Unbreakable Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  Danny leaned into the kiss and grabbed Dakota's ass.

  She pulled away, giggled and waved as she walked down the road to her car.

  He turned and went back inside.

  I gripped the edge of the camera until I thought I’d snap it in two.

  My best friend was now my prime suspect. I couldn't trust anyone.

  I clenched my teeth until I thought the enamel would crack.

  God, I hated it when Derek was right.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  _____

  I counted to ten, but blood still pounded in my ears. I’d been duped.

  Before I could chicken shit my way out of this confrontation, I tossed my camera onto the passenger seat. I grabbed my keys, hopped out, locked the door and stomped to his building. It’s not that I was afraid of confrontations. I got right in the middle of them every time I hunted down a husband. They were usually someone else’s mess though.

  Palm flat against the blue painted wood, I pushed past the lobby door and walked up two flights of stairs. By the time I reached Danny’s floor, my panting matched my heart rate. Fast, uneven and full of anger.

  I glared at the gold painted 3C nailed to his door. I didn’t bother to knock but turned the knob.

  The door swung fast, slammed against the back wall and ricocheted toward me. My heels clicked-clacked across the hardwood floors. I stopped in the middle of the room. "Where are you?" I demanded of the empty space. His place was tiny, small enough to fit neatly inside Dakota’s bedroom. But, it was tidy by bachelor standards, the bulk of it being taken up by a tan sofa and a wall of photographic equipment.

  Danny poked his head out from the kitchen, confusion lighting his face the second he saw me.

  He stepped into the room, an empty coffee pot in hand. "James? What are you doing here?"

  "I know," I told him, my words coming loud and fast.

  He shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You know what."

  "Everything," I bluffed.

  "That covers a lot of ground."

  "You really want this conversation to go down this way?" I asked him. "After everything we've been through?"

  The confusion deepened, though I could see another emotion peeking through. If I had to guess, it looked a lot like guilt. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jamie."

  "I'm talking about you screwing a possible murderer. Then screwing me to cover it."

  His mouth twitched again. "You're not making any sense."

  He was actually going to stand here and try to deny it? Would I need to run downstairs and show him the pictures?

  "Why?" I asked. "Just tell me why you did it? Is she really that good in bed?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Who are you talking about?"

  "Dakota Hall!" I yelled, the name screeching out of me. "I saw her leaving your place, so the denial thing is just a waste of time."

  He paused. "So what?"

  "So what? So you slept with her!"

  Danny blinked at me. "Yeah, I did. I didn't realize I needed your permission."

  "Christ, Danny," I said, running a hand through my messy wig. "How could you do this to me?"

  "Look," he said, taking a step backward. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. But whatever it is, you gotta simmer down, Bond." He turned his back on me and headed toward the kitchen.

  My heart thumped against my rib cage, his suggestion to "simmer down" only having the opposite effect on me. I leapt forward and grabbed Danny’s arm, squeezing his bicep, trying to hold him back.

  "I'm not done with you yet," I growled.

  His eyes darted to mine. Instead of their usual paleness, they reminded me of the Pacific Ocean during low tide, dark, dangerous.

  We both knew I couldn’t pin him down, but he must’ve seen the determination in my face because he tossed the coffee pot onto the sofa and wrapped his hand around mine.

  His grip crushed my fingers, prying them off one at a time.

  I snatched my hand back and slapped his face.

  He took a step back, clearly stunned. "What’s wrong with you?" he yelled.

  "You." I raised my hand and slapped him again, feeling the bubble of hurt and anger welling up in my throat. I hit him again, his arms going up to his face protectively.

  "How could you do this to me? Over some dumb bimbo? You'd throw away our entire friendship over some hot little piece of ass."

  "Stop!" Danny said, grabbing my right wrist.

  But I noticed he didn't deny it, didn’t defend himself.

  The fingers of my left hand curled into a fist.

  "Why would you frame me for murder?"

  I punched his bicep.

  He grunted and flashed me a look of disbelief, but didn’t utter a word. No acknowledgment. No defense. No apology.

  "What have I ever done to you?" I asked.

  I raised my fist again and aimed for his face. But when I swung, something stopped me.

  A large hand engulfed mine, preventing my next attack.

  "That’s enough," whispered a deep voice.

  I froze.

  I knew that voice.

  I spun around to find myself face to face with Aiden.

  I blinked, trying to register his presence here.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Danny asked, practically growling his words.

  But Aiden didn't answer him, just slowly guided my arm down and around my back.

  "Wait, what are you doing?" I asked, even as the slow realization hit me.

  A uniformed police officer stepped into view behind Aiden and snapped a handcuff around my wrist.

  Aiden let go and stood in front of me. His right eye was swollen and turning a pale shade of purple where I'd caught him the night before.

  He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket’s breast pocket. It looked like an official document, but I didn’t concentrate on it.

  Instead I glared from him to Danny, not sure which one I hated more.

  The officer tugged my other arm around and tightened the cuffs. Then Aiden uttered the words I dreaded most.

  "James Bond, we have a warrant for your arrest in the murder of Judge Thomas Waterston."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  _____

  The next thirty hours sped by faster than any of my life. In record time, I’d been booked, arraigned by special order of the ADA, and held without bail. I'd never seen the justice system work this quickly. I supposed a part of me ought to be flattered.

  It wasn't until I'd totally lost track of what day it was that I'd been escorted into a room with a metal table and two chairs. I was plunked into one, and a beat later the door opened again, and Aiden sat in the other.

  He placed down a beige file, averting his eyes from mine. Wimp. His hair tufted up at the ears and dark crescents hugged his eyes. He looked worse than I did, and I’d spent the night praying for sleep on a mattress thinner than my patience.

  This was the first time I'd been alone with him since I was arrested. The cops interrogated me yesterday, along with my public defender—an older man with white hair and beard that resembled Santa. The only time I'd seen Aiden was in the courtroom this morning when a judge, wielding an angry gavel, agreed with him that I was a flight risk and needed to be remanded without bail. Waterston’s colleague barely listened to Santa’s request for bond. A fair trial wasn’t possible.

  In addition to the need for a shower, hot latte and something with a lower polyester blend than the fabulous orange jumpsuit I was sporting, I wanted to scream, tear up Aiden’s documents, and scratch his eyes out. But I didn’t need more evidence of my temper, so I sat still, balling my fists under the table as I watched him avoid me.

  "You can't even look me in the eye," I said, making the first move.

  His head shot up, his eyes finally meeting mine.

  Then quickly looking away again.

  "You have to understand that some things are out of my control," he said, his voice way more
apologetic than I'd anticipated.

  "I am not a flight risk," I told him. "Where would I fly to?"

  He blinked and straightened his tie. In a thick voice he said, "I didn’t have a choice."

  "We all have choices, Aiden. I chose to trust you. You chose to stab me in the back."

  He crinkled his brow. "That's not true."

  "Ha!" My laugh came out over-the-top and maniacal, kinda matching my mood. "What the hell do you call what happened in the park? The police just happened to show up?"

  He paused. "That wasn't me. I didn't call them."

  "Then who did?" I asked, not believing him for a second.

  "I don't know. They got a tip."

  "How convenient," I said, leaning back in my chair.

  "I'm not lying to you, Jamie," he insisted.

  "Fine," I said, calling his bluff. "Then who sent in the tip?"

  "It was anonymous. But the police traced it to a gym in North Hollywood." He looked down at his notes. "Crunches."

  I felt heat radiate through my body, making me dizzy and wish for a paper bag. Or a bucket.

  That was were Danny's worked out. There was that coincidence again.

  Aiden leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I haven’t lied to you, Jamie. About anything. Every word was the truth."

  I wasn’t sure if the whispers were so those on the other side of the mirror-like glass couldn’t hear his declaration of honesty, or to create a false sense of intimacy before he interrogated me.

  "Well this," I said, gesturing around me, "isn't exactly a vote of confidence in me. I thought you said you believed me."

  He gave me a long look. "Personal feelings aside, I’m still bound by the law."

  Personal feelings? My mind jumped on the word, an image of the cute, flirtatious Aiden I'd met at the fundraiser momentarily flickering across my mind. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I quickly shoved any "personal feelings" I may have had about it aside, focusing on his words as he continued.

  "I told you it doesn't matter what I believe," he said. "It matters what I can-"

  "Prove," I finished for him. "I know."

  He clamped his lips together, looking pained, like he wanted to say more, but his listeners on the other side of the glass prevented it. "I'm sorry."

  "Join the club," I mumbled back. I waited as silence hung in the room. Then asked, "Did Danny somehow tell you I was at his place yesterday, too?"

  Aiden shook his head. "We had eyes on his apartment."

  I nodded. I should have expected that. I was so blinded by my anger at Danny that I wasn't thinking clearly. He was my closest friend - or so I'd thought. Of course the police would be watching his place for me.

  "We figured you’d show up eventually," Aiden explained, confirming my suspicions. "From what I could find, you seem close to him."

  My stomach tightened. "Seemed."

  He cocked his head at the past tense, but didn't ask me to elaborate.

  "So what now?" I asked.

  Aiden purposely averted his eyes again. "Now I have to ask you some questions."

  "Fine." I crossed my arms over my chest. "But I don't have to answer without Sant-" I stopped myself just in time. "My public defender present."

  "It would be to your benefit to answer," Aiden informed me.

  "I doubt that."

  "Jamie, the police found the gun that killed Judge Waterston."

  Lead pooled in my stomach, sinking me further into the hard chair.

  "And?" I asked, knowing there was an "and" and dreading it with all my heart.

  He sighed deeply. "Your fingerprints are on it."

  I blinked hard. This wasn’t real. I never touched any gun but my own, which had been on my person when they'd arrested me.

  "Can you explain that?" Aiden asked, his eyes searching mine as if he truly hoped I could.

  I just slowly shook my head back and forth.

  Again with the deep sigh. "We found something in your purse," he continued. He pulled a clear baggie out of the file, sliding it across the table to me. In it were the two Shooting Stars Garret had given me.

  I closed my eyes and thought a really bad word.

  "Where did you get them?" Aiden asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  "I want to help you, Jamie, but you have to trust me."

  I opened my eyes. "I'm sorry if trust is a commodity I'm a little short on these days," I shot back.

  Aiden's gaze shot through me, the line of his jaw hardening. "Look, this is no game here, Jamie. We potentially have enough evidence to put you away for a very long time. You have to give me something if you want me to help you."

  I gave him a long, hard look.

  Then told him, "No more questions without my attorney."

  * * *

  An hour later, back in my cell, I stared up at the chipping paint on the ceiling. Santa had arrived and tried to field Aiden’s questions, but even with his presence, I'd refused to answer any of them. Mostly because I didn't have answers.

  They'd informed me that my preliminary hearing was scheduled for the morning. At this rate, I’d be tried and convicted before my scrumptious dinner of canned beans arrived.

  "I know you from somewhere," said my just-arrived roomie, a tall, linebacker-type woman with a pink, jagged scar that stood out prominently on her dark brown skin. It ran from her left ear to somewhere beneath her collar. Definitely not someone I wanted to tousle with. She could probably snap me in half and use me as a toothpick.

  I shrugged, pretending the ceiling was beyond fascinating. "I don’t recall." Nor did I want to. I doubted she was a wife of a cheating husband. I’d have remembered her.

  She slapped her thigh, and I was certain the echo could be heard all the way in Orange County. "This is going to drive me crazy."

  I sighed. God forbid. "Maybe from TV. My face has been plastered all over it for the past few days."

  "I seen that. The judge murderer. Good for you. They think they’re superior and can boss people around. He probably got what was coming to him."

  I swallowed hard, never having met someone so pro-murder before.

  "But nah, that ain’t it," she argued shaking her head.

  "I know you from someplace else."

  Desperately wanting this game of twenty questions to end, I said, "I’m a PI."

  Another slap, or this time it might have been a punch. "That’s it!" She shouted so loud, I flinched. "You helped my friend, Tanya, discover her husband’s a cheating pig. She got full custody of the kids and made out with a hefty settlement."

  I looked over. "Tanya Bridge?"

  The linebacker’s face broke out into a huge grin. "That’s right. You done right by her. She’s heard he’s remarried and cheating on that wife, too. Some people never change."

  She swung her legs onto her bed, leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. "As far as I’m concerned, you deserve a medal for killing that judge. I’m sure you had a good reason."

  If I ended up in prison, I wanted her as a cellmate.

  I turned back to the ceiling as she lapsed into silence again.

  The worst part about jail - even worse than the canned beans and polyester attire - was that it gave you way too much time to think. Danny, Aiden, and Derek circled through my mind. The men in my life. Depressing thought.

  Danny was a question mark. He'd betrayed me, he'd turned me into the cops, he may have even set me up for murder, or at least played a significant part in it. He'd also been my closest friend for more years than I could count. So, who was he really?

  Aiden, on the other hand, was much more straightforward. He was The Law. Evidence, proof, do the right thing even if you know that on some level it's the wrong thing. I had to admire that to some extent. My whole life Derek had taught me to work the system, skirt the grey areas of the law in search of the truth. Meeting someone who so honorably stuck to his code of ethics was oddly refreshing. Even if his code currently had me sitting in a cell with Lady Linebacker.


  Which brought me to Derek. I wondered what he was doing, what he thought of his daughter now. Ever since I'd taken over the business, I'd felt like he was waiting for me to prove him right, that he hadn't made a mistake entrusting a former model with a P.I. firm. And this wasn't exactly the way to do it.

  Then Judge Waterston’s face floated to the surface of my conscience. He'd been my big fish, my ticket to staying in the black. But he wasn’t actually any different than Tanya’s husband. In fact, he'd been even easier to reel in, ready to jump on any chance at infidelity that sashayed his way. While the woman who had hired me was fake, the reason for the hire was real. He had been a cheater as sure as Tanya's husband had.

  I was replaying my case file on the judge for the tenth time in my head when a uniformed cop stopped at our cell.

  "You still want that phone call, Bond?" His squeaky voice matched his pimply face.

  I jumped up. I hadn’t been able to get in touch with anyone yesterday and had ended up leaving a message on Caleigh’s cell. I nodded vigorously.

  He led me to a phone at an empty desk in the squad room and cuffed me to a drawer.

  I rolled my eyes. How very dramatic. Did he really think I’d try to escape in a room full of cops?

  Well, okay, so maybe I’d try.

  I cradled the receiver between my ear and shoulder and punched in the numbers to the office. Someone please answer.

  On the second ring, Maya’s beautiful voice filled my ear. "Bond Agency. Loved one missing? Spouse cheating? We’re your shaken and not stirred solution."

  We seriously needed to work on that greeting.

  "It’s Jamie."

  "Ohmigod, boss. Are you okay? I'm putting you on speaker." I heard her calling to Sam and Caleigh, heels scurrying closer to the phone.

  "I'm fine," I reassured her.

  "I’m so sorry I didn’t answer," Caleigh voice came on. "After I listened to your message, I called the station, but they wouldn’t let me talk to you."

  Afraid time would run out and Pimply would wrench the receiver from my hand, I cut her off. "My preliminary hearing is in the morning."

  "We’ll be there." Sam’s words were calm and reassuring. "What do you need?"