Sweetie's Diamonds (18 page)

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.”
 

She turned, left the room, and strode into the hallway, avoiding the stares of the staff and other teachers who were gathering their mail.
 

“I
f your warranty has expired, then there's not a whole lot I can do about it,” Greg Boston said into the phone.
 
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Zakowski, but that's the cost to replace the battery.
 
I guarantee you that it's a competitive price and you probably won't find a better deal in the Lincoln Grove area.
 
I'll be happy to send one of my men to your house to change out the battery and get your car started, but I can't do it for free.”

Some people, he thought.
 
Why did they think that just because they purchased the car from his dealership then they were entitled to free service for the rest of their lives?
 
Mrs. Zakowski's Ford Tempo was ten years old.
 
There was no way he was going to give her a free battery.
 

After listening to her bitch and moan for another minute, Boston said, “All right, Mrs. Zakowski, I'll knock off twenty per cent from the labor charge.
 
That's the best I can do.”
 

Suddenly, that seemed to satisfy her.
 
Sheesh, he thought.
 
All it took was to give
just
an inch.
 

After hanging up he went back to last month's sales figures that had been placed on his desk that morning.
 
They weren't bad but they weren't great.
 
Damn economy, he mulled.
 
No one was buying these days.
 
At least no one who wanted to spend a lot of money.
 

The phone rang and he hesitated before answering it.
 

Why do I think this is bad news?
he mused.

He picked up the receiver and said, “This is Boston, how can I help you?”

“Greg, it's Mark.”
 

Mark Spencer, lawyer extraordinaire and golf partner.

“Hi Mark.
 
What's up?” Boston answered.

“Have you
heard
the news?” his lawyer asked.
 
He sounded very excited.

“What news?”

“You're never going to believe what was in the
National Enquirer
this morning.”

Boston winced.
 
“Are you shitting me, Mark?
 
Who reads that crap?”

“Well, my wife does, for one.
 
She has a subscription.”

“I see.”

“Listen, you're not going to believe this.”

“I don't believe most things in the
National Enquirer
.”

“There's a story about your ex-wife.”

That got Greg Boston's attention.
 
“What did you say?”

“Your ex-wife is in the
National Enquirer
,” Spencer said.
 
“My wife pointed out the story to me this morning.
 
Un-fucking-believable!”

Boston sat forward in his chair.
 
“What's it say?”

Spencer read the story to him.
 
Boston listened to it without making a sound and when his lawyer was finished he still had nothing to say.

“Greg?
 
You there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.
 
I don't believe it.”

“It's bizarre, ain't it?
 
Where did they get this if it's not true?” Spencer asked.
 
“I mean, think about it.
 
No one knows who Diane Boston is except the people in Lincoln Grove, Illinois.
 
She's a hotshot schoolteacher and all that but why should a national rag like the
Enquirer
give a shit about her?
 
Maybe it's because it's a story that grabs a reader's imagination.
 
And
maybe because it's a story that must be true.
 
Think about it, Greg.
 
They usually write about crazy celebrities.
 
They can write just about anything about those people and get away with it.
 
The celebrities either don't care or they end up suing them.
 
So why would they pick on a suburban woman that no one outside of her community knows?
 
Because it's a true story
.”

Boston was struck dumb.
 
It was so utterly
out there
that it couldn't be true.
 
And yet… it would explain a lot.
 
He always suspected that Diane had a big fat dark secret and that she was afraid of opening up to him.
 
Could this be it?
 
Was this the reason why he could never get to know the
real
Diane Wilson?
 
Could this be why their marriage eventually broke up?
 

“You know, Mark,” he finally said, “there's something about this that does ring true.”

“I thought you'd see it that way,” his lawyer said.
 

“This is… this is really weird.”
 
It didn't take a lot to shake up Greg Boston but this time he knew he wouldn't get much work done that day.
 
He rubbed his hand through his hair and asked, “Sheesh, what do I do about this?”

“Not much you can do, buddy,” Spencer said.
 
“But I tell you one thing though.”

“What?”

“This could put a whole new light on the custody case.”

Boston leaned forward.
 
“Yeah?”

“You bet.
 
This could be just what we need to show that Diane is an unfit mother.
 
All we have to do is get hold of some of her movies and show them to a judge and you just might get custody of David.”

Boston drummed his fingers on the desktop and considered the ramifications.
 
It would be an embarrassing court procedure for all parties concerned.
 
And he hated to drag David through it all.
 
Speaking of David, did he know?
 
He was bound to, sooner or later.
 
The school would know, everyone would know.
 
The best strategy for Greg Boston would be to play the outraged father and ex-husband.
 
Shock and awe.
 
Humiliation and pain.
 
It could work.

“All right, Mark,” he said.
 
“Go for it.”

D
arren Marshall slipped out of bed quietly so that he wouldn't disturb Ellie.
 
She was snoring softly, something he figured might have a bit to do with her pierced nose but he wasn't too sure.
 
At any rate, it didn't bother him because he thought it was cute.
 
He probably snored a hell of a lot louder.
 

Marshall slipped on his house robe and tread softly out of the bedroom.
 
He went into the kitchen to turn on the Mr. Coffee and then went outside to collect the newspapers.
 
He subscribed to three different LA papers even though he barely had time to get through one of them.
 
It was important for him to keep up with what everyone else was doing, though.
 
Marshall felt that he had to be familiar with the different styles of writing in the various papers.
 

Today was a bonus because the
National Enquirer
had been delivered.
 
Marshall still had a soft spot in his heart for the tabloid.
 
He had cut his teeth writing scandalous tomes of libel for the paper and he continued to enjoy reading it.
 
Since he had worked for the publication, he knew that most of the stories weren't true.
 
The editors gambled that the celebrities involved wouldn't bother pressing charges—most of them ignored the paper as harmless junk.
 
The few who did take issue with what the
Enquirer
reported went through a lengthy and expensive process to sue and in the end they rarely found the experience worth the trouble.
 
As for the small percentage of plaintiffs that did succeed in collecting a sizable payoff, the
Enquirer
's phenomenally high circulation more than made up for what the publication had to pay in damages.
 

Marshall made his coffee and glanced at the clock.
 
He could take his time that morning.
 
He had no deadlines and Mertz was away.
 
Marshall could afford to come in late.
 
No one would notice.

He sat at the dining table with the papers and coffee and started on the
Enquirer
first.
 
Ellie's two cats appeared from nowhere and meowed for their breakfast.

“Get the fuck outta here,” he told them.
 
They seemed to understand and ran into the bedroom, most likely to wake up Ellie.

Marshall turned the pages of the rag slowly, scanning the articles and noting that there was really nothing new.
 
Same old celebrities, same old trash.
 
Then the name “Lucy Luv” jumped out at him from a headline and he took notice.
 
Since he had been researching the life of Aaron Valentine, Marshall had become something of an authority on the history of the pornography industry.
 
He had compiled a database of porn stars who had been affiliated with Valentine and was intrigued by the number who had gone missing or were found deceased.
 
There seemed to be a whole lot of them who had died of “drug overdoses,” or of “suicide.”
 
Only two were flat out ruled homicides but nothing had ever been pinned on the porn tycoon.
 
The case of Lucy Luv had particularly sparked Marshall' interest.
 

He read the article twice and scratched the stubble on his chin.
 

So Lucy Luv was alive…
 
He wondered if he could find her and talk to her.
 
What kinds of stories would she have to tell?
 
Why did she leave the business?
 
Why did she disappear in such a mysterious fashion?
 
Did she know anything that could link Valentine to the other disappearances or the murders?
 
Could she provide him with facts that could help him prove that Valentine was linked to the West Coast mob?
 

Marshall once again saw visions of the Pulitzer Prize.
 

He got up and went to the kitchen phone.
 
He dialed Directory Assistance and held the
Enquirer
in front of him.
 
When the operator answered, he said, “Yes, in Lincoln Grove, Illinois, please, do you have a number for a Diane Boston?”

The operator told him to hold a moment, and then, “Nothing for a Diane Boston.”

“How about Dana Barnett.”

“Nothing for a Dana Barnett.”

Marshall shrugged and thought he'd try it.
 
“How about Lucy Luv?
 
Spelled L-U-V.”

“Nothing for a Lucy Luv, sir.”
 

“Okay, thanks.”
 
He hung up the phone and went back to the table.

Ellie wandered in, rubbing the sleepies from her eyes.
 
She was dressed in a tattered long T-shirt that came down to the middle of her thighs.
 
She yawned and asked if there was any coffee.

“I just made some,” Marshall said.
 
“Hey, look at this, honey.
 
That porn star Lucy Luv is alive.
 
She's some schoolteacher in Illinois.
 
Isn't it weird?”

“Who's Lucy Luv?” Ellie asked as she shuffled to the Mr. Coffee.