Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,65

was eager for even more people to add the premium channel to their home lineup, millions of viewers were watching the episodes on the Q Channel’s Web site, which was riddled with advertisements from some very happy companies. Then, during filming, Aurora announced that she was close to making a decision with Ian about the winner of the program. The timing was perfect, I thought.

We broke for lunch and I made my move. I went back out of the house, through the yard and directly to the potting shed, and went inside. This time, there was no creepy feeling of being followed or watched. There, on a bottom shelf was the one item that shouldn’t have been there: the dented paint can. A dent in the side or, to be more precise, a crunch in the side. Even more telling were the two dents in the bottom—each approximately one-fourth of an inch in diameter. Dents created from the outside of the bucket, not the inside. Exactly three inches apart. They were extremely significant, but they didn’t tell the whole story.

I put my find back on the shelf and went to my car to make a call to Detective Hallander where I wouldn’t be overheard. I told him about my discovery and said that we needed to talk to Jeremy as soon as he was finished shooting this afternoon. I also said that we had a lot of work to do over the weekend. Early next week, during a show’s taping, and just after the winner of the contest was announced, we would pounce.

I finished my call and as I was getting out of my car, I spotted a homeless man poking through the trash. Like so many of us, I normally move on after seeing them, and this only serves to make me feel guilty, since being invisible is the one thing they complain about the most. Anyway, something about this particular man struck me: He looked well dressed. Palm Springs has always had snappy dressers: Cary Grant, William Powell, and, ahem, Liberace, but our homeless have never made the pages of GQ. Something was wrong here, or actually, right here. There was a connection to the models in Ian’s house somehow. I crossed the street and approached the gentleman. As I looked him up and down, I saw that at the bottom of his pant leg there was a piece torn out about the size Knucklehead had removed from the cuff of my assailant last night. Eureka! I was right: This was going to be a great day.

“Excuse me, sir. Please don’t think I’m an asshole, but where did you get your clothes?”

“These?” he said, somewhat startled. “They’re mine.”

“Yes, I see. I was just wondering where you got them from? They’re very nice . . . you look very nice. Snazzy,” I said with complete discomfort.

“I got ’em from the fuckin’ Armani boutique in Milan.”

“I was just asking a question, sir, you don’t have to be rude about it,” I shot back, having screwed up my courage.

“You trying to have sex with me, lady?” he said, looking up at me. He then returned to pawing through and examining several empty bottles of men’s cologne.

“No, I was just wondering what charity organization gave you those clothes.”

He looked at me, exasperated. “No charity organization gave me these, ya goddamned bitch. I found them in the Dumpster behind the Hyatt.”

“You mean the Hyatt just down the street?”

“You know of any other Hyatts in town?” he sneered back.

Okay, easy now, Amanda. You’re getting somewhere. He just doesn’t like revealing his fashion sources.

“If you could give me those clothes, I’ll . . .” I said, thinking fast, “see to it that you receive a lot more nice clothes.”

“Get lost, you bitch, I’m not six years old. Give me more nice clothes! . . . Fuck! . . . You goddamn bitch!”

I was hit by a ray of light.

“Maybe this nice Mr. Jackson will help you change your mind,” I said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and waving it as if it left a scent wafting through the air toward starving noses.

“A twenty! What do you think it is, lady? 1940? I wanna see more than that if you want me to give up these fancy duds. This suit was made by Anderson & Sheppard, the best tailor in London.”

“You know about them?” I asked.

“Yeah, I used to own four of their suits.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, I used to be a Realtor. Until things got bad.”

“Shit.