The Fidelity Files: A Novel - Softcover

1. Changing Channels

The man I was looking for was seated comfortably in the back of the hotel bar.

Dark hair, dark suit, tie loosened, top button unbuttoned. He sat alone in a plush, red velvet booth with his arm casually sprawled out over the top. His fingers gently drummed against the fabric to the beat of the soft lounge music while his other hand methodically brought his nightcap to his mouth for another sip.

I observed him, unseen, from the archway that led into the hotel’s lobby.

He was looking for something. Not anything in particular. But something worth distracting him. At least for the night.

I continued to watch as his eyes adeptly found the only other female presence in the bar. He examined her from across the room and upon taking in her high-rise slacks and unflatteringly conservative turtleneck, looked away, discouraged and took another sip of his drink.

And that, right there, was my cue.

I brushed a loose strand of hair away from my eyes and walked into the bar, making certain to move slowly enough so that his eyes could catch me. But with the combination of his wandering eye and the observable shortage of customers tonight, it wasn’t a difficult task.

            Some nights are just easier than others.

They usually start with the legs. Most guys are Leg Men. It’s a fact. Two years ago I would have guessed that the male population was equally divided into thirds. Leg Men, Butt Men, and Breast Men. Or what I call, the Holy Male Trinity. But now, I know the truth. Most men like legs. Although, I usually bring three different outfits, just in case. Each complimenting one, and only one of the three features associated with the trinity. But I always start with the legs. It’s a safe bet.

            Tonight it was a black suited miniskirt with strappy black Manolos...no nylons. I call it the Corporate Slut look. It’s corporate enough for you to be taken seriously and slutty enough for them to know you like being noticed.

            For me, it’s not about liking being noticed. It’s my job for them to notice me. And even though, some might choose to criticize me on this point, the way I see it, I’m just doing my job.

            Whether or not this particular one was a Leg Man became irrelevant as soon as his eyes wandered up from my ankles, over my thighs and to the elevated hemline of my skirt. Of course, he didn’t stop there...they rarely do. Only, after they reach the hemline, they can no longer rely on their eyes...it’s all imagination from there on up.

            I passed his booth, acting completely oblivious to his attention, and made my way to the bar where I slid casually onto one of the high-backed stools.

            “Grey Goose Vodka Gimlet, please.”

            The bartender, content to finally have something to do on an empty Wednesday night besides shine martini glasses, nodded cordially and placed a cocktail napkin down in front of me before turning to prepare my drink.

            With a tired sigh, I cupped my chin in the palm of my hand and rested my elbow on the wood-paneled bar. The movement was intended to make me look bored. Long day, long trip, long, lonely night ahead of me.

            It worked.

            As the bartender placed my drink down on the cocktail napkin and I reached for my wallet, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a crisp $100 bill slide onto the bar. “Here, let me get that for you,” a male voice offered.

            I looked up to see the man from the booth standing next to me. I appeared slightly startled by his presence.  Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like I was expecting him to come over.

            “That’s so nice of you,” I said gratefully.

A sly smile appeared across his lips. “My pleasure.” 

*          *          *

I was here because of a phone call I had received approximately one week ago. The woman on the other end needed my help.

Everyone who calls that specific number needs my help. That is, after all, why I have the number.

I agreed to meet with her the next morning.

“I’ll come to you,” I said, offering the same comforting reassurance I give to everyone who calls this number.

I sat in her large, elegantly-decorated living room and listened to her story. It was a familiar one. I’d heard it at least 200 times. Sometimes with slight variations, sometimes nearly word for word.

But always with the same core motivator: Fear.

“The maid found this in my husband’s pants’ pocket while she was doing laundry.” She reached onto the nearby coffee table and picked up a small crinkled piece of paper. She looked at it pensively, hoping that maybe if she read it for the 102nd time, it might say something else. Or maybe a new and better explanation would finally come to mind and she could send me home.

No such luck.

She reluctantly handed me the piece of paper with a despondent sigh and wiped her nose with a crumpled, over-used Kleenex. “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess. I just can’t believe I’m doing this.”

            I looked down at the hand-written note and nodded understandingly. “Well, you did the right thing by calling me. It’s best to know for sure than to always wonder, right?”

            She stared at me with uncertainty. “I guess.”

            “It is,” I assured her. “Trust me.”

            I had assured many women of the exact same thing. Sometimes, when you’re in their shoes, it’s not always easy to see. Or better yet, it’s not always the way you want to see it. The heart and the mind are legendary for disagreeing on subjects like this.

            “What do you think it means?” she asked me, nodding toward the small, creased paper in my hand.

            I looked down at it again, running my fingertip over the black ink. “It’s hard to say,” I admitted truthfully. “I’ve seen a lot of notes like this. Sometimes it turns out to be nothing...but sometimes it turns out to be...” I paused, hoping the time lapse would soften the word. “...something.”

            She looked away, fearful tears stinging her eyes. Then finally, she surrendered a heavy sigh. “My friend who referred me to you said that you do some kind of test.”

*          *          *

I looked into the eyes of the man standing next to me as we clinked our glasses together and simultaneously took a sip.

            “So what brings you to Denver?” I asked biting my lower lip. The lip biting technique works brilliantly to suggest that my confidence level is just enough to ask the question but not enough to keep from fidgeting while I do it.

            Because, despite appearances, I actually knew more about this man than I was letting on. More than he would ever care for me to know. And certainly more than just any other woman in a hotel bar.

For instance, I knew that this particular man liked confidence but not too much. Because with too much, there’s no sense of conquest on his part. It comes too easily. If she’s just a little bit shy, it’s more of a challenge. He likes when women make the first move, but only so far as to show an initial interest, then he likes to take over.

            I see a lot of men like him.

            “My company is acquiring a smaller venture that’s headquartered here,” he explained.

            I nodded my head intriguingly, as if nothing in the world could be more interesting. “And what company would that be?”

            The man raised up a finger, motioning for me to wait, and then reached into his jacket pocket and removed a business card. He placed it on the bar in front of me as if to say, “Why waste precious words when the card already says it all?”

            I slid the card closer to me and tilted my head to the side as I read aloud with genuine curiosity...as if I w...