Gaylin Robert B. Parker's Bad Influence

Sunny Randall 11
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-0-85730-577-0
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 11, 240 Seiten

Reihe: A Sunny Randall Mystery

FROM ONE OF THE TOP 10 BEST-SELLING AUTHORS IN THE WORLD 'Parker packs more meaning into a whispered 'yeah' than most writers can pack into a page' -The Sunday Times Boston PI Sunny Randall investigates the dark side of social media in this new exciting thriller. Sunny Randall's newest client, Blake, seems to have it all: he is an Instagram influencer, with all of the perks that the lifestyle entails - a beautiful girlfriend, wealth, and adoring fans. But one of those fans has turned ugly, and Sunny is brought on board to protect Blake and to uncover who is out to kill him. In doing so, she investigates a glamorous world rife with lies, schemes and ties to Boston's mob. Sunny must learn new tricks - and call in old friends - to stop a killer.

ALISON GAYLIN is a USA Today and international bestselling author whose novels have won the Edgar and Shamus awards. Her work has been published in numerous countries and has been nominated for numerous awards, including the Macavity, Anthony, ITW Thriller and Strand Book Award.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Gaylin, Alison

Leseproben

2

It wasn’t long before new customers began streaming into Spike’s – dozens of them, all under thirty, the girls in rompers and sky-high heels, the boys in skintight T-shirts and stinking of Axe spray, all of them spray-tanned within an inch of their lives. It wasn’t the typical crowd you’d see in Spike’s – or in Boston, for that matter. It was more like Hollywood meets Jersey Shore. But Spike didn’t seem to mind. When the fourth or fifth group started a tab, I saw him smile for the first time in I couldn’t remember how long.

‘This media maven – what’s her name?’ Spike said.

‘Bethany Rose. And it’s media concierge.’

‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Color me pleasantly surprised.’

I had to agree. Even if this wasn’t my ideal bar clientele, money was money. I glanced at the door again. ‘She should be here.’

‘Who?’

‘Bethany.’

‘Why?’

I sighed heavily. ‘We’re supposed to talk terms.’

I’d spoken to Bethany Rose the previous day at the suggestion of Lee Farrell. It felt weird to hear a no-nonsense cop like Lee use a term like media concierge, but as he said himself when I told him Spike might lose his bar again, ‘Bullshit times call for bullshit measures.’

Lee had known about Bethany from his niece Emily Barnes, a pretty college student with a habit of getting herself into un-pretty situations. These days, Emily was earning extra cash and free swag as an influencer – a noble pursuit, comparatively speaking. With Bethany’s help, she’d become what they call a micro-influencer, with close to fifty thousand followers. Lee had no idea what that meant, but he was still proud. And who could blame him? It was legal.

Anyway, Emily had done one of those email intros between Bethany Rose and me, and yesterday, Bethany had given me a free consultation via Zoom. She basically looked the way I’d expected her to. Kris Jenner haircut, a rope of expensive-looking pearls, cheekbones that angled out from her face dramatically, and plumped-up lips that were no stranger to the needle. Looking at her, Bethany Rose could have been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five. It was impossible to tell – especially since she went so heavy on Zoom’s ‘touch up your appearance’ feature. She wore a tailored black jacket that probably cost more than my kitchen renovation, which made me wonder if I was wasting my time. The economy was tough for PIs, too, monthly expenses for my home and office had skyrocketed and, solvent as I may have been, it was hard to justify dropping a small fortune on something as ephemeral as potential word of mouth. I’d decided to keep the consultation short and sweet.

My first question for Bethany: ‘What the hell is a media concierge?’

‘If you have to ask, Sunny, you can’t afford me.’

I hadn’t even cracked a smile.

‘I can put your friend’s business on the map,’ she had said.

‘How?’

‘I have a five-point plan.’

‘What are the points?’

She’d gone on about reach, demographics, and algorithms for at least six solid minutes, sprinkling her pitch with info about her ‘stable of influencers’ and a lot of social media lingo. ‘The Gram,’ she’d said repeatedly, her blue eyes lighting up each time she said it, as though it were some kind of wonder drug.

‘Look, Bethany,’ I’d said, once I could get a word in. ‘You seem great. And your pitch is…’ I struggled for the right descriptor. ‘Well, it’s the bomb.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But Spike and I don’t have much in the way of extra cash these days. I’m thinking you’re probably out of our league.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ she had said. ‘Emily told me about your private investigating business.’

‘Meaning…’

‘Meaning I have a problem that requires your services.’

‘You want to barter?’

‘Yes.’

I’d blinked at the screen, at her flawless image. ‘Details, please?’

Bethany told me she’d send her two most popular influencers to Spike’s the following night pro bono. (I didn’t bother to tell her she wasn’t using the term properly.) ‘A few minutes of these two, the business they bring in… You’ll see what I’m capable of doing for your friend.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I’ll come by the place myself at ten p.m. That’ll give Blake and Alena enough time to get the word out. You like what you see, I’ll give you all the details you need.’

I looked around now at the hectic bar. A group of bearded wannabe hipsters was taking selfies with Alena, while Blake and two barely-of-age girls were doing another cheers. The bartender was taking orders faster than he could fill them, and Spike was across the bar talking to his manager, a huge grin on his face. Everyone was drinking and spending as though the world wasn’t about to end. There was no denying it. I was liking what I was seeing.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. ‘Sunny Randall?’

I spun around on my corner barstool, and there she was. Bethany Rose. In the flesh.

‘Sorry I’m a little late. I had a hotel opening on Newbury and traffic was a nightmare.’ Strangely enough, I still had no idea how old she was. She looked very much the same as she did on Zoom, though she was smaller than I expected. Doll-size. Standing next to my barstool, she was able to look straight into my eyes, and when I stood up to shake her manicured hand, I could fully see the top of her sleek black pixie cut.

She asked if we could talk somewhere quiet, and we found a table near the window. Spike spotted us and came over to introduce himself. Before I could explain who he was, Bethany told him she’d like to place her order and asked for a glass of Blake and Alena’s fancy cognac.

‘This is the owner,’ I said. ‘Bethany, Spike.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Bethany said. ‘You look so young, I thought you were a hot waiter.’

Spike grinned. ‘She can stay.’ He pulled up a chair and joined us.

Bethany trained her eyes on Spike. They were hard to look away from – the same color as the sky in van Gogh’s Starry Night. They had to be colored contacts. ‘Your girlfriend’s lucky,’ she said. ‘Big, strong drink of water like you…’

I could have sworn he blushed. ‘Boyfriend,’ he said.

She turned to me. ‘Always the best ones.’

Spike blushed even more. No doubt about it. This woman knew how to make friends.

Spike called a waiter over and we all ordered. Pricey cognac for Bethany, more of that good pinot for Spike and me.

After he left, Bethany smiled brightly at both of us, then gestured around the room like a boat-show model. ‘You guys like what you see?’ she said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Spike. Not even attempting to give her the hard sell.

‘How do we know this isn’t just a coincidence?’ I said. ‘I think the night game just let out at Fenway.’

A reach. And Bethany knew it. ‘You let me work my magic,’ she said, ‘and in a few weeks, you’ll consider something like this a slow night.’

‘Wow,’ Spike said.

I sighed. ‘Tell me about your problem.’

Bethany removed a file folder from her Birkin bag. ‘You and I are women, Sunny. We have to work that much harder to prove ourselves every single day, and I think it helps us develop thicker skin than the guys.’ She glanced at Spike. ‘Present company excluded, of course.’

‘Understood.’

‘I have a lot of young, gorgeous women who are clients. A lot of them have gotten… unwanted attention from followers. Alena included.’

‘I’d imagine,’ I said.

‘Anyway, these girls, like I said, are tough. Assholes slide into their DMs, they do like I would do. Tell ’em to fuck off. Nine times out of ten, it works. That’s the end of it.’ She pushed the folder across the table and gave me a long, meaningful look.

I opened the folder. Inside was a series of printouts – isolated screenshots of direct messages and comments on Instagram posts, nearly a dozen from different accounts, all saying the same thing.

YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW.

‘Creepy,’ Spike said.

‘I assume you checked out the accounts that posted these comments,’ I said.

Bethany nodded. ‘Fakes,’ she said. ‘You click on them, they no longer exist.’ She thumbed through the stack, selected one of the printouts, and tapped on the profile picture. ‘Recognize this girl?’

I did. Most everybody in Boston did. The profile pic was of Carlotta Espinoza. Influencer. Problematic side piece of a powerful political consultant. Missing person and, ultimately, murder victim. ‘Nice reference,’ I said. ‘Clever.’

‘I thought so.’

The other profile pic choices on the fake profiles weren’t as inspired: cats, plant life, household-name celebs like George Clooney and Oprah. It was understandable. Besides Espinoza, I was unaware of any other dead Boston influencers the stalker could have sourced.

‘So, you have no idea who might have created these profiles?’

‘Nope.’

‘And your client doesn’t, either?’ I said. ‘No enemies? No angry exes?’

‘Hell hath no fury like an angry ex,’ Spike said.

‘Don’t I...