“Don’t worry about Angel. She’s fine.”
He frowned and wrote the name down. Who was Angel?
“She hates catnip, by the way. I tried bribing her with it to get her in the cage. I’ve never heard of a cat who doesn’t like catnip.”
He scratched out the name. Okay, so Angel was a pet. And Valerie was a good enough friend to cat-sit while its master skipped town.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” Valerie went on.
More talk followed that he couldn’t make out. Clearly there was a female voice on the other end, and there was no doubt in Nate’s mind that the voice belonged to his bond jumper, Lydia Jane Franklin. But Nate couldn’t make out more than an occasional word or an “uh-huh”.
“But is that enough evidence to turn this around? And what if you lose the documents?”
Valerie shook her head to whatever answer came to that, and another waft of intense perfume hit him. “I just can’t imagine what you’re going through, Ly. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.”
Where’s there, he urged in his head. Just say where. Still, he probably wouldn’t get any more. Now that he knew she had the inside scoop, however, he would just have to see how much he could wring out of her using the direct approach.
“The day after tomorrow is your birthday. You remember our agreement, right? Good. Make sure you do it. And you know what? I’m going to send you a special present.”
Nate heard the “What? No!” through the phone as clear as day.
“Trust me, you’ll want this gift,” Valerie said. “Consider it a little nod to old times.” There was a pause, and she sighed. “I miss you too. I can’t wait until this nightmare is over. And it will be. It has to work out.”
She clicked off the call without saying more about Lydia’s location, but if she was planning to “send” a gift, she obviously knew the address. So which way should he play this, as the good cop or bad cop? Not that he was either, strictly speaking. But once he identified himself, he could either intimidate the information out of her with the usual threats about aiding and abetting charges or he could play the white knight and make a plea to her better judgment. Or he could do neither and dial up his surveillance mode, tail Valerie around while she hit the post office with her conveniently addressed birthday gift.
He was still extrapolating likely outcomes for each option when Valerie started talking on her phone. She wasn’t placing a call, however. She was using the voice-activated help.
“What male stripper services are near Venice Beach, California?” she asked.
That stopped Nate short. His pulse sped up while he started scribbling notes.
The electronic voice was kind enough to respond out loud, and Valerie instructed it to dial the number for Hot and Ready Exotic Male Dancers. He shook his head while she spoke to the service and haggled price on a birthday strip-o-gram and private lap dance. From what he’d heard about male strippers, plenty were willing to celebrate special occasions with more than dancing. Special present, indeed. His cock stirred in interest at the thought of a birthday poke, and he shifted uncomfortably while he listened to Valerie debate costume choices.
“No, definitely not a cop,” she said, and Nate stifled a laugh. Lydia probably wouldn’t appreciate the humor of a fake cop at the door. “I guess let’s just go with the businessman. She’s a sucker for a hot guy in a suit.”
He glanced down at himself and smirked, but not because he happened to be wearing a suit. To his utter delight, Valerie went on to not only spit out her credit card information, but the exact address in Venice Beach where she wanted the stripper to deliver his “package”.
Holy fucking grail. In all his years tracking down fugitives, he had never gleaned this much info from a casual eavesdrop. Maybe after all the shit he’d been through, fate had decided to give him a break.
He drained his beer while she finished and hung up, and then he slid out of the booth. With a subtle nod to Benny, he walked out. He didn’t even need to interact with Valerie now. He had all he needed and more. Venice Beach was a good day’s drive from Colorado Springs. If he left now, he could hopefully have Lydia in custody by late the following night. She’d celebrate her birthday cuffed in his backseat. The stripper Valerie had just dropped a bundle on would never get the chance to grind his dick against Lydia at all. Too bad for her. And the guy, for that matter, if the mug shot Nate had seen was any indication.
Nate got in his car and opened the Lydia Franklin file while he typed in the first number on his cell phone’s speed dial.
“A-1 Bail Bonds,” said a rushed voice. “Open twenty-four hours a day.”
“Asa, it’s me, Nate.”
“What’s up? Got something for me already?”
“She crossed state lines, all right. I’m headed out again.”
“You said the trail went dead in New Mexico.”
“That’s not where she landed. I’m leaving for California in a few hours.”
“You’re sure this time?”
“Positive.”
“And you’re not taking a team?”
“I made my conditions clear.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“You said this was a cake job, and I’m taking you at your word. No team, no guns. Just an easy pickup. That was the deal.”
“You’re one ballsy son of a bitch. Or else a really stupid one. But you can trace skips faster than anyone I’ve ever dealt with. I swear, it’s like you’re magnetized to bond jumpers. And I ain’t about to bend over and eat two-fifty.”
Nate pulled out the photo of Lydia, which was stapled to his authorization papers. Despite the typical haggard appearance mug shots brought out in people, there was delicateness in her features, a soft curve to her nose and cheeks that matched her wispy blonde hair. Pale eyes stared out at him with an undeniable intelligence that could definitely have pulled off the crime she’d been accused of. Still, there was a haunted look in those glassy eyes, as though she had just seen a horror she never knew existed. And if there was one thing most all criminals knew long before their capture, it was horror.
“Give me a couple days,” he said. “I’ll be in touch when I have her.”
He hung up and stared at the photo. No, he wouldn’t want a woman like that on the other end of his weapon. At least, not the one he used to carry around in a shoulder holster. The weapon Benny had correctly guessed hadn’t seen much action lately was another matter. He’d be all too happy to point that one her direction. Under different circumstances, of course.
Said weapon pulsed between his legs. Maybe later he would indulge a little fantasy about meeting her under other such circumstances. His right hand might then bring him some relief before hitting the road. Too bad she wouldn’t get her relief before he caught up with her.
A smile touched his lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her have one last birthday fantasy. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Valerie hadn’t just unwittingly handed Nate the location of his fugitive, but a way to get in the door without the typical strong-arm methods or weapons.
Yes, it could work. It could really fucking work.
He pulled out of the Red Apple Lounge parking lot with a tight smile. He’d spent a fair amount of his time as a bounty hunter devising ways to blend and be totally nondescript in a crowd. This would be the exact opposite of any disguise he’d done. But hell, if it worked as good as he suspected, maybe by the time his hot little blonde was in handcuffs, he would have discovered a new career path.
He laughed out loud and turned into traffic, mentally sanding the rough edges off his plan all the way to Citadel Mall.
Chapter Two
A persistent breeze whipped Lydia’s hair and played chase with the skirt of her gauzy white dress while she stood at the water’s edge. She stared out over the glittering Pacific Ocean, in touch with something powerful and magnificent without truly being part of it.
Her sandals were
in her hand, allowing the cool, foamy edge of the surf to run up and over her toes. The salty air was rich with the smell of beach life and nearby food vendors, and she closed her eyes while she breathed it in. The aroma brought back memories with a bittersweet tang as distinct and familiar as the sea breeze around her.
Laughter floated on the air behind her, triggering an image of her first time to the apartment that had been purchased as a coming-of-age gift for a good friend. At eighteen, life had seemed eternal and clung to such promise. Four friends had come here that year, swearing to do so again every year for the rest of their lives. Four friends, four years. Which, as it turned out, had been the “rest of their lives” for two of them.
Lydia glanced down at the soda bottle in her hand, swirling the brown fluid inside that disguised the alcohol she’d added. Tipping the glass, she let a series of generous spills of liquid escape with the retreating ocean. “This one is for you, Tiff. Another for Beverly. And one for Val. You’re still my best friend. The only one of us I’ve got left.”
One gulp remained, and she tossed it back and let the burn sear out the prickle of tears threatening to overtake her. What would she have done if she’d have known back then that she would be standing alone on the beach one day as a fugitive? That two of her friends would be gone, and the one remaining hadn’t been any more willing to return to Venice Beach than Lydia had been, even after Tiffany’s father had insisted the apartment be kept as is for their use whenever they wished. It was a memoriam she hadn’t had the heart for. What would she have done at eighteen if she’d been able to glimpse the path that lay ahead?
“I would have had another drink,” Lydia said to no one, and she trudged up the beach and tossed away her empty soda bottle in the first available trash bin. The Venice boardwalk was teeming with the usual assortment of beach bimbos, bikers, skaters, tourists and bohemians. Down the walk, the weekly drum circle was just beginning. Crowds had formed around the drummers, barring them from her view, but she stopped to listen anyway. She felt the driving beat thrum through her core and closed her eyes, willing it to drive away spirits from the past, along with the future that grew more frightening every time she let herself dwell on it.
She wandered closer and joined in the impromptu dance that several hippie-types had begun along with the regular dancers. She swayed her body in tune to the beat of many different drums. It was mesmerizing, that ancient beat. Some claimed the drum circle to be soul-reviving, but her motions failed to so much as lift her mood. It was her birthday, and twenty-nine was thus far turning into nothing to celebrate. She had forbidden herself from spending her birthday obsessing over her current drama, but what else was left?
The more the crowds swelled out of curiosity around the drum circle, the more profoundly alone and empty she felt.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” she whispered. “Not nearly drunk enough.”
She stuffed her feet back into her sandals and headed for the row of tall and eclectically colorful apartment buildings overlooking the beach. At least getting sauced enough to survive the rest of her birthday wouldn’t prove too difficult. Unlike Valerie, Lydia had learned a hard lesson about drinking when Tiffany and Beverly had died in a car wreck not five miles up the Pacific Coast Highway. The tragedy had left Lydia with little taste for the hard stuff. Valerie, on the other hand, hadn’t applied the cautionary tale to herself.
In any case, since Lydia rarely drank anymore, she was maybe a glass and a half away from a buzz strong enough to drive away her melancholy for a few hours. Or so she hoped. Considering how damn horny booze got her, a man in her bed for some wildly casual sex would have completed that picture nicely. But despite all the beach bodies on display around her, the beachfront party pad hadn’t come pre-stocked with hot guys. Finding one out on the boardwalk would involve a certain amount of social acumen she just didn’t have in her. So, the poor fugitive would just have to drown her sorrows alone, until the morning dawned and it was time to resume her regularly scheduled freaking out and trying to decide what to do about the evidence she had on Andrew.
The open bottle of good stuff called to her from the kitchen counter, and she headed back inside. It might not be a solution, but even a temporary reprieve from the drastic plunge her life had taken sounded good at the moment. Comforting. And now that she’d observed the tradition of offering the first drink to the drink, she intended to take every bit of what little comfort she could find.
* * * * *
Weekend parking near the Venice Beach waterfront was a bitch and a half, and Nate swore viciously as he circled the neighborhood. He’d been at it for twenty minutes and couldn’t find a thing closer than three blocks from his destination. Oh, it was tempting to double park while he did the job, but something told him to play it more low key.
He spied a tight, but doable spot not two buildings from the address, and his hopes shot up. A tiny Mazda convertible whipped into the vacancy, and laughing bikini babes tumbled out of it.
Nate felt a surge of road rage. “Damn it!”
Maybe he was just grouchy after a long drive with a mere two hours’ sleep since discovering Lydia’s whereabouts. Or maybe he was on edge because he was about to walk into a capture situation without the reassuring weight of his sidearm or a team watching his back. But he’d sworn to do this job without either, and that was what he intended to do.
After settling on a paid parking garage up the street, he pulled in and stretched his cramped muscles as he got out of the car. The smell of city with a vague hint of ocean met his nostrils as he pulled on the suit jacket he’d carefully laid out in the backseat. He stuffed a pair of handcuffs and his badge into the coat pocket.
A cool sea breeze wafted through the garage, mussing the hair he was trying to run a comb through. After grabbing the duffel and the bunch of balloons he’d picked up to lend an authentic touch to his ploy, he locked the car and made his way through the dimly lit structure.
Assuming his address information was correct, and there was no reason to think otherwise, he’d have Lydia in hand within the hour. He had every confidence that his ploy would get him in her front door. Getting out again with a captive who would likely be less than cooperative wasn’t nearly as fun a thought. He’d have to cart her all the way back here, possibly with her making a scene. There was the occasional concerned citizen who mistook a bounty hunt for a kidnapping. He’d followed procedure and notified local law enforcement of his intent to capture, so he was covered should a question arise about him taking custody of a woman against her will. Assuming he had a chance to produce his badge and authorization before some excitable, would-be hero intervened by waving around his constitutionally guaranteed right to bear arms.
He sighed as he thought of the bikini-babe sports car. Yes, a nice, cozy parking spot right by the seashell-pink apartment building would have been far preferable. Still, it wasn’t as if he’d never had to park creatively to avoid detection before. He’d manage somehow.
The wind caught hold of his balloons, and they led the way up the street. Maybe buying them had been overkill, but a woman hiding out alone wasn’t likely going to throw open her door for a strange guy, not even one claiming to be a stripper. And after his impromptu research, he realized he wasn’t willing to go the distance with his disguise.
At a quick motel stop on the way for a shower, catnap and marathon hand job, his Google crash course on male strippers had been quite the eye-opener. For one thing, those guys shaved their body hair from neck to nuts and beyond, something he had no intention of doing for a simple capture. And in the absence of any other convincing props, a guy in a suit read more to him like FBI than bump-and-grind. So balloons it was.
Not shaving wouldn’t really matter, anyway. Since he was in a business suit, she wouldn’t be seeing much of his body. The idea was to pose as a stripper convincingly enough for her to let him in the door, not to actually whirl his shirt over his head and leg hump a bond jumper. Not even one who looked as sexy and
vulnerable in a mug shot as Lydia did.
Women are trouble in high heels.
Benny had been absolutely right on that one, and as Nate made the trek up the Pacific Coast Highway, he sternly shook off thoughts of just how much trouble he’d conjured between him and his quarry during his last masturbation fantasy. While he was reluctant to admit it even to himself, part of that fantasy had involved the handcuffs tucked in his pocket.
“Fuck, you need to get laid,” he muttered.
This was exactly why he’d developed a strict policy about the hows and whens of his sex life. Rule One, no sex while actively on the job. Rule Two, enjoy a wild ride to celebrate every successful capture. This allowed him to blow off enough sexual steam to bring him back around to Rule One for the next job. It was a policy that had settled into an important part of his routine. In his heyday, this meant he got around to Rule Two as much as twice a week, or at worst, every couple of months. Then his luck had plummeted, three big bounties in a row had slipped through his fingers, and the price for the last capture had been a curious neighbor’s life. That hadn’t counted as a reason to celebrate. No Rule Two for him for longer than he wanted to think about.
Tribal-type drumming was audible in the near distance, somewhere out by the ocean that he caught glimpses of between the tall, closely set apartment buildings. The scent of marijuana hit him too, but it failed to distract him from the depressing math he was doing. It should be the furthest thing from his mind as he approached the building, but the calculations took place anyway. Eight months, two weeks and three days. That had been his last celebratory fuck. It hadn’t been all that great, either. He’d bumped into an ex who was up for a quick recap of their sexual highlights, but neither he nor Debbie had really been into it. It had been an easy and convenient hookup, but not memorable.
Why was he thinking about sex again? Okay, so he was a guy, and his brain was automatically hardwired to shoot off random tit and pussy images at least every sixty-two-point-two seconds. The fact that he was dwelling on the subject, however, was another matter. Now was hardly the time for distractions.
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