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A Scandal In Beverly HillsChapter 2 free porn video
As Amanda Link sorted through the stack of pictures, Stern watched her face closely. He figured maybe she would get embarrassed, or even a little turned on, but she just leafed through them calmly, giving each one a quick glance — no reaction at all.
"Sorry they're so graphic," he offered.
She put them back into the envelope, and put the envelope in her purse. "That's quite all right. They're excellent pictures."
"They left the curtains open, can you believe that? Anyone walking by could have seen."
A little shrug. "I hear some people actually get off on that — makes it more exciting for them."
"I guess so. It sure made it more exciting for me. I take it you don't know who this woman is, then?"
"No, why would I?"
"Her name is Maria Corrida. She's a servant who works for him. His maid, or his cook maybe."
This got a reaction — her eyes opened wider and she sat up straight. "How do you know that?"
"I followed her back to her apartment after they came out of the motel room. Got her name from her mail slot in the lobby and ran a check on her. The point is, this incident doesn't have anything to do with the case — the doc is just having a little fun on the side. Like I told you on the phone."
She had called him late last night to ask about his progress, and when he told her about the motel tryst she had surprised him by insisting on meeting the next morning. Not that he minded. She was wearing a short skirt again, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes away from the tantalizing little space between her thighs.
" ... them developed."
"What?"
"I said, where did you go to get these pictures developed?"
"Oh — I did it myself last night after you called. I have a darkroom in my apartment. No one has seen them besides us."
She nodded and thought this over for a little while, chewing on her lower lip and wrinkling her forehead. Stern tried manfully to keep his eyes on neutral territory, and in the process noticed that she had no hair whatsoever on her arms, which accounted for their sleek, rubbery look.
"Let's say someone wanted to make more copies. Is there any way to do it without someone else seeing them? I'm sorry, I don't know much about photography."
"Sure. The negatives are in the envelope — you could use an automatic machine to make more copies. All the big camera stores have them. You just slide the negative into a slot and follow the instructions on the screen and it spits out a print."
She brightened at this, and said "Oh, how cool."
Stern thought they were getting a little off track here. "I think we need to consider concentrating our efforts on Dr Westphal's office. I was thinking of maybe trying to bribe someone who works for him, someone who might know if he was doing something shady. I think that would be more useful than just following him around."
"Oh." She was looking away, not meeting his eyes. "Actually, I've changed my mind, I'm afraid. I don't think I'm going to pursue this any further."
"Dammit, who did you talk to? Was it Stevens?"
"What? No, I haven't talked to anyone -"
"I can handle this case, Ms Link, no matter what they said about me. Please ... all I'm asking for is a chance here."
"Really Mr Stern, it isn't like that. I've just changed my mind."
He took a deep breath, and let it back out. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.
After a short silence, she said "How much do I owe you?"
Stern opened his notebook and gloomily added up the bill. Having worked on the case for less than twenty-four hours, and having had very little time to dream up unusual expenses, the total was distressingly low, especially considering what he might have racked up given, say, a week or two. He tore out the sheet and handed it to her, and she gave it a cursory glance and counted the money out onto his desk.
"I'm sorry about this," she said, sounding like she meant it. "I hope you have some other cases to work on."
"Oh, sure, sure, I've got plenty of cases. This just seemed like an interesting situation, that's all. Something different from my usual stuff. So if you change your mind, give me a call — you have my card."
"Absolutely." They shook hands and she left, leaving a faint swirl of Chanel No. 5 in the air.
Stern slumped behind his desk, feeling completely deflated. He had no other cases to work on, no prospective clients to call, no foreseeable income whatsoever. It was cruel, the way this case had materialized out of the blue, promising financial salvation (or at least financial relief), and then disappeared.
The thought of sitting in his quiet, airless office all day waiting for the phone to ring was suddenly intolerable, and he decided to stop feeling sorry for himself. There was more than one way to earn a fee, after all. He opened a drawer and took out another stack of pictures. The top one showed the Mexican servant about to impale herself on her employer's glistening cock. He slipped them into his pocket, and then he took out a map and located the Beverly Hills address of Martin Westphal. Whistling tunelessly, he locked his office and slipped out the back entrance, avoiding a humiliating encounter with Mr Han.
Half an hour later he was in Beverly Hills, driving slowly along Carneros Drive, a quiet residential street which wound its way through a wealthy neighborhood of large, lushly-landscaped houses set well back from the street. Number 315 was a modern single-story house with a two-car garage; it was a large, sprawling home by most standards but somewhat on the small side for this neck of the woods. As if to make up for its modest size, it was surrounded by a six-foot high white stucco wall.
He parked across from the wrought-iron gate that blocked the driveway and took a good look at the house and grounds through his binoculars. The blinds were all closed, and there was no sign of activity. He was mulling it over, trying to decide how to proceed, when a familiar-looking Mercedes convertible turned into the driveway. Amanda Link reached out and punched a code into the little panel next the left-hand gatepost, and the metal gate clanked open. Stern closed his mouth with an effort and tried to process this new information. Why would she try to visit Westphal now, when he was obviously at work? And how did she get the code for the gate?
She pulled into the left hand side of the garage and the door closed down behind her, leaving everything as quiet as it was before. Stern wasn't an amazingly perceptive or intuitive man, but alarm bells were ringing in the back of his head. He made a quick decision.
After parking two blocks further down the street, he grabbed his Nikon and started walking back, glancing around to see if he was being watched. As far as he could tell, everyone who was home was behind locked doors — the only sign of life was a two-man landscaping crew taking a siesta under a tree a few houses down. When he reached the wrought-iron gate he swung himself up and over in one smooth motion, landing on the driveway in a crouch and then quickly taking cover behind a large bush growing near the inside of the stucco wall.
After waiting a full five minutes, listening carefully for any indication that he had been seen, he worked his way along the inside of the wall, taking advantage of the lush vegetation to keep himself hidden. The wall actually worked to his advantage: now that he was inside the grounds he only had to worry about being seen from the house. He made a mental note to himself to skip the wall when he finally got around to designing his dream home.
The windows on the side of the house away from the garage were also covered, and he continued around to the back, where there was a kidney-shaped pool surrounded by a stone patio. He settled down behind a little tool shed that probably contained the pump and drain access for the pool and considered his options. Before he could decide on a course of action, the sliding door to the patio opened and Amanda Link walked out wearing nothing but the bottom half of a lime-green bikini.
"Holy shit," he muttered, ducking back farther behind the shed. Her breasts, now completely exposed, were magnificent globes that jutted out from her chest, defying both nature and gravity; they were obviously, aggressively fake, but this somehow made them more attractive. It was like she was wearing a sign that said "Please fuck me — it's what I'm here for."
She set the white envelope that contained the pictures Stern had just given her on the glass-topped table and sat down on a chaise lounge, holding a bottle of suntan lotion. Stern watched her shamelessly through his telephoto lens as she applied the lotion.
She was actually rather petite, except for her breasts: maybe 5-5 and 120 pounds, with thin, well-muscled arms and legs and narrow hips. B-cup breasts would have looked generous on her frame; Stern estimated her at about a D-cup. He moaned under his breath as she put a glob of lotion in the palm of her hand and rubbed it into a firm, resilient breast.
The patio door opened again and the Mexican woman from the motel came hurrying out, carrying a couple of tall drinks on a tray. She was wearing a short pink dress that Stern recognized as the standard California maid's uniform.
"Here's you drink. Now you haff to tell me how it go yesterday! I awake all last night — I wonder what happen." She had a sing-song Mexican accent that Stern found rather endearing.
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