Page 20 of Grayson

“Get us as much intel as you can on him,” said Iggy. “If we can find where he lives, we’ll approach his home.”

“No,” said Grayson. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Listen, Sgt. Major,” smiled Iggy. “We’ve all stepped a bit over the line this week. I don’t think it fucking matters any longer. Take a good look at Kai. Pretty boy half Samoan, half Mexican. I’m not the worst looking guy in the parking lot and I was a drama major in college.”

“What the fuck?” muttered Conor. “No offense. But why?”

“A girl,” he smirked. “Always a girl. Didn’t work out but I was pretty good at the acting gig. Actually did a few commercials to help me pay for school. Then I joined the Corps and found my real purpose.”

“Got it,” said U-Jin. “He has a home in Bandol. It’s a commune in Var department, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur region. Very weird, very artsy, very upper crust. His home is on the water, overlooking the Gulf of Lion.”

“You can’t just walk up and knock on his door asking for the address of his empty warehouses,” said Jennifer.

“No, but we can pretend to be looking for a star for a new movie,” said Kai. “I can ask someone I know in the film business to set it up. Tell him it’s a new Spielberg and Nolan film. He’ll jump on it.”

The men all looked at one another and nodded.

“Okay,” said Grayson. “If you can get him to speak to you, maybe outside on the beach, we could get into the house and search for what we need.”

“I’m sure there are cameras everywhere,” said Romeo.

“We don’t worry about that,” smirked Conor. “Gentlemen, come with me.”

“Kai and Iggy, head into town and buy yourselves the nicest suits on the rack. Everything. Make it expensive,” said Gunner.

“Uh, sir, we don’t make that kind of money,” said Iggy. Gunner handed him a black card and smiled.

“Consider it an early bonus.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cesar Moreau looked at himself in the mirror, touching his neck and beneath his chin. It tapped it gently with the back of his hand, turning one way, then another. He smiled, frowning at the fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes.

His skin was tanned, kissed by the sun of southern France. It wasn’t a cheap spray tan or some coffin-like tanning bed. It showed wealth and privilege. Tanned skin of a man who did very little manual labor.

He played tennis and golf, swam in the waters off his mansion every day, and most often swam in the nude in his swimming pool with young, energetic bodies around him. If he invited you to a pool party you should be prepared to wear little or nothing. Those were his rules.

He had many rules. If he handed you a drink, you drank it. If he told you to strip, your stripped. If he asked you to bend over in front of him, you did it.

Every guest attending his parties signed a non-disclosure agreement. They checked their phones at the door and weren’t allowed to touch them until they left.

He’d made a living from his face and body and took care of it, with a little surgical help. He knew that his name alone had young men and women flocking to his home, begging for a chance to be in one of his films. Although, of late, there were fewer and fewer offers which only resulted in fewer young bodies willingly coming to his home.

His side interests were no different. Young bodies and film. There were millions to be made. If they cooperated, they could make money and become famous, desired even. If they didn’t cooperate, they were sold, used by his men.

Of course, he never showed his face. He allowed them to use his properties and he directed them on what he needed. It was that simple.

Thirty years ago when he was just starting out, he’d been to a state dinner when an older member of parliament dragged him into a room and forced him to service him.

Cesar hadn’t really minded. He enjoyed men and women. What he cared about was that the man paid him nothing. When he approached him a few weeks later, Cesar smiled and told the man he’d do it for cash. He happily agreed.

That’s when his reputation began. A beautiful body and face, a man with aspirations, and powerful men and women that wanted him seen with them. It only took a few years and Cesar was able to refuse those same men and women. He was too busy, too famous and he had photos of every single one of them. They didn’t dare retaliate.

He frowned, remembering his conversation with Lacroix. They’d been acquaintances for years. Not friends. Lacroix was ruled by greed and stolen pleasure. He hadn’t figured out that he could have all the pleasure he wanted if he just managed the women in the right way.

Cesar had never had to steal pleasure. A few promises, a little something in their drink, and women would fall into him, begging him for more. Lacroix’s obsession with the little nun was going to ruin him and Cesar wasn’t about to allow his mistakes to ruin what he’d built.

Years ago, the phone would ring every day with television and movie offers, even plays in London and on Broadway. He was able to choose his work, allowing him to indulge in his many pleasures.