It started out as a pretty normal evening. A couple weeks ago I was staking out a Gold Coast mansion for a celebrity-gossip rag, waiting to see if a certain fatheaded actor and his newly divorced companion, rumored to be holed up there, would emerge all aglow, their hair tousled, faint, satisfied smiles dancing on their lips.
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I rolled up and Sandra waved, smiled, opened the passenger door–much to my alarm–and got in the backseat. Hilary got in the front, explaining with a raised eyebrow that the Huntress was going to help us find our prey. But first, Sandra said, discreetly depositing the loose change from the floor into her Hermes-orange vinyl tote bag, she just had to show us the condo she was buying in the luxury high-rise just around the corner. “See the ninth floor, the one with the plants?” she said, pointing somewhere. “That’s it.”
I made a few turns, pulled into the driveway of a big brick building, and flipped on my flashers. The three of us went inside. Sandra introduced us to the doorman as her daughters, Nikki (me) and Paris (Hilary), and asked to please see the ninth floor. The doorman made a phone call, hung up, and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Not tonight.”
The three of us walked into the bar laughing like old pals. Sandra led us around the giant redwood bar to a watered-down mojito and half a sandwich in a plastic to-go box. She told us to sit down and order whatever we wanted–it was on her.
Back at the Omni Sandra insisted we see the room she’d reserved for us “just in case.” In the elevator she announced to another passenger that she was planning to get a massage and a facial, “and they’re gonna lick my toes.” The woman got out at the next floor.
“We’re going to leave now, mom,” Hilary said.
