Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8)

by Barbara Freethy

  "Do you think your mother would consider helping me? I haven't reached out to her yet—"

  "Don't," he said sharply. "Mom has been a disaster since my dad died. She's finally getting to a good place. She doesn't need to go back in time. And, as I said, she didn't like your grandmother. They weren't friends. You should talk to Natasha's actual friends, if they're still alive."

  "Okay." She was disappointed in his answer, but he had been somewhat forthcoming.

  "I'm afraid I have to run," he said, getting to his feet.

  "Of course. Thanks for your time," she said as she and Jax stood up.

  "No problem. Say hello to your dad for me. Tell him I still remember the night we made tequila sunrises in the pool room. He'll know what that means."

  "It's difficult to picture my father engaged in teenage drinking," she said in surprise. "He has always been a stickler for the rules."

  "Not always," Blake said. "He had a wild side. I think he got that from his mother."

  "He'd prefer not to think he got anything from her," she said, as she followed him to the door. "Thanks again."

  "Sure thing."

  They walked back to the car in silence, her mind swirling with the snippets of information that Blake had given her. As Jax started the car and exited the driveway, she said, "This was kind of a wasted trip, huh?"

  "I don't know about that."

  "Blake didn't know much."

  "Or he didn't want to say what he knew," Jax said, shooting her a pointed look.

  "What does that mean?"

  "He was lying, Maya."

  "How do you know he was lying? What was he lying about?"

  "The story he told you. He's eighteen years old. He's drinking a beer and smoking weed. He's home from college, and a beautiful Hollywood movie star tries to kiss him, and he says no." Jax shook his head. "Didn't happen that way."

  She stared back at him. "You're right. What teenage guy would say no? But why would he lie? It wasn't to protect her reputation."

  "I don't know. But the reason is important."

  She frowned. "How am I going to find out the reason?"

  "Maybe your father would know."

  "I'm not going to talk to him."

  "Blake wants you to talk to him. He wants you to remind him about a night they made tequila sunrises in the pool house. That night is important, Maya."

  She looked at him in bemusement. "How do you know?"

  "Because he wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. I don't think he agreed to see you because he wanted to be helpful. I think he wanted you to get a message to your father."

  "But…none of it makes sense. Does it?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. But that's what I came away with."

  "Maybe I should be taking you to all my meetings. You picked up on things I would have completely missed."

  "Because I was listening—you were talking. I'm also further away from the subject."

  "Well…" She settled back in her seat as she thought about his comments. "The last person I want to talk to right now is my dad. I think I'm going to let the pool house story hang for a bit." She paused as her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse and her gaze widened. "Someone is calling me from the Firebird Club."

  "Answer it."

  "Hello?"

  "Maya Ashton?" a female asked.

  "Yes, this is she."

  "This is Sylvia Graham, the manager at the Firebird. I'm calling for Constantine Dimitrov. I passed your message along to him, and he'd like to know if you can meet him for a drink tonight at the club."

  "Yes. What time?"

  "Six o'clock."

  "I'll be there. Tell him thanks." She swallowed a knot of excitement as she glanced at Jax. "That was Sylvia."

  "Seriously? Why was she calling you?"

  "Constantine wants to have a drink with me tonight at six. I never thought he'd agree to see me. This could be very good."

  "Interesting," Jax murmured. "I have to say I'm a little surprised."

  "Me, too, but this could be the break I've been looking for."

  Chapter Eight

  Jax was surprised that Constantine had reached out to Maya. Hopefully, that meant the old man had nothing to hide. Once Constantine and Jagger were off the list, perhaps she'd focus on people who were not part of the club, like Blake Cordero and his father. But he was probably being too optimistic. The main players in Natasha's life had all been at the Russia House and some of them were still there.

  He drove Maya back to her house and checked each room before saying he'd see her later. It felt a little strange to drive away without her. He'd become somewhat attached to her in the past sixteen hours or so, but he needed to go home, change his clothes and then get to the club for his shift. He also needed to find out more about Natasha's death. He wasn't going to have time to dig on his own before he had to go serve drinks; he needed some help from the team. He decided to stop at Flynn's house on his way home.

  Flynn lived in a townhouse in Santa Monica with his fiancée, Callie Harper. They'd gotten engaged a few months ago and were planning an August wedding. When he arrived at the property, Flynn was on his porch, talking to another one of his fellow agents, Beck Maxwell. Beck and Flynn had met as roommates their first day at Quantico and had been tight ever since. In fact, Beck owned the townhouse next door.

  "What's going on?" Jax asked, as he walked up the path to the porch, where they had placed a ladder and a bucket of paint. "Who's suddenly a painter?"

  "That would be Beck," Flynn said with a grin.

  "But it looks like your unit is the one that's being painted," he pointed out.

  "That's what I said," Beck drawled. "But Flynn thinks he's the boss wherever we are."

  "Hey, I said I'd hire someone."

  "Which is ridiculous, since we can easily paint this ourselves," Beck said.

  Flynn and Beck were two of the best agents Jax had ever worked with, but, somehow, he didn't see either one of them as being the best painter. But if he had to choose, he'd go with Beck, who tended to have a longer attention span than Flynn.

  "What are you doing here, Jax?" Flynn asked. "Got any news?"

  "Complications more than news."

  "Is your cover in jeopardy?"

  "I don't think so, but there's a woman stirring up old secrets at the Firebird Club, and she's getting in my way."

  "What kind of secrets?" Beck asked curiously.

  "An old Hollywood murder that's gone unsolved for thirty-plus years and involves a famous Russian movie star."

  "Natasha Petrova?" Beck asked.

  He was shocked that Beck would have any knowledge of a film star from the seventies and eighties. "You've heard of her?"

  "Yes. She was quite famous. How does her death tie into the Firebird Club?"

  "She dated Constantine Dimitrov, who created the club in its first incarnation as the Russia House. She was also married to one of the original members, Wallace Jagger. Natasha's granddaughter, Maya Ashton, showed up at the club last night and managed to ambush Wallace. She's making a movie about her grandmother's life and wanted Wallace's input. She left him some photocopied pages from a journal her grandmother kept. Right after she left, Wallace's son, Ryland Jagger, had an intense conversation about Maya and what she was up to." He paused. "All of these men have bought cars from Falcon in the last year. Her targets are my targets, and now they're getting nervous."

  "I didn't see this coming," Flynn said.

  "I didn't, either," he agreed. "It gets more interesting. At the end of the night, Wallace Jagger hands me the envelope that Maya left with him and says he can't bear to read what's inside, but he doesn't want to give it to his son. He asks me to take it to Maya's house on my way home. I agreed, thinking it's not a bad idea if the old guy thinks he owes me a favor."

  "Makes sense," Beck put in, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "What happened then?"

  "I get to Maya's house and I'm about to give her the envelope when she realizes h
er front door is open. She's just arrived home herself. Long story short, the guy inside busts out, goes after me, goes after her, trying to grab her purse. I fight him off, chase him down the street."

  "Damn!" Flynn said. "Why didn't you call me?"

  "Didn't have a chance. Police came. I gave them a partial plate. I did not identify myself as anything but a bartender. Maya was shaken up and her lock was broken, so I spent the night on her couch."

  "What does this Maya look like?" Flynn asked curiously.

  "She's very attractive," he admitted.

  Flynn grinned. "Now the story is making more sense."

  "It's not like that."

  "It's exactly like that," Beck interjected, a gleam in his dark eyes.

  "Whatever. That's not the problem. Maya told me more about Natasha and her mysterious death, and she's not going to stop looking for answers. I've been trying to figure out the best way to keep her mission from interfering with mine. I think the only answer is to try to help her solve her mystery so I can get her away from the club."

  "What if her mystery ties into the club?" Flynn asked. "You just said her target list is the same as yours."

  "It's possible it will tie in, but there are other suspects in her grandmother's death who are not connected to the club. I'd like to focus on them, see if I can come up with a legitimate theory that will lead her in another direction."

  "I thought Natasha died of a drug overdose," Beck put in.

  "I don't think it was that simple. The only thing I know for sure is that Maya is making someone nervous with her interviews and reports of Natasha's recently discovered journals."

  "Where are the journals?" Flynn asked.

  "Maya works at a production company that's located at Blackwood Studios. She says the journals are there and there's no way anyone is getting onto the lot or into the offices this weekend. She feels the security there is as good as it would be anywhere."

  "She's probably right," Flynn said. "So, let me get this straight, you want the team to solve her grandmother's murder?"

  "Yes, and fast," he said bluntly.

  "You don't ask for much," Flynn said with a sigh. "I assume this old case has already been reviewed."

  "Apparently by at least the cops and two private investigators, one thirty-six years ago and one in the last few months." He softened his stance. "I don't need us to solve it, I just need some clues that point away from the Firebird Club. I'd dig in myself, but I have to be at the club at five. And I definitely need to be there because Maya is meeting Constantine Dimitrov at six."

  "We can get involved," Flynn said. "But it may take a few days."

  "I know, but I wanted to give you a heads up."

  "We'll see what we can find," Flynn replied. "Caitlyn told me she found you a wedge."

  "She did. Some photos I can use for blackmail."

  "Who are you blackmailing?" Beck asked.

  "I'm going to set up David Graham, the parking valet, and the club manager's son as the blackmailer. He's my best bet to get inside information. He's well connected, and he has access to the cars. I'm quite certain he's right in the middle of what's going on. But I need to get him in trouble, make it look like he's running a side gig. Then he'll be more amenable to an approach."

  Flynn nodded, approval in his gaze. "Smart."

  "We'll see." He paused as Flynn's fiancée stepped onto the porch. Callie had dark hair, warm brown eyes and a friendly smile.

  "I made us lunch," she said, then paused when her gaze connected to his. "And there's plenty for three. Hi, Jax. Did you come to paint, too?"

  "Not a chance. And thanks for the offer, but I need to go."

  "Are you sure?" Flynn asked. "Callie is the best chef in Santa Monica."

  "I know," he said with a grin. "I hope I can get a rain check."

  "Any time," Callie replied. "Oh, and I'm doing a soft opening for my new restaurants three weeks from today, so make sure you pencil that in. I'd love to have you there."

  "It's opening already?" He knew that Callie had been working on opening up her own place for the past several months.

  "Yes, I can't quite believe it." She paused. "I'll let you guys finish whatever you're talking about. Just one question, Flynn—is whatever this is going to change our afternoon plans?"

  "Sorry, babe."

  She smiled and shrugged. "It's fine. I'll go into work, too."

  "Sorry for messing up your plans," Jax told her.

  "I'm used to it," Callie replied. "And I don't really mind. I like how your team is always there for each other. It's a good thing."

  As she stepped back into the house, Flynn turned to him. "Care to point me in any particular direction on the Natasha murder?"

  "Blake Cordero. He's an entertainment lawyer and the son of Anthony Cordero, one of Natasha's favorite directors. Blake grew up next door to Natasha's first husband, Phillip Ashton, and his son, Rex. Rex is Maya's father. Blake said he saw Natasha a few months before her death. He was a college kid when he had a disturbing conversation with Natasha. She was angry and depressed and apparently tried to hit on him, but he said he turned her down. He seemed forthcoming, but I didn't believe most of what he said."

  "All right, I'll start with him," Flynn said.

  "Thanks. I owe you."

  "Too many to count," Flynn joked.

  "I'll help after I get done with this paint job," Beck added. "Have fun with your pretty complication."

  He rolled his eyes. "That's not in the plan."

  "It never is," Flynn said with a laugh.

  After going home and grabbing a quick shower, Jax put on black jeans and a black T-shirt, which was his bartending uniform, and headed to the club. He arrived about thirty minutes before his shift was set to start at five. After seeing David Graham taking a smoke break around the side of the building, he decided to do the same. He reached into the glove compartment for cigarettes and a light, then headed across the parking lot.

  David was sitting on a low wall in the shade, the large building protecting him from the hot sun. He had long, shaggy brown hair and a perpetual sunburn across his pale skin. He also had several tattoos that ran down his arms from underneath his black T-shirt.

  "Hey, David."

  "Jax. How's it going?"

  "Hot." He took a seat on the wall and pulled out a cigarette. "Sucks they make you guys wear black, too. There should be a summer uniform."

  "Tell me about it. At least you're inside in the air-conditioning."

  "Maybe you should think about getting a transfer."

  "Oh, no, Mama needs me out here," David said, a bitter edge to his voice. "Whatever Mama needs, Mama gets."

  "Your mother does seem like someone who gets what she wants," he agreed. "She doesn't like me much. She looks at me like she's expecting to catch me skimming cash out of the register and stealing expensive vodka from the bar."

  "She's suspicious of everyone."

  "Any way I can get her to trust me?"

  "When you figure that out, let me know," David said cynically.

  "What's with you and your mom?"

  "It's always been her way or no way, and I'm sick of it."

  "Why don't you quit, work somewhere else?"

  David took a drag on his cigarette. "Can't do that. She's got me tied up here for probably forever."

  "What did you do before the club opened?"

  "Worked at a car dealership. It was a lot better than this."

  David's words surprised him. Had David been working at Falcon? He hadn't seen his name on any list of employees. He decided to take a wild guess. "Wait! Were you working with Yuri?"

  David stiffened, his gaze darting around as if he was worried someone might have overheard the question. "How do you know Yuri?"

  "I was in an acting class with him—at Sundowners on Hollywood Blvd. He used to work at a dealership, and he said he parked cars here at night. He told me what a cool club this was, so I decided to check it out. I haven't seen him around in a while, th
ough. Has he been sick?"

  David shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't seen him."

  "Too bad. I was hoping we could play some poker, and I could win back what I lost to him the last time. Do you play?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Maybe we can put a game together. Must be some other players around this place."

  "There are definitely some players," David said, giving him a speculative look. "You any good?"

  "Well, if I was really good, I wouldn't be serving drinks," he joked. "But I can hold my own. Do you know of any games coming up?"

  "Might be one this week. I play with some surf dudes in Manhattan Beach."

  He'd been hoping that David played a higher-level game with Firebird members. "You're a surfer?"

  "It's the one place I feel free."

  "I hear you. I usually surf in Santa Monica."

  "The pier at Manhattan is the best, early morning, before the crowd gets there."

  "Maybe I'll try it tomorrow. Will you be out there?"

  "I should be." David stood up as a silver Porsche turned in to the drive, heading toward the valet station. "I gotta get that one. I'll see you around."

  Jax watched as David jogged toward the vehicle, nearly knocking the other valet out of the way, as he grabbed the keys from the driver—Ryland Jagger.

  David jumped behind the wheel and drove down the hill. Instead of heading into the valet lot, David pulled the vehicle into a large garage, which was used for storage and for servicing the golf carts and other club vehicles. There was a car wash service area next to the building, but David hadn't taken the car into the washing station.

  Why would David drive Jagger's car in there? He should have parked it in the valet lot.

  He needed to get into that building. But after just striking up a conversation with David, it would seem incredibly odd for him to follow him inside. He waited for David to emerge from the building, but five minutes passed and there was no sign of him.

  What was he doing with that car? Why had David needed to be the one to take it from Jagger? Had he just seen a handoff?