make you look like a scrub; it makes you look like a celebrity.

I brushed my hair back into a loose ponytail at the base of my neck and pulled a Lakers cap over my head. I grabbed my two cell phones and my keys, shoved them in my new Fendi Spy Bag, and was out the door.

I keep two cell phones with me at all times. A Treo for my business line and a pink Razr for my personal line. The business phone, according to my friends, is the "mind-controlling device that keeps me chained to the evil empire of my overly demanding investment bank." But in actuality, it's linked to the unlisted phone number that is passed around among affluent housewives, mothers, girlfriends, and anyone else who might be in need of my help. The secret network of suspicious women of the world. If they had their own yellow pages I'd be listed under "crucial services."