A private detective through the eyes of the women

The two best parts of my life are writing and being a private detective. A few years ago, a risk-consulting firm in London hired me to become the confidante of a certain woman in hiding from the press. Countless publications–from the New York Times to the National Enquirer–desperately wanted an interview. I found her and secured her trust. The case afforded me a year of splendid lunches and a close look at the world of prostitution through the eyes of the very savvy young madam whose call girl ring led to New York Attorney General Eliot Spitzer’s vertiginous fall from grace.

Writing a novel as I worked on one facet of the case (with many permissions granted) was bliss. This is the story of the Emperors Club V.I.P. as told by a private detective through the eyes of the women. The following is a synopsis of KISS THE RISK:

Charlie leaned forward, holding the wine glass. “But you had all that money! And you were starting to feel afraid! Why didn’t you stop?”. Chantal smiled. “Because there was always a more beautiful girl and always a richer client.”

Clarissa McNair

This is a book about money and power and sex. What else is there? Oh, yes, toss in love. The governor of New York was bright, handsome, well-married, Ivy League educated, with a real estate fortune and a sure shot at becoming the first Jewish Democratic nominee for president of the United States. He was also a client of an international call girl ring called the Imperial Club VIP. So was the Duke of Westminster. So were an Italian prince, a German billionaire and several titans of Wall Street. They wanted girls by the hour or by the night, sometimes for a weekend. The girls were elegant, educated, and available–in New York, Miami, Los Angeles, Paris, Geneva, London, and Rome. The madam was just a few years past being a top student at her tony prep school. She was in love with her one-time pimp who was Russian and older than her father. Now they were partners but she was the brains of the operation.

The “girls” were usually in their twenties or thirties and mostly worked in art galleries, for auction houses, and looked the part until stripped down to their La Perla lingerie. Nothing flash but well-bred, well-groomed, well-spoken. Polished, sophisticated, and willing to do just about anything for money.

March 10, 2018. It was over. Chantal would always call it “The Incident.” She kept asking for Jake and no one would answer her. The men put her in handcuffs, got her into the elevator, hurried her through the lobby then they pushed her into a black car doing that head push you always see on the news. Mug shots, fingerprints, the process of being arrested. It was like a bad dream played out in sickening slow motion. There had been hours and hours of questioning, jail for twelve days, telling her mother and then her father that there’d been a mistake, and the blazingly awful newspaper headlines. Worst of all was being separated from Jake.

The takedown got headlines in several world capitals. It was a red-hot scandal, salacious and international. The governor of New York resigned as his wife “stood by her man” in a pale blue suit, wearing pearls, silent and solemn, having aged overnight. Enter the detective, hired by a London risk-consulting firm to find and become the confidante of the madam. The client was never to be known but threw millions at the case–pounds, euros, dollars. He was somewhere–maybe on a private island, maybe in a London penthouse, maybe in a chateau in Provence—panicked over his name in the madam’s little black book. All those computer disks were now in the hands of the F.B.I. or were they?

This was how it began. A female private eye in Philadelphia named Charlie was paid to befriend a madam also nicknamed Charlie. The idea was to keep tabs on her, predict her every move until she checked into Danbury federal prison. The madam “opens up like a college roommate” and the detective listened and reported to London. Lunches all over Manhattan every week with wine and details. What makes a woman worth $5,000 an hour? Chantal is a fascinating twenty-two year old who relates what it’s like to wake up naked in a strange bed, covered in hundred-dollar bills. She tells the detective what it’s like to knock on the door of a hotel room, to face a strange man wondering, will I get out of here alive? The venues are the Waldorf Astoria, the Mark Hotel, the Plaza, the Carlyle, Claridge’s, the Dorchester, the George V—the best hotels, the most luxurious suites.

The entire story is told through the eyes of the women. The hooker booker and keeper of secrets changes her life. One woman is a compulsive shopper, another struggles to survive in the world of Miami real estate. One is unknowingly the girlfriend of a dangerous drug lord; another is happily married but loves the thrill of taking chances. One long-suffering, good sport wife suddenly realizes her husband’s monthly trips to London have nothing to do with business. She and her gay hairdresser plot the most delicious revenge. Meanwhile, as the stories unfold backstage, Charlie and Chantal sip wine and discuss sex, men, power and money every Tuesday.