by C. J. Thomas
The restaurant sat just off the beach, and a full moon sparkled on the water. A light breeze stirred the curly tendrils on my neck, carrying the smell of salt water with it. I had to admit, if he was trying to woo me, he couldn’t have planned it better.
We stepped off the deck leading to the sand and I placed a hand on Dan’s shoulder while I took off one shoe, then the other. Only when I let go, he took my hand in his. I didn’t pull away. It felt nice, and besides, friends held hands all the time.
After a long, romantic dinner.
While walking in the moonlight on a secluded beach.
Sure. It happened all the time.
“Where are you from?” he asked, kicking up a little sand as he walked.
“LA, born and bred,” I announced proudly.
“Really? I would have guessed you were an east coast girl.”
“Why?”
“You have that attitude about you. A sort of brashness. You don’t have the laid-back, California-casual style. If I saw you rushing down Fifth Avenue to hail a cab while eating a fresh bagel, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I tried to picture myself that way. “I’ve never seen myself living anywhere but here,” I admitted. “Maybe I sound a little limited.”
“Not at all. If you love where you live, that’s great. I can’t say I felt the same way about my hometown.” He gave a rueful chuckle and it occurred to me I’d never thought about where he came from or his life in any way outside of what he did for a living . . . and what he did to me whenever our eyes met.
“All right. I’ll bite. Where are you from?”
“Guess.”
“Right. That won’t take all night or anything.” I laughed.
“Maybe I have all night.” His thumb traced the ridge of my knuckles. I cleared my throat nervously, reminding my heart to slow down.
“You’re American by birth?”
“Correct.”
“Are you from New York? The way you just described it—”
“No. I’ve been there, but only on the occasional trip to see friends. I’m originally from a little farming town in Nebraska.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised. There he was, the image of dashing sophistication, born and raised in a no-name town.
“What brought a small-town boy like you to Hollywood?”
He chuckled. “What, the promise of bright lights and fame isn’t excuse enough? Don’t hundreds of boys and girls get off the bus every day, just looking for their big break?”
I eyed him up and down. I didn’t doubt he could have made a career for himself on the big screen, with his looks. He’d make the ideal heartthrob in some romantic comedy. It didn’t matter if he could act or not, since most of the men in those movies couldn’t, anyway.
“Is that what brought you here? Really?”
“No, not really. Not exactly, at least. I wanted to be a screenwriter.”
“You did?” I didn’t mean to squeal the way I did.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he muttered, smiling to himself.
“Sorry. It’s just fun to know that we’re both writers.”
“You’re a writer. I’m an ex-writer.”
“Why ex? It fell through?”
“Eh, not exactly.”
We walked on for a while, still holding hands. I wanted to prompt him for more, but didn’t want to push too hard, either.
He took a deep breath. “I sold a screenplay. Once.”
“You did?” I whispered this time. “Which one?”
“Not important.”
“I can look it up, you know. See, there’s this thing called the internet . . .”
He chuckled. “Let’s just say they paid a lot for it. Part of my contract included a percentage of ticket sales. Residuals from TV showings. That sort of thing.”
“No kidding. Have I seen it?”
“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t.”
“So that’s why you have so much money!” I wished I could take the words back, but the revelation hit me so hard I couldn’t help blurting it out. I had wondered for years how he wore the clothes he wore, drove the car he drove. On a detective’s salary? Even a star detective like him?
He shrugged it off. “Yes. That’s my story. I invested wisely.”
I shook my head in amazement. “I have to admit, Detective, you’re a much deeper body of water than I thought.”
“Thanks. Though I wonder how smart you actually thought I was before now.”
“I didn’t say smart. I always knew you were smart. Big-shot detectives aren’t stupid. You’re well-rounded. That was what I meant.”
“I also make a mean meatloaf and mix a solid martini.”
I laughed, throwing my head back. He squeezed my hand. “Here’s what I don’t get, though. Why did you become a detective?”
“I was a cop when I sold the screenplay.”
“Why did you become one in the first place? If you loved to write?”
“I love both. I could have joined the force back home, but the idea of spending day after day with my feet up on my desk while I napped never appealed to me. The worst crime my town ever saw was the occasional drunken fight at the VFW post. Even then, it could usually be settled amicably.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“So, I moved to a city where I could solve actual crimes and sell my writing. It seemed like the logical solution. I worked cases during the day, wrote my screenplay at night. Typical Hollywood plot, right?”
I giggled. “It sounds like it, yeah.”
“When I sold the script, I had a choice to make. I went to a few of the parties, met the fancy people. It was fun. Seductive, even.” He took a deep breath and sighed, using his free hand to rub the sides of his face. “I could have stayed in that world. Only . . . I saw too many things I didn’t like. There was a desperation behind everything. People smiled too hard, laughed too loud. It was all a performance. Underneath, it was rotten.”
“Rather morbid,” I murmured.
“Tell me you haven’t seen it for yourself, in all the times you’ve covered the scandals that break out in town. You know a lot of things I’ve probably never heard of through that grapevine of whispers between writers. It’s seedy and scary. People get chewed up and spit out. I couldn’t be part of it.”
“So you chose to fight it, instead.”
He smiled. “Something like that. I wanted to solve the cases. Find out who caused a person’s life to disintegrate. Bring them to justice. I kept my head down, worked hard, made detective.”
“The rest is history.” I smiled at him. He smiled back.
“I guess it is. I don’t know. Do you ever feel that way? Like you’re bringing all that shady stuff to light?”
It was my turn to laugh at myself. “I don’t know that I’ve ever put such a noble spin on it. I don’t always love what I do.”
“You’re good at it, though.”
“I’m the best at it.” I smirked. He didn’t argue. “There are times, though. When I’m called a bottom feeder and I’m not in the mood to laugh it off. When I understand why people hate the tabloids. What do we add to anything? I don’t make a contribution, do I?”
“You provide entertainment.”
“So does a trained monkey.”
“Is that why you want to know what happened to Emelia? Even though just the overdosing story alone is enough to sell copies for weeks?”
I chewed my lip, looking over the calm water. Was it? I hadn’t given it much thought, aside from my hunch that it wasn’t as clear-cut a case as it looked on the surface. I didn’t have the time to go into my motives.
“Are you sure you’re not really a psychiatrist?” I joked. He snickered but didn’t push the issue.
We walked on in companionable silence. That was what I liked best about him, I decided—we could not speak, and it was all right. How many dates were ruined by one or the other person feeling as though they had to talk nonstop?
Did I use the w
ord date?
Yes, because I was on a date. I sighed to myself, accepting the truth. I couldn’t deny the romantic atmosphere, just like there was no ignoring how nice it felt to hold his hand. There was no case in between us, no verbal sparring. I didn’t have to one-up him, which was a blessed relief. We were two people, enjoying each other.
Why did it take me so long to agree to this? I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His strong profile, highlighted by the moon. He took my breath away, even more so because it was my hand he was holding rather than some other girl’s. His strong fingers interlaced with mine. I imagined those fingers with calluses from years of farm work. He fascinated me, and always had.
And I always held him at arm’s length.
It might have been self-serving, my acceptance. Or it might have been the way he took me seriously. The way he let me into Emelia’s room—the only reporter allowed inside. The way he didn’t bluster and strut around the room the way his partner did. I’d seen him walk in and out with the air of a man completely immune to crime, no matter who was involved. Dan had a sensitivity, a respect. The few things I saw him touch and bag up were handled with care and composure. He didn’t make jokes at Emelia’s expense. I’d heard Frank laughing as I left, on the other hand.
Dan listened to me, too, when I told him my theory. Even if he didn’t agree with me, he gave me the respect of listening and considering my ideas. I wasn’t some hack reporter with a harebrained theory to him.
Heck, I didn’t need any of those reasons. Just the way I lit up inside when we were together would have been enough. I always felt a little breathless around him, like anything could happen. He reminded me of an old-school movie hero—dashing, charismatic, charming, witty. So handsome it should be illegal, dressed to kill at all times. When our eyes locked, it was magic. I would forget to breathe.
Why wouldn’t I go out with him before now?
We made a round-trip of the beach and I let out a quiet whimper of disappointment when we returned to the spot where the restaurant stood. Then, my pulse quickened. Where would we go from here?
Dan released my hand long enough to let me sit on the steps to the deck and fasten the straps on my sling back pumps. We climbed the stairs, then, and he walked me to my car. The blood rushed so hard in my ears I had to strain to hear what he said.
“It was a long time coming, Ms. Mabel, but it was worth the wait.”
“This was all part of my plan, see,” I murmured. “To keep you waiting so long you’d be willing to do anything for me by the time I accepted.”
“Anything?” We stopped at my car and I leaned my back against it.
“Yes.” I wiggled my eyebrows, making him laugh.
“You might be surprised how much more effort it takes to make me do just anything, Julia.” He reached up and I held my breath as he traced the outline of my jaw with the tips of his fingers. He took my chin in his hand and guided my mouth toward his. I closed my eyes and let him lead me into it.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was the end of years of bantering, flirting, meaningful looks. When his lips touched mine—so soft, so firm, so warm—my knees turned to jelly, my heart nearly exploded from effort, and a rush of warmth traveled between my legs.
He was so close, so vital, so all-encompassing that he filled my senses and left me trembling. And still, he kissed me, his mouth moving ever so slightly against mine. He took my upper lip between his own and gently sucked, pulling a soft sigh from my throat. His hands rested on my hips, his fingers digging in ever so gently.
When it was over, I felt like I was coming up for air after deep-sea diving. Struggling to get my senses together, trying to reach the surface. I might have stumbled a little on my weak legs.
He tried to hide a smug little smile at my reaction, but he could have tried harder. His eyes twinkled at me. “Goodnight, Julia.” His voice was warm, intimate, suggestive.
I muttered something that sounded like “Goodnight” while fumbling for the handle to the door, then slid inside my car and drove away with my lips still tingling from his kiss and my heart beating a frantic, desperate rhythm.
126
Dan
ALL MORNING LONG, thoughts of Julia ran through my mind. Even when I pushed her aside so I could function like a normal human being, she was there. Smiling at me from across the table with that blend of slyness and shyness. Eyes twinkling. Cheeks flushing when I complimented her. Mouth curled into a smirk when she was about to make some smartass remark.
Christ, I loved that about her.
She was still there when I sat at my desk. Only I wasn’t thinking just about how gorgeous she was, how much fun she was to be with, or even how that kiss between us left me a little more undone than I let on.
I thought about what Julia said regarding Emelia. That it couldn’t be suicide.
Nobody wanted to believe someone they cared about could commit suicide. Not to imply that Julia actually cared about Emelia, but that was the funny thing about stars and their fans. When something happened to a star, something like an overdose or an accident, people went into legitimate mourning. I still remembered the way the world lost it when Princess Diana died—doctors explained in the days after the accident that our brains were so used to her, seeing her on every magazine cover, in every news report, that we felt a sort of connection to her. As though we knew her, since we were bombarded by her for over fifteen years. It’s the way we’re hardwired as humans.
So fans never want to believe their favorite star is dead, especially when the death comes at their own hand. Julia didn’t strike me as the typical star-struck fan-girl, though.
Just the opposite. For all her blushing charm, she was a woman of the world—sophisticated, even jaded by her job. Years of seeing the seedy underbelly of the industry will do that.
I drummed my fingers on my desk, the hustle and bustle of the office blurring around me. I couldn’t shake the thought that I had to look deeper into Julia’s suspicions, even if the rest of the squad thought I was nuts.
How many more cases did we have on the books? Tons—I didn’t even want to think about it.
Why spend so much time on a case that looked open-and-shut? Because of a woman? And knowing Frank, he’d put two and two together. It was about the most complicated equation he could manage. Everyone would know within hours that Dan Pierce chased a dead-end case because of a woman.
I opened the file on my desktop—I’d copied the flash drive’s photos to my computer, wanting to keep them in case I needed them later. The pill bottle. It bothered me so damn much. The whole thing looked staged. Somebody with an eye for drama. A director? A costumer?
What was I thinking?
Clicking the X at the corner of the screen, I closed the photos. My body hummed with energy. I couldn’t sit still. I had to go back to the apartment. This was the time to do it, too, since Frank still wasn’t in for the day. Probably running late after trying to find a tie without a stain on it. He’d have to look long and hard.
Minutes later, I sat behind the wheel of my car, cruising down bustling streets. Over the years, I’d become immune to the activity around me as I drove.
I remembered a very different time, though, when I first arrived in Hollywood. I must have walked around with my mouth hanging open for the first three days. It was all so big, flashy, and real—I’d been seeing it on TV and in movies for years, but it was right in front of me for the first time.
Overwhelming wasn’t the word. A person couldn’t maintain that sense of wonder forever. They’d never get anything done. Just like I couldn’t think about Julia as much as I wanted to.
And I did want to.
I couldn’t, though, when I pulled into the garage of the building that used to house one of the world’s brightest stars. Academy Award winner, Golden Globe winner. She’d even won a Tony for a brief stint on Broadway. She had it all—the looks, sure, but actual talent on top of that. Commitment to her craft. How many so-called stars had that?
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Flashing my badge to the security detail posted at the elevator doors, I went straight up to the penthouse. It was a far cry from the scene the day before, when techs had crawled all over the place. The silence was eerie in comparison. I stood in the two-story living room, feeling like I stood in a church for all the grave solemnity.
A woman had died there.
Instead of being morbid, I went to the bedroom. Amazing how many steps got skipped over when everybody was willing to believe the same theory about a case. Maybe not skipped over, per se, but definitely not as thoroughly managed. If this had been any other crime, the room would have been torn apart in the search for evidence. Emelia’s bedroom, by contrast, might as well have been ready for the cleaning lady to come in and straighten up. The biggest offense was the powder used for fingerprint dusting, the dark smudges on doors and tables a stark contrast with the dove gray and white décor. She’d had a thing for the combination, the entire apartment decorated in it.
I stepped into the hallway, then went back down the spiral staircase to the first floor. Nothing in the living room was disturbed. Her laptop even sat on a little table by the sofa. In any other case, we would have bagged it first thing. Techs would be pouring over the contents for any clue as to the motive and murderer. It had been dusted for fingerprints, just like everything else, then left alone.
Was it respect for the dead, or just the attitude that it didn’t matter since this was only one more star who couldn’t handle her fame? I frowned, knowing we shouldn’t have chalked it up to suicide by overdose so quickly.
I ran my hand through my hair, then over my face. I was exhausted—a night spent second-guessing oneself will do that. On the way home from dinner, I’d expected to fall right to sleep. Maybe after jerking off, since I couldn’t get the memory of Julia out of my mind, or my raging erection.
Instead, I’d tossed and turned, wondering if I’d missed something about Emelia. Telling myself I was too good a detective to let anything slip through the cracks, I’d finally given in to the exhaustion.
With that in mind, I sat down in front of the laptop. “Sorry, Emelia,” I whispered, powering it up. I didn’t think she would mind. Did the dead even care about things like privacy anymore? I hoped not, since they rarely got it.
