Unbreakable Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  "To get out. Bail was denied."

  A low gasp circled their end of the call. I prayed they got my message. I assumed conversations on the police phones were recorded, and I couldn't take the chance of elaborating.

  It could be months before the trial was scheduled, and there was no way I was staying here that long. Not while the real killer was out there enjoying my share of the fresh air and sunshine.

  "What else?" Maya asked.

  I paused a moment. Then on a whim answered, "Dig up everything you can on Waterston."

  "We already did a profile when we were hired," Maya protested.

  "I know. But I need more. Specifically about women he may have worked with, socialized with, belonged to his country club."

  "His affairs," Sam concluded.

  "Right." While I'd been distracted by the frame-up job (and rightfully so), what this case was really about was one dead judge. And somewhere in his past had to be the arrow pointing to a golden motive.

  "Is there anything else we can bring you? Anything you need?" Caleigh asked again.

  I shook my head. "No. I'm fine." Which was far from the truth, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. "Just get everything you can and be here tomorrow for the hearing."

  "You got it, boss," she agreed, then hung up.

  I held the silent receiver to my ear a moment longer, crossing my fingers they found something. Something had to give in this case.

  And it wasn’t going to be me.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, after wearing a hole in the tile and listening to Lady Linebacker's numerous stories about life in the 'hood, Pimply Cop returned. I had a visitor.

  He led me to a room much like the one I'd seen Aiden in and cuffed my ankles to the metal table. Pumped with excitement that the girls had found something so soon, I practically bounced in the metal chair.

  But when the door opened, the grin died on my face. Instead of seeing long legs, flawless skin and hair any woman would kill for, ripped jeans, a five o’clock shadow and a glum expression greeted me.

  Derek.

  He was the last person I expected to see. He took the chair across from me and immediately reached out and grabbed my hands. He gave a small squeeze and sniffled.

  I concentrated hard on not losing it in front of him. Girly girls cried when their dads visited them in prison. P.I.'s didn't.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked, glad my voice didn't betray the tears backing up in my throat.

  "The one with the legs called and told me."

  I laughed, emotion bubbling up from me before I could stop it. "They all have legs, Derek."

  A corner of his mouth lifted, and he released my hands, sitting up straight. "Are you alright? You know to cover your face and bob and weave, right?"

  I nodded. "I'm fine. This isn’t Alcatraz."

  "Hey, I’ve seen prison movies."

  "Yeah, rented from a back room for some girl on girl action, right?"

  His laughter filled the room, and whether I wanted to admit it or not, it comforted me.

  "I called Levine," he told me. "You need a better attorney. You need better than some overworked public defender."

  I shook my head. "Levine doesn't do criminal defense."

  "Yeah, that's' what he told me, too," Derek said, as if he didn't believe him. All lawyers were the same to Derek - a necessary evil.

  "It's okay. The PD is fine."

  We both knew that was a load of crap, but what else could I say? Besides, the truth was out there, and my girls were going to uncover it.

  He got that distant look in his eyes, as if his thoughts were miles away. "You're just like her, you know."

  Was I supposed to know which of his many women he was referring to?

  "Who?"

  He cupped my hand again. "Your mother."

  I held my breath, not expecting that one.

  "She wouldn't have wanted me to see her cry either."

  Oh hell. That did it. Tears leaked from my eyes.

  Derek reached cross the table and brushed one off my cheek. "Buck up, kid," he said, his voice thick. "You're a fighter, just like she was. And we Bonds always come out on top."

  God, I prayed he was right.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  _____

  A bailiff, with skin the color of dark chocolate and a body that cried steroids, ushered me into the gleaming courtroom. Windows ran from mid wall to ceiling, curving at the top. Pieces of stained glass were set in, reminding me of churches. Sun spilled through, warm and comforting, casting shapes of pink, blue, yellow and green on the hardwood floor. A contrast to the scents of Pine Sol and fear that mingled in between the seats and witness stand.

  At Santa's request, I’d been allowed to change into my street clothes, but they weren't a whole lot better than the orange jumpsuit. I was dressed for a club, not a hearing, and I could feel all the eyes in the courtroom on me.

  Including Aiden's.

  He was clean shaven, had on a fresh suit and tie, and if I got close enough probably smelled like clean laundry and subtle aftershave. I, on the other hand, smelled like a woman who hadn't showered in two days. I tried not to let that sway my confidence.

  His eyes followed me through the room, the expression hooded and unreadable. Whether he was imagining a swift victory or what kind of undergarments were making the panty-lines on my dress, I had no idea.

  The bailiff tugged my arm, pulling me forward to the defendant's table, then removed my cuffs. I took a quick look around the courtroom.

  Caleigh and Sam sat in the gallery, behind Aiden, on the prosecution’s side. Santa had informed me that it was likely they would eventually be called as state witnesses due to the benefit dinner. Maya, however, was seated right behind me. She wore a long, wavy brown wig and trench coat. Way too hot for July.

  If I could sing, I'd belt out Hallelujah.

  Near the back of the courtroom sat Candy and Apple, dressed in halter tops and mini skirts, along with several other dancers from The Spotted Pony. A second bailiff stood by the courtroom doors, and Derek sat in the last aisle seat.

  I let out a shaky breath as I faced the front of the courtroom, pretending I wasn’t aware of him or the girls.

  The one person I didn’t see here was Danny. I tried not to dwell on what that meant as my PD arrived, dropping a worn leather briefcase on the table in front of him.

  He nodded at me, offering a reassuring smile. He looked so jolly all the time I couldn’t tell if he genuinely believed in my innocence or was just passing the time until we broke for lunch.

  Not that it really mattered.

  I felt movement behind me and heard Maya's voice whisper. "We found Alexa White."

  The name meant nothing to me. I shook my head slowly.

  "She was a member of the Waterston's country club. And she was sleeping with the judge."

  Ah. Bingo.

  Santa glanced at me then Maya. His bushy white brows formed a straight line.

  She cleared her throat, and I felt her lean away from me. The trench rubbed against the wooden seat, making a scratchy noise.

  When Santa turned back to his briefcase full of papers again, Maya’s breath tickled my shoulder. "Two days before he died they fought. He accusing her of secretly taping their lovemaking."

  My body tingled with where this was heading, my mind pulling pieces together as a voice boomed from the front of the room.

  "All rise. The Superior Court of Los Angeles County, State of California is now in session."

  Chairs scraped across the hardwood floor, and we all stood.

  When the judge’s chamber door opened and the mean, old kook from the bail hearing stepped forward, I held my breath. Despite the oath of justice and defendants being innocent until proven guilty, I was certain this judge wanted to see me hung from the nearest rafter.

  "The Honorable Judge Preston E. Wyatt presiding."

  He settled into his chair and glanced at the two tables, then to the
file he carried in his stubby fingers.

  "Be seated."

  As the chairs marred the floor again, Maya tugged my shoulder, bending me back ever so slightly.

  "Alexa had no idea what Waterston was talking about, told him so, and he left in a huff. She never saw him again." Maya’s words tumbled out in one breath.

  The judge looked to me. His dark, angry eyes threatened to nail me to the spot.

  Maya feigned a sneeze, sitting quickly.

  I sat as well, back upright, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly on the table like a good little girl.

  The judge returned his attention to the file.

  I wiped the back of my hand across my damp hairline and noticed it shook. I wasn’t familiar with this kind of fear. But like everything that had been difficult in life, I pushed it away and focused. There was no room for meltdowns now.

  The judge spouted legalese about the fairness of the trial, Santa responded in kind, as did Aiden. He glanced my way as he spoke. The left corner of his mouth tugged up as if to say, hang in there.

  I quickly looked away.

  "The prosecution calls Daniel Flynn to the stand," Aiden said.

  My breath hitched and everything froze for a moment.

  Danny was here. Waiting in the wings to put the final nail in my coffin.

  I watched the bailiff open the courtroom door. I clenched my hands together, knuckles going white as the bailiff stepped into the hall to call Danny.

  Only as the courtroom waited, a wretched moan of pain cut through the silence.

  All eyes turned toward Caleigh, as she clutched her chest and fell to the floor.

  Suddenly chairs scraped, people gasped, and everyone swarmed toward Caleigh.

  Aiden, the front bailiff, Santa, and Maya ran toward her prone form first. Maya wore a yellow sundress and no wig. I glanced to the bench and saw the trench coat and wig on the seat.

  Candy, Apple and the other Spotted Pony girls chose that moment to squeal and run over to the other bailiff, jumping, bouncing, squealing, and generally making spectacles of themselves that were hard for any man to ignore.

  I took a deep breath.

  Then reached over, grabbed Maya's getup, and quickly walked toward the center aisle.

  I was near hyperventilation. My internal organs felt unattached, as if they sloshed around in my body cavity.

  A beefy hand grabbed my arm, and I tensed.

  "Hurry," Derek whispered, then used his body as a shield so I could slip on the disguise.

  This wasn’t going to work. I’d get caught and be sentenced to the lethal injection without a trial.

  I repeated that negative mantra with each shaky step to the door. The three foot distance stretched for miles. When I finally reached it, I took a chance and glanced back.

  Caleigh still moaned on the floor.

  The dancers ran around like a circus side show.

  The judge banged his gavel, shouting, "Order in the court."

  Aiden looked up, and our eyes locked.

  I told my feet to run, but they didn’t listen. His gaze pinned me to the spot, realization dawning in his eyes.

  I wasn't the only one who had been set-up.

  But he didn’t point a finger and yell, "Fugitive." He didn’t instruct the bailiffs to chase me down. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he just stared.

  And I ran.

  Out the doors, through the stream of chaos filtering into the courtroom. I almost ran into a pair of medics racing for the courtroom as I headed to the stairs. Hand gripped on the cold, metal railing, I held on for dear life while running, practically falling, down three stories. I tripped on the last step and fell forward. Landing against the door with a smack, I took several deep breaths. Shoulders back, head held high, I swung the door open and stepped into the lobby, trying to look the part of a calm, free citizen, when, in fact, every muscle ached with tension. The sun blinded me for a moment, and when I moved out of the direct glare, my step faltered. Two guards stood beside the metal detectors.

  I forced a smile and decided a new mantra was in order.

  "I am free. I am free. I am free." The words slipped from my lips like a lover’s caress.

  To my amazement, they didn't give me a second glance. God bless underpaid government employees.

  I pushed through the glass front doors, and sunlight heated my head, making me instantly sweat under the wig. I ran down the concrete steps, onto the sidewalk, and briskly walked to the corner.

  Keeping my head down as I walked, I shoved my hands in the trench pockets. They immediately came up against something cool and metal. A set of keys with a rhinestone encrusted M dangling between them. Maya's car keys.

  I turned them over in my hand and realized a post-it was stuck to the back of the M. In blue, neat, curved letters, Maya had written: grande, nonfat Caramel Macchiato.

  I'll admit, I could go for one right about now.

  A siren screeched through the air, and I shoved the keys back in my pocket, my steps quickening. I reached the corner and looked up and down the block. I needed somewhere to hide.

  Without thinking, I turned left and crossed the intersection. A car pulled to the side of the road, to allow the sirens through. I hit the opposite curb as the vehicle came into view. It wasn’t a patrol car but an ambulance.

  Caleigh. It was here because of her fake attack.

  I laughed out loud and sprinted down the street. The ambulance passed and stopped in front of the courthouse.

  I kept my head down and kept walking.

  A burly guy headed toward me, talking into his cell. As we passed one another, I got a whiff of French Roast. I knew my coffee scents.

  Wait, coffee. I stopped and glanced back. He held a beige cup with a green logo.

  Starbucks.

  I looked ahead, and at the next corner stood the most delicious coffeehouse in the entire galaxy.

  Five minutes later, I’d found Maya’s car in the lot and settled inside. I untied the trench but kept on the wig, just in case. With the car in drive, I pulled onto the street and headed in the opposite direction, toward the freeway.

  I drove blindly, forcing my heart rate to settle down as I went over the name Maya had given me in court.

  Alexa White.

  Two weeks before the judge died, they'd fought. That was telling. Maya said she swore she didn't know what the judge was talking about when he mentioned a sex video, but women didn't always tell the truth. Especially if they were murderers. Maybe she had made the video and had planned to blackmail the judge with it. Maybe something went wrong - he wouldn't pay, threatened to prosecute her for blackmail - and she decided to get rid of him instead.

  Of course, the whole theory hinged on whether or not there really was a video. The judge said yes; Alexa said no.

  I merged onto the 101, heading north. I wasn't sure where I was going. The cops would be all over my familiar haunts, and it was only a matter of time before they questioned the girls and put an APB out on Maya’s car. I had to get off the roads soon.

  Assuming the video existed, Waterston must have had a copy of it. He'd seen it, fought with Alexa over it. Had the police gotten hold of it? Possibly, but it didn't sound like they'd been looking for it. And if Waterston had been clever, which all cheating spouses tried to be, then he wouldn’t have left it lying around. He would have hidden it. Somewhere safe. Where his real wife wouldn't find it.

  Lucky for me, finding things that men kept hidden from their wives was my specialty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  _____

  The giant white pillars of the Waterston estate came into view, and I checked all emotion. This was do or die time. The video had to be within the walls of the Margaret Mitchell-esque home. I didn't even want to think about the alternative.

  I parked far down the road, shrugged off the coat and popped Maya’s trunk, hoping to find anything less conspicuous than clubbing attire I was currently rocking.

  A tire iron, spare, and small duffel
were the only items. I zipped open the bag and discovered a bikini, pair of white socks, a tube of gel toothpaste, a comb, and a yellow blazer. Geeze, what did Maya do in her free time?

  I grabbed the blazer and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. I tossed the trench in the trunk, locked everything up and slipped into the jacket. Made from a thin linen, at least I wouldn’t melt before I got to the property.

  I walked as nonchalantly as I could down the tree-lined street, forcing my nerves away. I held onto Derek's jailhouse assurances that we Bonds were tough. Unbreakable. I would find the judge's real killer, and I would not be going back to jail. I held onto that thought with a two-fisted death grip as I forced one foot in front of the other.

  As I approached the house, a white Mustang pulled up to the gates and drove into the estate.

  Great. Company.

  I assumed this meant Mrs. Waterston was home. Chances were, with a house that size, domestic staff would be around, too. A house full of people was going to make things a bit more difficult.

  Another car pulled onto the property. And then another. I caught a glimpse of the drivers. All women, most young. No passengers. I wondered what Mrs. Waterston was up to.

  It was a tad too soon for a garden party, no?

  When I reached the gate, a petite brunette walked up from the opposite end of the road. Dressed in a beige pencil skirt with matching jacket and a white blouse, she gave a friendly smile and fell into step with me.

  "Are you here for the interview?" she asked. Her voice was high and nervous, resembling Minnie Mouse.

  Interview? Interesting.

  We passed the open gate and stayed along the shoulder of the driveway, allowing plenty of room for the cars.

  "Yes. Are you nervous?" I asked, trying to strike up a camaraderie that might result in loose lips.

  Her eyes widened, and she let out a huff, as if feeling relief at telling her biggest secret. "Oh my God, you too?"

  In all honesty, I was now more anxious about finding access to the judge’s private quarters than anything else. A group of high-strung women vying for the same job was a runway walk. I’d done it all my life. These women, however, could be the perfect ruse or my biggest demise. I’d lay fifty-fifty odds on my luck this afternoon.