Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

She was right on time. You know how the really rich lead such different lives from us that they make our little worlds seem totally insignificant. Mrs. James Robertson did all of that to me and more just by her presence. It was more than her elevated station in life; it was her magnificent beauty and her gracious style. She was as friendly and as intimate as a Hollywood starlet back in her home-town for a high school reunion. Although she tried to put me at ease I still felt inadequate in my shabby little office talking to someone so young, so beautiful and so obviously from a much, much higher tax bracket.

I should back up a bit and introduce myself. I’m Bob Swathmore and I run Robert Swathmore and Associates, a discreet private investigation firm as a side business to my real bread and butter, Tropicana Pool Supply and Service. I find that these two businesses go very well together here in Scottsdale where everyone who can afford or would ever need a private investigator has a swimming pool and employs someone for pool service. My new PI business has been my dream ever since those assholes at the Phoenix and Scottsdale police departments and even that dimwit Sheriff Joe at the Maricopa County Sheriffs office couldn’t recognize my genius. Someday, I’ll show ‘em what they can do with their hard-ass tests.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Swathmore. I have an urgent matter I’d like you to look into,” she says as if she’s reading for a part in a movie.

“You can start by calling me Bob. Can I get you a cold drink or something?”

“A glass of water please, a Perrier or a San Pellegrino would be nice.”

“I’ve got a bottle of … let’s see … how about … an Aquafina?”

“That would be fine.”

“Now Mrs. Robertson, tell me about this urgent matter that brings you to my office.”

“Please call me Brandi and I’m here because my husband, Jim is … er … how do you say it politely … is having an affair with someone at his office. Is ‘affair’ the right term for that sort of thing?”

I was totally captivated by everything about her, her naturally blond locks, her skimpy but fashionable summer dress, her obviously enhanced breasts, her designer sandals and those sun glasses that must have cost two grand, at least. I was having real trouble keeping my mind on our conversation with all of those other thoughts, I probably shouldn’t mention here, running through my head.

“That word is as good as any. Why are you so sure that your husband is … let’s say … fooling around?”

“Mr. Swathmore … er, I mean Bob … a wife just knows. There are lots of subtle little clues … I can’t put my finger on one such clue but they all add up.”

“Okay, let’s say he’s dipping his wick in the company ink well. What would you like me to do about it?”

“I’ll be away for a few days and it will be a good time for you to verify or dispute my suspicions. If you find any evidence of an affair I’d like you to give it to me so that I can use it to confront my husband and force him to stop.”

“You know, I’ve found that when I catch a wayward husband he always apologizes, says he’ll terminate the relationship and promises never to do it again. That usually works for about a month or two, three at most. Then the next thing you know he’s humping the girl at the Avis rent a car counter or a cocktail waitress at some watering hole.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to help me stop whatever’s going on now. If it happens again I’ll just have to deal with it.”

I’m thinking ahead to my sneaking around, peeking though key holes and bedroom windows trying to get the one telling photo that shows not only what they’re doing but clearly who they are. Do you know how hard that is? Think of all of the sexual positions and name one that has both parties looking in the same direction at the same time. My best hope is for a head on doggie-style shot while she’s lifting her head to moan or something, but that never happens. All of my doggie-style shots have been from the rear and they’re worthless, just a hairy ass with four feet.

“I’ll get you the goods on your husband if he’s fishin’ off the company pier, as they say. In fact, I’ll get the goods on him if dangling his pole anywhere but home. All you have to do is complete this contract for pool maintenance, give me some info on your hubby and we’ll be off and running. See, I’ll bill you on my pool service letterhead so your cheatin’ ass husband won’t know I’m on your payroll. Oh, you should probably cancel your current pool service.”

“I don’t think I have pool service. Alfredo, our maintenance guy cleans and maintains the pool. Let me give you the info on my husband. He’s chairman and owner of Robertson Financial a local investment banking firm or some such mysterious investment operation. I’ve never understood what he actually does. His offices are in the new tower at Scottsdale Fashion Square. He’s in the book, you can’t miss him.”

She completed the contract and took her first and only drink of my el cheapo water as she rose to leave. After she left I just sat there staring at the empty space, the space where I had just seen her magnificent ass sashay out of view.

I didn’t know where to begin; in truth, I never knew how to begin a new case. What do you do first? I’d already fantasized the end of the case. The case ends when I present Brandi such compelling evidence that she rewards me with a lot more than just a big check. I’ve got to quit daydreaming about Brandi and get started, now if I could only figure out how.

Without a plan I opened a case file with the couple of sheets Brandi had filled out, made a label for the tab and just stared at my little bit of info. I was so taken back by Brandi Robertson that I couldn’t concentrate. What do you do at times like this? You play solitaire on your computer, that’s what. Midway through the 7th or was it my 8th game it dawned on me; I should have been doing research on the wayward husband.

I Googled and Yahooed James Robertson and Robertson Financial for a couple of hours but didn’t learn anything, anything that I could understand, anyway. All of that investment banking stuff was way over my head. I read and reread: An investment bank is a financial institution that assists corporations and governments in raising capital by underwriting and acting as the agent in the issuance of securities. An investment bank also assists companies involved in mergers and acquisitions, derivatives, etc. Further it provides ancillary services such as market making and the trading of derivatives, fixed income instruments, foreign exchange, commodity, and equity securities. I thought I got it except for the underwriting, commodity, derivatives and ancillary services whatever in the hell they are. Screw this; I’d rather go see Robertson Financial for myself. Fashion Square is the trendy shopping center on the north end of Old Town Scottsdale. He must be in one of those new office buildings they recently added to that really high priced real estate.

I sat in the parking lot and just stared at the building wondering what to do next. Nothing came to mind. I soon concluded that I only needed to know two things about James Robertson. Was he was banging some bimbo and if so, could I get a photo? All of that research bullshit would just confuse me. I realized then that I should be checking out their house rather than sitting there in this hot-assed parking lot. I’d be doing most of my snooping out there anyway and I needed to get the lay of the land.

I went back to the office and changed into my pool maintenance shorts and tee shirt and grabbed the keys to my truck.

The Robertson’s house was hidden up a lonely road in Desert Mountain. Their so-called security guards waved me right through the gate when they saw my truck. My pool maintenance disguise works every time. Desert Mountain is a development of multimillion dollar homes scattered on acreages around some of the most beautiful desert-style golf courses in the valley. I’ve always wanted to play here but it’s really, really private. Maybe after I wrap up this case Brandi will treat me to round? I can almost picture her in a tiny little golf outfit bending over to pick up her ball. I was getting hard just thinking about it.

I found their house easy enough drove down the long driveway to a house about the size of my high school and parked in front of their five-car, that’s right, five-car garage. I grabbed my long pole and skimmer net to look official and headed for the back yard. The gate opened into some heavy duty landscaping with a magnificent pool and a cabana. I was wandering around looking for the pool equipment when someone called my name.

“Bob, Bob. It’s good to see that you’re on the job so soon. Promptness, I like that in a man.”

I turned to see Brandi in a chaise lounge under the cabana’s awning, if that’s what you call ‘em. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the shade. It was then that I noticed, how could I not notice, that she was only wearing the tiniest of thongs and those high priced sun glasses and nothing else. Those magnificent breasts that I had fantasized about were right out there for me to admire. Wow!

“Come sit with me and have something to drink while you tell me your plan.”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but stare at those beautiful tits. I finally got a hold of myself and plopped into a chair. I got up and moved the chair a bit further forward so I could get a better view of my employer. She was fashion model or even Hollywood starlet kind of beautiful. I crossed my legs to hide the bulge in my shorts.

She got up and wiggled her perfect ass as she sauntered into the cabana and returned with two Heineken Lights. She sat back down as gracefully as an exotic dancer might after her final set. My mind was racing, I was drooling and I was as stiff as a new broom. She had to know what she was doing to me.

We sipped our beers and I tried looking at the calming water in the pool to get my mind off of Brandi. It didn’t work at all.

“So Bob, I’m leaving tomorrow to spend a few days with friends in New York. While I’m away would be a good time to keep an eye on Jim. You might swing by here in the evenings, say nine o’clock or so, and look in on Jim. If he has anyone here it’ll be very apparent.”

“That sounds like a plan. Do you have a dog or an alarm system that I should worry about?’

“We don’t have a dog and we have a security system that we never turn on until bedtime. Anyway, it doesn’t monitor the outside. As long as you don’t touch the windows or the doors you’ll be fine.”

She pushed her chaise down a little and sprawled out in a really suggestive pose. I gulped the last of my beer when she said, “Why don’t you join me over here so we can get to know each other a little better. I like to know who I’m working with.” She scooted to the side of the chaise and made room for me next to her.

As soon as I lay down she was on me like a dog in heat. She had my clothes off in a heartbeat and as I was just about to do the deed she handed me a condom. I don’t usually wear those things but I was in no position to argue.

It was over in a flash. I was too worked up to be much of a lover. She crawled out from under me and raced to the cabana. She was back in a second with a couple of towels. She laid me back and removed the condom and washed me with a damp towel. So this is how the rich folks do it. She cleans up afterwards. I could get used to this.

I was laying there hoping for a second bit of fun when this Mexican guy comes out of nowhere. I grabbed my shorts off of the deck and half covered myself.

“Mrs. Robertson, I’m done for the day. I’ll see you on Thursday unless you have something else for me,” he said not looking at me. He stared off into space as if he’d seen this all before.

Brandi answered from inside the cabana, “No Alfredo, that will be all for today. Adios.”

“Adios, Senora.”

I wanted a second chance, a chance to do it right this time but she had put on a robe and begun picking up the beer bottles, towels and stuff. It was obvious our little afternoon’s delight was over.

You forget how many prickly things there are in the desert until you fumble around in some rich guy’s bushes in the dark. I was getting scratched, poked and stabbed by every damn thing when the lights in what must have been the living room, den or some such room came on. I jumped back into this mean-ass bush to avoid being seen. Through the sliding glass doors I watched this couple snuggle on a couch. So this is what James Robertson looked like: a slender handsome sorta guy with tailored clothes and slicked back hair. He looked kinda like Gordon Gekko, the rich, sleazy character Michael Douglas played in Wall Street. She, on the other hand, was a knockout. She was a brunette version of Brandi and maybe even more beautiful, if that was possible. I couldn’t wait to see her au naturel, as the French say.

Nothing happened for an hour or so. They each had a couple of glasses of wine and from the flickering light I assumed they were watching TV. I was thinking about getting a beer from the cabana when they turned everything off and left the room. I wish I’d had Brandi give me a tour of the house. Their place was massive and they could have gone anywhere. I snuck around a bunch of patio furniture and some more bushes when I saw a dim light shining through another set of glass doors. I sneaked up in my best cat burglar fashion. They were in a bed room. She was sitting at the vanity fiddling with something while he undressed across the room in what must be his closet.

Soon they were both in bed propped up reading, she had a fashion magazine and it looked like he was reading work stuff. This was going to be a long night if I had to stand out here in the bushes and watch people read. Finally, he switched off his light and rolled over and pulled her covers back. She put her book down pulled her nightgown over her head and they began the horizontal mambo. He was pretty good and I was admiring his moves when they rolled to the foot of the bed with her on top. Here was a shot … I caught her full face on in what could only be Jim in Brandi’s bedroom. It wasn’t the shot I wanted but it was pretty damn good.

Is this any way to make a living? Watching people screw through their windows like a peeping tom. They continued for what seemed like an hour. I took a couple more shots. I couldn’t help thinking that I had seen this lovely brunette somewhere before, but where. She was way too pretty to be in my social circles … maybe I’d seen her in the movies. They finally finished and I’m sure the earth moved for her … it almost did for me. They turned out the lamp and I took off for home.

The next morning I downloaded the pictures and updated my case file. The shot of her on top at the foot of the bed was definitely a keeper. I’ll have to keep at it to get that one shot that will earn me another session on the chaise lounge. I found I couldn’t wait for the sun to go down so I could see more of that beautiful woman and, if I were totally honest, to admire Jim’s sexual staying power. I wish I could screw for hours like that.

About nine thirty that night as I was coming around the side of the house I heard laughter and splashing from the pool. They were skinny dipping in the pool with their ice bucket and champagne floating around on a little raft. The rich really know how to live. I watched them frolic and soon she climbed out of the pool, toweled off and laid down on the same chaise that I had enjoyed just a couple a days earlier. He joined her with the ice bucket and soon they are doing the deed. I fumbled with my telescopic lens and tried to figure out how I could get anything in that poor light. I looked up to see the doggie-style shot I had always dreamed of, her with her head up and him above looking straight ahead. I must have shot twenty pictures before she lowered her head and lay down flat on her tummy. He never missed a stroke. He just kept banging away. My hero.

I added these new photos to my file wrote up my report and couldn’t wait to see Brandi again. Was she gonna be surprised and I hoped pleased with my efforts. I piled this stuff neatly on my desk and headed out. I needed to give their pool a once-over before she got back so that Jim would think I was legit.

The pool looked funny for some reason. The water was churning like one of the return valves was closed. I found the value and saw that the knob was broken completely off. I got some tools from my truck and went to work. I had the new knob on and the valve open in about twenty minutes. Am I good or what? Just as I was picking up my things Brandi startled me.

“Hey big guy, looks like you fixed everything up.”

“Oh, hi Brandi, when did you get home?”

“I just got in this morning. How’s your detective work coming along?”

“I’ve got a lot to show you. I have to come back here tomorrow with a new part for this valve. Can we meet at my office tomorrow at say … 3 o’clock?”

“Sure, that’ll work. Say, could I borrow your hammer. I brought a picture back from New York and I want to hang it. Alfredo’s off today and I can’t find any tools in the garage.”

“You betcha, here it is.”

“Just lay it on the table over there when you leave. It was good seeing you and I look forward to our meeting tomorrow. Bye.” She said as she turned and headed back to the house.

As I was loading my truck to leave a security officer pulled in behind me. Once I told him who I was and what I was doing there he wished me a good day and took off. What jerks these rent-a-cops are.

I finished my report, chose three of the best photos including my masterpiece, the head on doggie-style shot and prepared my bill. I don’t know how she’s gonna take this brunette with her husband in her bed. Maybe my hopes for a little more action were too optimistic. Anyway, I did a good job, got the evidence and should get paid well for my efforts. Another quickie would just be frosting on the cake.

The following morning I showered, patted my expensive cologne into every nook and cranny, ironed my best tee shirt and headed out to the Robertson’s. I was coming around the house humming a jingle and daydreaming about Brandi when I saw it … ah … her. She was floating face down in the pool … nude with her cute little derriere sticking out of the water and not moving a muscle. I dropped my gear and dove in after her. I swam her to the side of the pool, crawled out and lifted her to the deck. She was dead, big time dead. I started CPR or what I hoped was CPR. I blew into her mouth and banged on her chest but nothing happened.

I stood up and took a close look at her. She was a beautiful blond with a dynamite figure but she wasn’t Brandi Robertson. And, I knew for sure that Brandi had real breasts not implants. This girl had really nice tits but they were plastic. I ran to the house but no one answered the door. I peeked in the cabana but didn’t see a phone so I ran to my truck, got my cell and dialed 911.

I got a beer out of the cabana fridge and sat on a chaise and waited for the police. About fifteen minutes later all you could hear were sirens as the patio filled with blue uniforms. After these two EMTs pronounced her dead all of the uniformed cops just stood around gawking at the beautiful corpse. Then this guy in a business suit covered the body with a blanket and sent the horny cops scurrying around the yard, looking for clues I assumed. I just sat there nursing my third beer when this suit came up to me and introduced himself as Detective, Sergeant Billings of the Scottsdale PD. He sat down next to me and I told him everything about finding the body, diving into the pool, trying CPR and calling 911. He listened and took notes. Finally he said what I thought they only said in movies, “You can go now but don’t leave town.”

I drove home in a fog. What was going on? Who was that lady? Where were the Robertsons? And, why couldn’t I leave town if I wanted to? I walked into my office, sat down and stared at the wall for a few minutes before I reached for the Robertson file and photos. They weren’t there. I looked everywhere but no file. I remember clearly putting the file on the corner of my desk. It wasn’t there now. I booted up my computer and franticly searched for my file and my photos. Nothing, somebody had cleaned me out.

I didn’t have a phone number for their house so I called and called Robertson Financial and left message after message. No one called me back. What was going on? I drove out to Desert Mountain but the security guards wouldn’t let me in. I had ‘em call the Robertson’s house but still no dice.

I sat by my phone expecting Brandi to call any minute. No nothing. It was like the Robertson chapter in my life had never happened. Was I going bonkers?

Ten days after I found the body in the pool Detective Sergeant Billings and his colleague barged into my store with a warrant for my arrest for the murder of Brandi Robertson. I protested and tried to explain but they drug me handcuffed through the store and rushed me to the station house.

I sat in this stuffy little interview room while these two detectives double-teamed me with never ending questions. I told my story over and over but they kept pounding me with their twisted version of the so called facts.

“Look guys I’ve gone through this a hundred times. Why don’t you believe me?”

Sergeant Billings was unyielding with his version of the truth. “The reason we don’t believe you, Bob, is because we can’t find any evidence that Mrs. Robertson ever hired you to do anything let alone investigate her husband. We do however, have the Desert Mountain security log that shows you were at her home the afternoon of the murder, a witness who claims to have seen you having sex with Mrs. Robertson on the patio a few days earlier, a security guard that can place you in the Robertson’s driveway the afternoon she was murdered, your fingerprints all over the murder weapon, your hammer by the way, and lastly an autopsy report that shows Mrs. Robertson had had sex right before she was murdered. Explain to me, one more time, how it is that we found your semen in her body?”