A Case of Defamation

PROLOGUE

Shay Caddel sat on her father's couch as they watched the 2016 Rio Summer Olympic Games. He'd made what he called his 'world famous... if only the world knew about it' chili for their traditional Sunday afternoon lunch. Chili traditionalists would probably turn their collective noses up at it because it had---

gasp

---beans in it, but she loved it, and it was her favorite chili. She and her dad stirred a healthy portion of Mexican cheese into their bowls and topped it with Fritos as they ate. Not only was it delicious, but it had been liberally seasoned with love, which made it better still.

Bowls and spoons in hand, with corn chips on the side, they were watching men's gymnastics. She'd first paid attention to the Olympics four years prior, when she was sixteen... not because she was particularly interested in the sports, but because all the men in the gymnastics and swimming events were delicious in the extreme, and she'd felt the stirring of womanhood. Now, at twenty, she was no longer a virgin, but she'd never admit to her father she was watching only so she could admire the gymnasts oh-so-sexy bodies and ogle the bulges in their skin-tight uniforms.

She liked men who looked like

men

. She wanted hers tall, dark, and muscled, and if he was packing a little something extra down below, that was even better. Powerlifters and bodybuilders were too bulky and grotesque, but the gymnasts, and to a slightly lesser extent, the swimmers, were just right.

The problem with the gymnasts were they were short. Even though she was only five-two and petite herself, or 'fun sized' as her dad called her, if the guy was much under five-ten, she wasn't interested. It might be shallow of her, but everyone had their preferences, and hers were for guys she still had to look up to when she was wearing heels. Still, when the men were on the floor, and she couldn't tell they were only a few inches taller than her, she could dream and drool.

Next up on the High Bar,

the talking head on the television announced,

is the American, Daniel Beckette.

That's right, Ron. This kid has earned his way to this event. At just over six feet tall, many considered him too tall to compete at this level, but he has done a standout job for the American team.

That's right, Todd. He's already won Gold on the Parallel Bars and Silver on Pommel Horse.

Right. This is his final ev

ent at these games, so you know he'll go all out.

He certainly has the skills to take home the Gold in this event.

That's right, Ron. He'd have won Gold in the U.S. Nationals in this event back in September, except he didn't stick his dismount.

At this level, even the little step back he had was enough to cost him.

That's where his height really affects him, by slowing his rotation just that much.

If he can score a 16.275 or better here, he'll have another Gold. Let's watch and see if he can do it.

Shay watched as Daniel went through his routine, the commentators praising and critiquing his performance. To her untrained eye, his routine looked like every other one she'd seen, but she was silently rooting for him, and the talking heads had little to say except praise.

Daniel was the media darling, the aw-shucks kid from somewhere in South Dakota, who was charming the pants off every woman in America, and most of the rest of the world, and god

damn

did he look fine. When he was with his teammates, at six feet tall, he towered over them, but he had the same sleek, muscled build as they all did.

He's setting up for his dismount.

The question is, will he go for the triple or play it safe and go for the double.

The triple is what cost him at the Nationals. He's delivered a nearly flawless routine. I'd go with the double and stick the landing rather than risk a mistake on the triple.

As Shay watched, Daniel flew from the bar, spinning and tumbling through the air like a dervish. He landed and stood, arms in the air with a brilliant smile on his face, as casually as if she'd stepped off a curb.

He's done it! The triple-twisting double lay-out! That was flawless, perhaps the best overall routine we've seen on the High Bar in these games! He should be very proud of himself.

A truly excellent routine! We'll be right back to get the scores.

"What do you think, Dad? Think he'll win the Gold?"

Michael Caddel shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. I can't tell the difference between the triple-twisting double-gainer and the quadruple backwards, forward butt thrust."

She snickered as he scraped up the last of his chili. "Want another bowl?"

"Yeah, but I'll get it. You want any more?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm good." One bowl was plenty for her.

When the games came back from commercial, Daniel was sitting in the scoring booth with another man, probably his coach. He was all smiles.

Here come the scores. Remember, he needs a 16.275 to take home the Gold.

She watched as the scores came in, her heart in her throat as she pulled for him. 16.5. She felt a tingle of vicarious excitement when Daniel jumped to his feet, enthusiastically punching the air over his head as he jumped for joy.

He's done it! Daniel Beckette will take home another Gold in the 2016 Rio de Janeiro Games. That brings his total medal count to three.

That's right, Todd. He medaled in all three of his events. That's a real accomplishment for someone many didn't think would even make the team.

As the commentators yammered on, she watched as Daniel hugged an older man and woman, probably his mother and father, before a woman with a microphone pulled him aside to talk to him about his routine. For the first time in this event, the reporter wasn't taller than the competitor. She barely heard what Daniel said as she took a pull on her beer.

She smiled as she set her beer aside and scooped up another spoon of chili. She wouldn't mind if he performed a routine on her. She wouldn't mind that at all.

.

.

.

ONE

Shay's printer hummed as she printed out photo after full color photo. Mariusz Sikora wasn't going to be pleased, but she didn't care. If he didn't want to know the truth, he shouldn't have hired her. She didn't have a smoking gun, unable to get photos of Alisa, his wife, actually banging anyone, but she had enough evidence to convince anyone with two brain cells to rub together what was going on.

She'd been following Alisa for almost a month. Mariusz had begun to doubt Mrs. Sikora's daily workouts were entirely above board, and he'd shown up at Clearview Investigations to confirm his suspicions. He'd had good reason to be suspicious. His wife was certainly getting a good workout... but it wasn't at a gym. Los Angeles never slept, but it damn sure slept around.

Now that she'd compiled a file with enough evidence to convince any jury, she was turning it over to the client. She just took the photos and didn't concern herself with what happened after that. That was between Mariusz and his wife. Stalking cheating spouses wasn't the type of work she wanted, but it paid the bills, and she couldn't afford to be choosy after her father died.

A chime sounded softly, and she looked up as Mr. Sikora entered the small waiting area. Even when her father was still alive, they didn't need a large office. What was now the waiting area had been her office as she learned the business. Business had dropped off after his death, and if she got two new clients a month, she considered it a good month.

"Mr. Sikora," she called from her office. "Come in."

"You have something for me?" he asked as he entered her office.

She tightened her lips in sympathy. He didn't sound eager to know what she'd discovered. It was always the same way. Men and women hired a private investigator to find out if their spouse was cheating, thinking they wanted proof, but when it came time to find out, they realized they actually didn't and wanted to continue to believe the lie. Unfortunately for them, if they had enough misgivings about their spouse to hire someone like her, they were rarely wrong.

"Please, close the door and have a seat," Shay said as she waved him to one of her two guest chairs.

Though it was her bread and butter, she didn't understand what drove men and women to cheat. Mr. Sikora was a good-looking guy. Fit and well dressed, he owned a half-dozen car dealerships around town. He had a big house, two expensive cars, and to all appearances, he could give his wife anything she wanted. Maybe he was a complete dick at home, but that wasn't an excuse in her opinion. Divorce their ass, move out, and take half their shit with you when you left, but keep your legs closed or your zipper up until the divorce was final... but no, they'd rather cheat. She didn't write the laws, but in her opinion, cheating on a spouse and still getting half their stuff was wrong.

Saying nothing because the pictures spoke for themselves, she slid two dozen of the most damning photos across the desk. She watched as he slowly looked through the pages, his mouth hardening as he paled. She had pictures of Alisa Sikora with four different men outside various low-rent motels around the city. Mrs. Sikora had been careful, always driving to the gym and parking her car there before getting into an Uber. The charges didn't appear on any card Mr. Sikora knew about, but the photos clearly detailed what was happening.

"This proves nothing, Ms. Caddel," Sikora said, tossing the photos onto the desk.

She had to work not to laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"So, she met some men. Maybe they're just friends."

She looked at him like he was crazy. "Four different men, five if you count that one time she had the threesome, outside a dozen different motels, and you think maybe they're meeting to play cribbage?"

He stared at his shoes. "It proves nothing," he repeated softly.

She tapped the papers into a neat pile. "Whatever. This is what there is. I can keep following her if you want, in case she makes a mistake, but short of breaking into their room while they're indisposed, this is all the evidence there's going to be. She's being very careful to make sure she doesn't get caught." She softened slightly. "I know this is hard to accept, but the evidence is clear. She's got four different men on the line that she rotates through." Shay flipped through the pictures until she found the one she wanted, the one that clearly showed her left hand as she lowered herself into the backseat of an Uber. "She takes off her ring and leaves it in her car, she meets with each of them on a different day, and always on the same day. I doubt if any of them know about you, or each other. This is all on her."

Alisa was a beautiful woman. Slim and well-built, Shay could see why any man would want to bed her, but she was obviously dead inside, and she was using men, and sex, to fill the emptiness. If she'd been cheating on Mariusz with just one man, Shay might have said it was for love, but not this, not with four different men at the same time.

He hadn't answered, so Shay gave him a nudge. "You want me to keep following her?"

"No!" he snarled. "I want my fucking life back, or proof she's fucking around, and this is what you give me? What am I supposed to do with this?"

She held up her hands in a 'what do you expect?' gesture. "This is all there is. I can't shoot photos through closed curtains. Take the photos and show her. She's dirty, and she knows it. Maybe she'll come clean and tell you everything."

"You've ruined my life!"

"

I

haven't done anything," she corrected firmly. This wasn't the first time a client wanted to take their anger out on her. "You came to me and asked me to do the job. I've done it. I'm sorry you don't like what I found, and I understand you're upset, but remember who you're upset with."

He grabbed the photos from her desk and struggled to rip them. He finally tossed half back on her desk, ripped the other half into quarters, and then threw them onto the floor before repeating the procedure with the other half. He'd already paid for them, so she didn't care what he did with them, and maybe ripping them helped him deal with his anger. She could print more if she needed them. He sat, breathing hard, his face flushed and ugly with rage.

She slid her invoice across the desk and began to run down the itemized list, using a pen to indicate each line item as she described it. "My billable hours totaled fifty-one. Fifty-one hours at one hundred dollars an hour is fifty-one hundred dollars. One hundred twenty-six miles at sixty cents a mile, seventy-five sixty. There's another sixty-eight in miscellaneous expenses. Copies of the receipts are attached. That comes to fifty-two forty-three. You paid for twenty hours as a deposit, that's two thousand dollars, which leaves a balance of thirty-two forty-three. Make your check to Clearview Investigations, or I accept debit, Visa, MasterCard, and Discover."

"You didn't deliver what you promised, and I'm not paying until you do!"

"So, you're authorizing more hours?"

"No, but I'm not paying until you get proof, until I see a picture of her sleeping with another man!"

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "Mr. Sikora... you signed a contract and the addendum agreeing for up to sixty hours. I'll give you the extra nine hours you approved, but nothing is going to change. I've done the job you requested and provided you with photographic evidence of your wife's infidelity. Don't make this worse than it already is. If you don't pay me, I'll take you to court and I'll win. You'll end up paying me now, or later, and if it's later, it'll cost you more because you'll be paying my legal expenses as well. Your choice, but I'd recommend paying now."

"I'm not paying you shit until I see it with my own eyes! You can forget that!"

"Have it your way. I'll see you in court."

"You fucking bitch!" he snarled as he jumped to his feet. "Are you threatening me?"

She remained seated, not wanting to escalate the situation, but pushed back from her desk to gain a little room as she prepared to defend herself. "I'm in no way threatening you, Mr. Sikora, but if you don't pay me, you'll be in breach of contract, and I'm informing you that I

will

exercise my legal right to collect payment, so you either need to sit down and get control of yourself, or you need to leave."

She leapt to her feet as he started around the desk. "Mr. Sikora! Mariusz! You need to stop right now!"

He kept going, his eyes and mouth hard. She had her Glock 43 in her desk, but shooting a client was bad for business.

"You fucking bitch," he growled. "You ruin my life and then threaten me?"

"You need to calm down!" she said firmly as she continued to back away. She'd never had to deal with this before, but fortunately her desk was situated in the office in such a way that she could circle all the way around it.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" he roared as he charged around the desk after her, his arms spread as he lunged for her.

Shay's office wasn't large, limiting her room to maneuver, but she was able to duck under his rush, hook his leg as he passed, and shove him between the shoulder blades to aid his stumble. He fell over one of the guest chairs and landed on the floor in a heap.

"Knock it off!" she yelled as he scrambled to his feet.

There was death in his eyes as he started toward her again. With him leaving her no choice, she spun as he came at her, bent at the waist with her right leg high as she pivoted quickly on her left foot. The back of her heel caught him squarely on the jaw in a spinning hook kick. Her kick was nowhere near full power, but it stopped him cold, causing his head to snap around as he stumbled off balance into her office door, his hand breaking the glass before he hit the floor.

"Shit," she hissed, drawing the word out slightly as she hurried to his side. He was bleeding badly from the mouth, but he wasn't completely out. "Are you okay?"

"You kicked me," he slurred.

She helped him to his feet as he held his mouth. She grabbed a handful of tissues from the box she always kept on her desk. Normally they were for tears, but they'd work for blood.

"I'm going to have you charged with assault," he mumbled as he took the tissue and pressed them against his bloodied lips.

She pointed to the camera in the corner of the office. "Go ahead and try. I'll sue your ass while you're in jail... and I'm charging you for the broken door. Now, are you going to pay what you owe me, or are we going to dance again?"

She retrieved another wad of tissues from the desk and handed them to him before offering the waste basket for him to dump the bloody ones.

He glared at her for a moment before all the fight went out of his eyes. "I'm sorry. Yes... I'll pay. I don't know what came over me."

She nodded as she returned the upended guest chair to its legs and then steered him to it. "Pay your bill, fix my door, and nothing will be said, but I suggest you get control of that temper."

He nodded as he lowered himself into the chair. "Will five hundred for the door be enough?"

"Make the check for thirty-five hundred and we'll call it even," she replied as she moved behind her desk.

He pulled his checkbook from an inside pocket, scribbled a moment, and then ripped the slip of paper out and slid it across the desk. She took it, glanced at the amount, and then tucked it into the center drawer before withdrawing a self-inking stamp. Removing the cover from the stamp, she quickly set the date, pulled the invoice back, and pressed the stamp firmly against the bottom of the page. With a red

PAID

clearly visible, she slid the invoice back to him.

"Been a pleasure doing business with you," she said in her best customer service voice.

He grunted. "Can I get another copy of the photos?" he asked, barely able to meet her gaze.

"Sure."

Spinning to her computer, she typed a moment before the printer whirred to life. It took about a minute for all the photos to land in the paper tray. She handed them across the desk.

"Thank you." He looked at her a moment, tossed the bloody tissues into the waste basket she'd left beside the chair, and then probed his lips with his tongue. "That's a hell of a kick you've got."

She allowed herself a small smile. "You should see me when I'm pissed off."

He snorted once. "I'd probably have to pick my head up off the floor." He looked behind himself before returning his attention to her. "Sorry about the door... and everything."

She rose and extended her hand. He stood with her and accepted her offer. "It's done, don't worry about it, but a piece of advice. Do something about your temper. One day it's going to get you into real trouble."

Saying nothing, he nodded and turned toward the door. She waited until the outside door closed and he drove away before she looked at her busted office door. The frosted glass was still in the frame but spiderwebbed from near the center where his hand had impacted it.

"Shit," she muttered before turning from the door to pick up the torn photos. After they went into the shredder, she walked to the cabinet tucked into the corner of the waiting room.

The cabinet held pens, printer paper, and other office supplies, the coffee maker and all the stuff required for it, and a few cleaning supplies. She did her own office cleaning because it took less than ten minutes to clean her two small rooms, and she didn't think it was worth paying someone for that.

Broom in hand, she carefully picked at the impact point. The pane seemed secure, but she could see sand-like shards glistening on the floor. Her lips tight in annoyance, she began sweeping. Her office had fake hardwood floors, so getting all the little splinters of glass into a pile was easy. She then carefully swept the glass into a dustpan before dumping them into the wastebasket with the bloody tissues.